Around the Table: feedback and constructive criticism

[loganforester]

Well if you climb out of your hole, please put a hand down for me.... I could use it

I'll be sure to do that for you anna if I can find my way out.

So are there any other poems for me to do my return contribution on?

 

[jomar]

On second thought...I'll wait and get back...I'll explain later so please bear with me.

 

[annaswirls]

I'll be sure to do that for you anna if I can find my way out.

So are there any other poems for me to do my return contribution on?

yeah peoples come on, post yer wares

 

[EroticOrogeny]

Well if you climb out of your hole, please put a hand down for me.... I could use it

Yeah I hear you anna. I'm on a two month survivor poem break as well. The forms were wearing me down. This is actually the last one I wrote.

I'm kinda in the same boat - did do an acrostic.
Have started putting together material for my ballad - it'll be about my experiences with Ike (unusual weather trigger, obviously)

 

[Tzara]

OK - I get the rules and I get the reasons. My quandary is that, when it comes to poetry, I'm an idiot. Almost every poem posted here, I don't get. This isn't false modesty nor excuses for non-participation. I really don't get about 95% of what is posted. My brain kinda fizzles and my eyes jump back to the top about 3 times before I sigh and give up.

I started to seriously (well, semi-seriously) write poetry because I couldn't understand it. Any of it, and not just here. I mean, fer gawd's sake, Ezra Pound or Robert Lowell, for example.

I somehow thought that if I tried to write poems it might help me to read poems.

Well, I'm almost four years into that experiment and I'm not sure it's helped much.

I have gotten to chat up cute girls, though. So it ain't all waste.

Asking someone like me to give meaningful feedback on poetry is like asking a three year old to compare and contrast Newton's Laws with General Relativity.

Its not that I'm asking for a "by", its that I truly feel ill equipped to understand what's written, let alone suggest how to improve it.

Look back at the first part of your comment, bud. I really don't get about 95% of what is posted. My brain kinda fizzles and my eyes jump back to the top about 3 times before I sigh and give up. I mean, is that your fault or the poet's fault?

Poets often, I think, tend to be over clever or, perhaps more accurately, overly artful. Poetry is about image—using words to capture experience in a remarkably new and different way—and sometimes we strive too hard to be different when we should be striving to be clear.

Well, I do, anyway. Try. To do that.

Poetry often overdrives the headlights of most people's understanding. The poet tries so hard to be inventive that he or she ends up merely being obscure.

So tell people that. That is not only criticism, it's really good and useful criticism. I, as poet, need to know whether I am communicating or not. And, if I am communicating, just what it is that I am communicating.

There is no bad criticism, only bad poetry.

In any case, criticism is more than anything about honesty. You say what you really think, rather than what you think people want you to say. It's actually a very, very hard thing to do, as we (well, most of us) want to be liked, so generally we pull punches when we comment.

 

[MickNasty]

I started to seriously (well, semi-seriously) write poetry because I couldn't understand it. Any of it, and not just here. I mean, fer gawd's sake, Ezra Pound or Robert Lowell, for example.

I somehow thought that if I tried to write poems it might help me to read poems.

Well, I'm almost four years into that experiment and I'm not sure it's helped much.

I have gotten to chat up cute girls, though. So it ain't all waste.
Look back at the first part of your comment, bud. I really don't get about 95% of what is posted. My brain kinda fizzles and my eyes jump back to the top about 3 times before I sigh and give up. I mean, is that your fault or the poet's fault?

Poets often, I think, tend to be over clever or, perhaps more accurately, overly artful. Poetry is about image—using words to capture experience in a remarkably new and different way—and sometimes we strive too hard to be different when we should be striving to be clear.

Well, I do, anyway. Try. To do that.

Poetry often overdrives the headlights of most people's understanding. The poet tries so hard to be inventive that he or she ends up merely being obscure.

