thehoodedsmack
March 30th, 2008, 09:24 PM
So I'm doing a poetry unit in my Writer's Craft course. I'd like some critique on my work. Good and bad. I'd like to know what to improve on. Thanks in advance.
Haiku
Winter ‘08
Winter of Oh-Eight:
Ev’ry time you think you’re out,
It pulls you back in.
Florida
Waves foam off of shells
And roll back from the beaches.
Boy is it warm here.
Free Verse
Grads
Girls crying and hugging,
Guys high-fiving, shaking hands.
Sadness and sorrow mixed with happiness.
Finality.
The speakers speak, and we remember.
We remember four years gone forever.
And now we wish we’d realized
How much we’d miss it.
We’ll lose friends. We’ll find others.
As much as it hurts, we’ll be alright.
Today the music dies.
But we don’t,
And neither do the memories.
And I beg you to hold onto them.
For some day you may need them.
Better safe than sorry.
So here’s a toast. Thanks for the good times.
I’ll see you at the reunion.
Send us the Monolith
I used to look at the stars, when they were visible.
Then one day, years ago, reality kicked in.
I used to question: are we alone?
Now, schooling has taught me, and I know
That it’s a stupid question.
Of course we aren’t alone.
Then why haven’t we found anything?
Are we ready for extraterrestrial life?
When that day comes,
When humans are no longer divided by
Colour. Race. Country.
When the universe becomes defined by species.
Humans: one race in an array of sentient beings.
Will we realize how badly we’ve treated each other?
Will we come together, to represent a species?
Without genocide, or poverty or suffering?
I would love to see that glorious day.
That less-than-divine intervention
That brings a planet together.
And Nietzsche turns in his grave,
When God is dead.
Narrative (If anyone notices, I'm not sure if the Islamic script is correct. Blame Wikipedia)
الله أكبر (Allahu Akbar – God is the Greatest)
The boy readies his weapon:
Mikhail Kalashnikov’s masterpiece:
AK47.
Semi-automatic, easy to clean, easy to shoot,
But he’s only 12.
Maybe so,
But he’s seen things.
He’s seen devotion to a cause.
Men giving their lives for what they believe in.
Be it bombs, bullets, and blood.
He learned to shot or be shot,
Before he could shave.
And as he slings the rifle over his back,
He leaves the house, and he won’t come back.
Not until someone’s dead.
Be it him, or the enemy.
The boy has dedication the West has never seen.
And there’ll be at least two dead soldiers
Before they realize the passing boy has a weapon.
And then his work will be done,
As he lies bloody and dead, in the Baghdad sun.
Haiku
Winter ‘08
Winter of Oh-Eight:
Ev’ry time you think you’re out,
It pulls you back in.
Florida
Waves foam off of shells
And roll back from the beaches.
Boy is it warm here.
Free Verse
Grads
Girls crying and hugging,
Guys high-fiving, shaking hands.
Sadness and sorrow mixed with happiness.
Finality.
The speakers speak, and we remember.
We remember four years gone forever.
And now we wish we’d realized
How much we’d miss it.
We’ll lose friends. We’ll find others.
As much as it hurts, we’ll be alright.
Today the music dies.
But we don’t,
And neither do the memories.
And I beg you to hold onto them.
For some day you may need them.
Better safe than sorry.
So here’s a toast. Thanks for the good times.
I’ll see you at the reunion.
Send us the Monolith
I used to look at the stars, when they were visible.
Then one day, years ago, reality kicked in.
I used to question: are we alone?
Now, schooling has taught me, and I know
That it’s a stupid question.
Of course we aren’t alone.
Then why haven’t we found anything?
Are we ready for extraterrestrial life?
When that day comes,
When humans are no longer divided by
Colour. Race. Country.
When the universe becomes defined by species.
Humans: one race in an array of sentient beings.
Will we realize how badly we’ve treated each other?
Will we come together, to represent a species?
Without genocide, or poverty or suffering?
I would love to see that glorious day.
That less-than-divine intervention
That brings a planet together.
And Nietzsche turns in his grave,
When God is dead.
Narrative (If anyone notices, I'm not sure if the Islamic script is correct. Blame Wikipedia)
الله أكبر (Allahu Akbar – God is the Greatest)
The boy readies his weapon:
Mikhail Kalashnikov’s masterpiece:
AK47.
Semi-automatic, easy to clean, easy to shoot,
But he’s only 12.
Maybe so,
But he’s seen things.
He’s seen devotion to a cause.
Men giving their lives for what they believe in.
Be it bombs, bullets, and blood.
He learned to shot or be shot,
Before he could shave.
And as he slings the rifle over his back,
He leaves the house, and he won’t come back.
Not until someone’s dead.
Be it him, or the enemy.
The boy has dedication the West has never seen.
And there’ll be at least two dead soldiers
Before they realize the passing boy has a weapon.
And then his work will be done,
As he lies bloody and dead, in the Baghdad sun.