OC Poetry
43 readers
1 users here now
Welcome to this little space for poets and poetry enthusiasts to share their original creations and insights!
Here, we celebrate the craft of writing poetry and the art of interpretation. Feel free to post your own poems, provide thoughtful analysis of your work or the poetry of others, and engage in meaningful discussions on poetic techniques, themes, and styles.
However, I request that you refrain from sharing previously published poems by other authors to keep the focus on original content. This is a place for personal expression and genuine poetic dialogue—let's explore the beauty of words together.
Rules:
- Be kind.
- Constructive criticism is encouraged.
- Post original poetry, although analysis of prewritten works is allowed.
- Although it isn't disallowed please tag anything AI.
- Follow instance rules.
founded 2 weeks ago
MODERATORS
1
3
5
Started this when I read a short story by Borges where I loved the line, 'he was seeking a soul worthy of taking its place in the universe'. Now this poem does not build upon any of the ideas of said story but borrows a beautiful line which I'll credit both Borges and the translator (I forgot who) for.
This is one of my few direct and simple to digest poems. Hope y'all like it.
6
8
Learning Image and Description Opening the luminous door in your writing. BY Rachel Richardson
(www.poetryfoundation.org)
7
Between two trees, he sways— one root in the earth, one reaching sky, bound by a thread of light to the quiet pull of space. His head tips down, but his eyes turn inward, searching the seams of shadow for a crack, a tremor, a way out of the silence.
Coins spill from his hands, not gold but weightless, each one a thought discarded, a truth left hanging like breath caught between worlds.
Suspended, he becomes the question— neither here nor there, but hung in the aching space where the body bends to dream.
Red and white, his blood sings the song of every sacrifice, a rhythm lost in the sky’s endless reach. He sways, not from wind, but from the soft unraveling of the ground beneath him.
To hang is to listen, to let go, to cling only to the pull of the unseen, the rope a tether to the self he cannot yet name.
He is offered to himself,
and the trees—
those pillars of thought—
stand silent, waiting
for him to fall,
or rise.
8
Never was really happy with this. But the first poem I wrote, I was glad I could make the structure work.
9