So tell people that. That is not only criticism, it's really good and useful criticism. I, as poet, need to know whether I am communicating or not. And, if I am communicating, just what it is that I am communicating.

There is no bad criticism, only bad poetry.

In any case, criticism is more than anything about honesty. You say what you really think, rather than what you think people want you to say. It's actually a very, very hard thing to do, as we (well, most of us) want to be liked, so generally we pull punches when we comment.

Wow. thanks for the excellent critique of my whine. It does put it in perspective. I don't know that I'll have the balls to do it, but I won't shut the door on the thought either. Maybe the stars will line up, I'll have a large glass of Oban, and someone will lob a nice easy one out there...

 

[Epmd607]

yeah peoples come on, post yer wares

I haven't criticized any poems on this thread, but I have criticized most everyone's poems at one point or another. I'd like feedback on this Ezra Pound, T.S. Eliot inspired garland I wrote a little while back.

The Priest at Shongum Prison

i. Call to Prayer

To-night, false light
penetrates your cell

this light, surfeits
and satiates, to-night;

while you're weary
and woebegone...

ii. Prolegomenon

Made up of mindful words
and sudden fits, he sits,

Divinely, untimely,
he meditates;

Kin to synapse
near to neuron,

Toward him, we listen,
in open-fisted greeting.

iii. Greystone, Animate

I am the mainsail;
I am the mainmast forward.

Before me,
madness kept my walls,
and sturdied many a king.

iv. The Rave Sermonizer

And my catechism was as threadbare,
And my teachers as spare,
And my emotions bared upon my sleeve,
And shoulders, and teeth...

v. Doubt

All my childhood saints have come to be a piddle;
even you St. George, chopped to bits,
even you protomartyred magicians
and bird whisperers.

vi. From the Mainsail

Of Phlebas the Jailor, whose third braying went:
"If I be a bitten sailor, may I pay -- as little rent!"

 

[Epmd607]

I'm gonna be greedy and post another poem for your feedback consideration. This one might interest you more if you've read my newest poem, 'Her Hypergraphia', which is a play off this one. It's even more Ezra P and T.S. Eliot inspired than the last. Italics are missing because I'm uneducated. I honestly made an effort to do the <i> thing, which is unfortunate because there are whole lines italicized.

Virginia Colony

We'd stamped flat grass
ridge and valley,
from tip-torr to combe, deep, deep,
until we'd become Nicene;

Her hypergraphia recorded
the day's events, the night's worries,
and the next morning's
first four AM movements
upon waking

she records her fear:
...and when I first made eyes upon the savage,
I found her like me, in body.
...and when I first heard her breath,
I found within her, the same lungs and pulsing center.

Of what are you afraid?
Out there you'll find only -- a stare of owls.

Now this isn't under your thumb.
Ka-Kanawha.

Best press her big-nail to make certain
she's still well circulating; Doctor, do you
turn the paling? Doctor, do you tread the long grass?

No, he'd remained loyal to the crown.

-Dear, have you dreamt of some other Barabbas?
...and does time there pass, thich thich thich?

 

[Epmd607]

The Man Who Wasn't There
by annaswirls©

You ask me to bury our silver rings outside
the door that leads to my father's hayloft.

Your bronze-legged statue watches from her shelf.
She gives birth to her own hands. They reach out
between her legs and grasp tight.

We too, deliver ourselves, climb leaning ladders,
press too hard into softness, bury rings
in foreign soil in hopes something new will grow.

You never carried me across that threshold,
it was just a dream I woke to tell you about.
We were kids up in that loft, hiding
behind a wall of hay bales, your hands
under my calico skirt, discovery.

Still that morning dream
was solid enough to hang our rings upon
back in the kitten eyed part of love
where every thing takes on special meaning,
this song, our song, secret handshakes, open doors.

------

I liked the original three stanzas the best, those other two stanzas "statue" and "deliver ourselves" still seem to take away from the heart of the poem. This is how I read the heart of your poem(I don't think you should write it this way though, it's a frame)

(1)"You ask me to bury our silver rings outside
the door that leads to my father's hayloft.

(2)You never carried me across that threshold,
it was just a dream I woke to tell you about.

(3)We were kids up in that loft,
hiding behind a wall of hay bales,
your hands under my calico skirt, discovery.

(4)Still that morning dream
was solid enough to hang our rings upon
back in the kitten eyed part of love
where every thing takes on special meaning.

(5)this song, our song, secret handshakes, open doors"

To me it's missing a line, the last line should be the second half of an idea if not a couplet. These are the five points of reference that I'd just wiggle around until it flows easy. Those other two stanzas which I flat out deleted are tough to get rid of because they're quality ideas, it's just maybe you're too attached to the whole and you're obscuring the clarity of this:

"Still that morning dream
was solid enough to hang our rings upon
back in the kitten eyed part of love
where every thing takes on special meaning."

 

[annaswirls]

I will be back, Epmd, to review these, thank you for all you have contributed to this forum.

 

[Tzara]

I'm gonna be greedy and post another poem for your feedback consideration. This one might interest you more if you've read my newest poem, 'Her Hypergraphia', which is a play off this one. It's even more Ezra P and T.S. Eliot inspired than the last. Italics are missing because I'm uneducated. I honestly made an effort to do the <i> thing, which is unfortunate because there are whole lines italicized.

Is this poem a test, or what?

I like it, but have that same sinking feeling I had confronting my PHYS 410 midterm—that I was for the first time in my life absolutely going to flunk a test.

Anyway, this ain't a test, so if I flunk, I flunk. I would, though, like to see the italicized lines before I offer up my inane comments. I can guess at where you might have put italics, but I'd just be guessing, and it seems to me that where they are is quite important in the reading of the poem.

So. Use square brackets (these: [ ]), not angle brackets (these: < >) to mark font treatments. Or, just go to to your control bar and click through to User CP > Edit Options and scroll down to Miscellaneous Options and Message Editor Interfaces, then select Standard Editor-Extra Formatting Controls. That will give you an Italic control thingy in your edit reply window.

PM me if that isn't clear. Or, just use '*' or '_' to indicate the italics (like "I really, _really_ care for you, Yolanda").

Fix the poem and we'll talk.

Or, I guess, I'll talk. Or babble, more likely.

 

[annaswirls]

To be honest, I do not know much about Eliot or Pound, so hopefully that is not a requirement in order to appreciate your piece.

Having said that. Sigh. This reminds me of a certain 1201-- especially in the sense that I feel overmatched. But here I go.

Mostly little picky questions, not as much recommendations.


1. Why to-night instead of tonight?
2.

I haven't criticized any poems on this thread, but I have criticized most everyone's poems at one point or another. I'd like feedback on this Ezra Pound, T.S. Eliot inspired garland I wrote a little while back.

The Priest at Shongum Prison

i. Call to Prayer

To-night, false light
penetrates your cell.

This light, surfeits
and satiates, to-night;

while you're weary
and woebegone.


I like this pre-prelude. Nice musical rhythm, and your heaviness of tone and fullness amongst the light light gives good contrast.

ii. Prolegomenon

Made up of mindful words
and sudden fits, he sits,

Divinely, untimely,
he meditates;

Kin to synapse
near to neuron,

Toward him, we listen,
in open-fisted greeting.

(either a period or use lowercase for divinely. Same for the other strophes-- it would make sense to capitalize as in regular writing, like you did in the first section) I like your use of repetitive sounds here. Subtle but effective.


iii. Greystone, Animate

I am the mainsail;
I am the mainmast forward.

Before me,
madness kept my walls,
and sturdied many a king.

"many a king" again, this is the same as the to-night. I think if you are going to go that way in your language usage, you should go all the way or not at all.


iv. The Rave Sermonizer

And my catechism was as threadbare,
And my teachers as spare,
And my emotions bared upon my sleeve,
And shoulders, and teeth...

nice

v. Doubt

All my childhood saints have come to be a piddle;
even you St. George, chopped to bits,
even you protomartyred magicians
and bird whisperers.

vi. From the Mainsail

Of Phlebas the Jailor, whose third braying went:
"If I be a bitten sailor, may I pay -- as little rent!"

I like this bit of humor, but would prefer if it were embedded in the main poem and not left on as a tail. It makes me feel like I need closure. The joke in the middle of a serious sermon lightens us, awakens us, but in the end, it leaves us unsatisfied.

It is like someone tickling you after a nice relaxing massage, tensing the muscles back up.

At any rate, you are a talented writer, I am not sure if anything I have written will help at all. Take what you want, leave the rest

~J

 

[Epmd607]

Is this poem a test, or what?

I like it, but have that same sinking feeling I had confronting my PHYS 410 midterm—that I was for the first time in my life absolutely going to flunk a test.

Anyway, this ain't a test, so if I flunk, I flunk. I would, though, like to see the italicized lines before I offer up my inane comments. I can guess at where you might have put italics, but I'd just be guessing, and it seems to me that where they are is quite important in the reading of the poem.

So. Use square brackets (these: [ ]), not angle brackets (these: < >) to mark font treatments. Or, just go to to your control bar and click through to User CP > Edit Options and scroll down to Miscellaneous Options and Message Editor Interfaces, then select Standard Editor-Extra Formatting Controls. That will give you an Italic control thingy in your edit reply window.

PM me if that isn't clear. Or, just use '*' or '_' to indicate the italics (like "I really, _really_ care for you, Yolanda").

Fix the poem and we'll talk.

Or, I guess, I'll talk. Or babble, more likely.

Thanks for your consideration, but I think I want to take this poem back. It's actually the end of a much longer sequence of poems ala WasteLand, if not as sexy, Alice in Wonderland. So if you're so inclined, comment on the Priest poem, and accept that this one is struck from the record and perhaps even written 'under erasure'.

 

[champagne1982]

okay I worked this over a bit more. I fracking hate the last line. It is so trite. Blah god awful. I don't know how else to say it. The seeds are dead. Nothing will grow. blah<snip>

We cross fingers and promise to bury new rings
in last season's soil as if it could
all mean something again.

Hearken back to the seed metaphor?

in untilled feilds as if planting
unfertile seeds harvests hope

Something like that anyway.

 

[Tzara]

Thanks for your consideration, but I think I want to take this poem back. It's actually the end of a much longer sequence of poems ala WasteLand, if not as sexy, Alice in Wonderland. So if you're so inclined, comment on the Priest poem, and accept that this one is struck from the record and perhaps even written 'under erasure'.

Well, OK. I quite liked it, though I had a lot of questions about it, but your decision, of course.

Now you've set the hook and I really want to see the whole thing. So get off your lazy ass and publish it somewhere.

In re that other poem, why not Shawangunk? Or am I missing something?

 

[Epmd607]

Well, OK. I quite liked it, though I had a lot of questions about it, but your decision, of course.

Now you've set the hook and I really want to see the whole thing. So get off your lazy ass and publish it somewhere.

In re that other poem, why not Shawangunk? Or am I missing something?

It's the same place, just popular slang for said institution.

 

[champagne1982]

Around the Table: Please pass the criticism.

"Not for the Thin-Skinned" with a twist


Rules:

1. Post a maximum of 1 poem per week for review (of course, your first poem is "free" so we can prime the pump.)

2. Give constructive feedback to at least 2 other poems before posting another one.

3. Feel free to make short, one line comments without backing up your judgment (or support!) but this will not count as one of your constructive feedbacks.

4. No crybabies or whiners/ Tough criticism is welcome here, but try not to be a dick.

• 
  [*]Not everyone is going to like your poetry and no one here is perfect. We are big boys and girls and can take it.
  
  [*]No whining about the quality of comments. If someone wants to say "Hugs!" or "Huh?" or "I love it!" they can without recourse. If someone wants to say "this reminds me of my cat" they can. Of course, these won't be considered as the required constructive criticism.
  [*]This is a reviewer friendly zone.

5. You can give feedback without providing poetry, but you cannot post poetry without providing constructive feedback.

6. Want to fuck around a bit? Hijack and hijinx? Go for it. Everyone needs to have fun, that is why most of us stay at Literotica.


What counts as constructive feedback?

• You do not need to do a line by line analysis of the poem. You can pick one or two things you think could be changed in order to make the poem "better." You can also point out the places where the poem really works for you.
  
• You do not need a MFA or BA or even a GED to participate. Everyone has ideas of how to make a poem "better" and their views should be heard, considered and respected.

Suggestions:

Even with these guidelines, if you are still worried about recourse, get an Alt. They are welcome here, especially if they help you to be honest about your opinions and thoughts. If you do so just to have a place to hide your sadistic comments, get therapy.

If someone wants to say "This sucks" without giving a reason, just ignore it (or think about it) but don't get pissy and immature, even if (or especially if) the commenter is. Likewise, if someone drops in and says "I love it!" just let it be. Don't be upset because they did not make valuable suggestions.

In this thread, the person giving the feedback can do so however they see fit. The poet has to be the grown-up. So many times here it has been the other way around. Someone criticizes a poem and everyone blasts them for not being more sensitive. Do not feel you need to defend a friend if someone gives harsh criticism. We are all over 18 in here and do not need a posse of well-meaning supporters who ultimately suppress any dissent.

Having said that, you don't have to tip toe, but try not to be an asshole when commenting on other people's poetry.

Don't post poems that are so personal that you will not be able to handle the feedback, not here. Reviewers need to be able to be honest without worrying about hurting your feelings by correcting your spelling in a poem you wrote for your Nana's funeral or brother's wedding. (Yes, I have written both and would never in a million years post them here. They were for a specific audience and pretty much suck as poetry.)


If someone criticizes your work and you do not agree with their assessment, be professional about it. Don't take it personally. Wait a day or two before responding to their assessment. Most likely as the day wears on, you will be able to see their opinion more clearly.

Okay. Dang. That is a lot of rules. But it is pretty simple.

Pick a poem you want to be better.
Post it.
Read at least 2 poems and give a bit of constructive criticism on both.
Repeat.

The lovely lady who initiated this thread is on a Lit-o-holiday but it's a great thread and deserves some attention. Don't be afraid to critique any poem on one of the numerous "feedback me please" threads out there. Just copy and paste the quote reply box contents in a reply box here and voila, you've been constructive and have resurrected a wonderful premise.

 

[Angeline]

Bumping this great thread that is far too short. It could use some new participants!

 

[annaswirls]

oooh I might throw one in! Let me go find something recent.

 

[Angeline]

oooh I might throw one in! Let me go find something recent.

Excellent! One of the newer poets here was asking me if there were threads where we can see the editing process in action. I immediately thought of your thread and Pat's, hoping we can do some workshop type feedback here again.

 

[annaswirls]

We can only count to ten (Diez)

Your mother thumping window tint
can't filter my gaze. Our eyes level
and meet with a crack! in the street.
You will deny it but I'll be damned
if that is not a Polka beat
pounding behind a thin Norteña veil.
I know. My grandmother trotted me around
the circle as cabbage wrapped halupkis
simmered in sauce and your abuela wrapped
tamales in steamed husks. The same accordion.
Fingerwork. Skirts. La Familia.

I think your daughter is in my
son's homeroom. I raise a wave
from my porch swing, you lift a hand from
the steering wheel. I know
you are a good man. We smile.
You pretend not to resent my lazy white ass
for getting it all for free while I pretend
not to wonder if it was you who
stole the lawnmower from our side yard
the week we moved in.

 

[Angeline]

We can only count to ten (Diez)

Your mother thumping window tint
can't filter my gaze. Our eyes level
and meet with a crack! in the street.
You will deny it but I'll be damned
if that is not a Polka beat
pounding behind a thin Norteña veil.
I know. My grandmother trotted me around
the circle as cabbage wrapped halupkis
simmered in sauce and your abuela wrapped
tamales in steamed husks. The same accordion.
Fingerwork. Skirts. La Familia.

I think your daughter is in my
son's homeroom. I raise a wave
from my porch swing, you lift a hand from
the steering wheel. I know
you are a good man. We smile.
You pretend not to resent my lazy white ass
for getting it all for free while I pretend
not to wonder if it was you who
stole the lawnmower from our side yard
the week we moved in.

I haven't read a new poem from you in a while so I have to get past being dazzled by your writing first.

First impression:

I love that it takes me in an unexpected direction that is foreshadowed by that "crack" but not revealed until the last five lines. In fact that "crack!" is so strong, I think you should lose "in the street" and let the line end on that smash of an encounter.

I don't think "mother thumping" can work with "window tint." It's a great descriptor but it needs to refer to a sound, not a light or a lack of light. I'd keep mother thumping but let it modify radio or some such and then move on to the window tint. Does that make sense?

These lines I might break apart. They sound better to me without the "and"

My grandmother trotted me around
the circle as cabbage wrapped halupkis
simmered in sauce. Your abuela wrapped
tamales in steamed husks.

Aside from that I might fiddle with line breaks or maybe even break that first strophe into two, ending strophe 1 with "veil." But that may just be preference on my part.

I think you're getting your groove back just fine there, girlfriend. It may need a few little fixes but it's wonderful reading. Your poetic voice resonates for me.

 

[annaswirls]

Thanks Angeline for stopping to read and for giving me your take on the poem! It was a hard one to write, the whole race relations is tricky and even the least bigoted of us have knee jerk judgements of each other.

The mother-thumping window tint is actually a friggin' commercial down there.

Thump thump mother thump

you know, speakers designed to mother thump the neighborhood and they also tint windows lol

but "because it is really what happened!" is never an excuse when editing a poem and I will definitely take a look at it. I just have to get the jingle out of my head and have to share it with you, because hells ya texas


I swear to God I cannot make this shit up

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

We can only count to ten (Diez)

Your mother thumping window tint
can't filter my gaze. Our eyes level
and meet with a crack! in the street.
You will deny it but I'll be damned
if that is not a Polka beat
pounding behind a thin Norteña veil.
I know. My grandmother trotted me around
the circle as cabbage wrapped halupkis
simmered in sauce and your abuela wrapped
tamales in steamed husks. The same accordion.
Fingerwork. Skirts. La Familia.

I think your daughter is in my
son's homeroom. I raise a wave
from my porch swing, you lift a hand from
the steering wheel. I know
you are a good man. We smile.
You pretend not to resent my lazy white ass
for getting it all for free while I pretend
not to wonder if it was you who
stole the lawnmower from our side yard
the week we moved in.

You're right race is a tricky subject, something we only have pockets of up here. I have to say, when I read references to things I don't recognise lke the window tint, the halupkis and abuela I lose interest, just too many to google but I totally love the ambivalence in the second verse. I feel a total fraud even deigning to comment so I'll shut up.

 

[UnderYourSpell]

Sour grapes pudding

Crush to a fine powder the metaphor
rainbow angst of your madness era.
Blend to a paste with any cliché,
the tears of lost first love will do nicely here.
Roll to the thickness of a bold critique
and cut into rounds of platitudes
designed to hide what you're really thinking.
Bake the whole thing for a week or more,
then slice when cold and pass around
when next you feel challenged or maligned.