Poetry Anthology 3

This time i tried employing a more formal verse. From my three "anthologies" so far i consider this the worst, by far. Although all three are very raw and bad rn. These are actually poems i wrote a few years ago and just edited recently. Give me some honest critique regarding whether they sound too formal and forced, or whether the verse is acceptable in diction, flow, rhythm etc. These are also longer poems. And finally while you are here, consider checking out my other two anthologies as they are better imo. Also thank you so much to everyone who takes the time to read it and give advice, ill be sure to check out your guys' great work as well. Also yes every poem is named "yeet"

YEET

My fidelity
My courage, wisdom, temperance, and justice
Take root, in the confines of something
Which adds to the Earth, even though it surpasses it.
One man can reflect an entire nation.
One day can reflect a lifetime.
The whole is more than the sum of its parts.
And in this complexity, of holes being fulfilled, she has countless times, captured my countless hearts.

YEET

The numbers list
Upon their chest
Which is worst
And which is best
Although it was not with my eyes
Some sorrow converged throughout the skies
These numbers which
So often count
Some axioms
Which reason mounts
This woman of
Such quality
With men they have
Duality.

Although it was not my own eyes
Sorrow converged throughout those skies
Segregated as I was
From her taste, from her touch.
And through the eyes
Of just one man
I understood some notions grand.
What will be taught of her is deep
Engrained in grains of wisdoms sheep.

Some open path of legs I followed
Under skies converged from sorrow
Through his eyes some notion felt
Of countless mens emotions dealt.
She was to them but not a woman
An open gate, convenient omen.
But through his eyes and as he walked
Flowers bloom, both stem and stalk.

YEET

This cheap aesthetic of entertainment
Not in my own regard
But in others
For what is in mine cannot be in the heart of another
Although I find solace
In the virtues of silence
In the false superiority of inaction
Tolerance and scholarship
What soothes friendships and irons those flaws in others
Cannot iron those waves in me. That inaction which trembles and is more violent than any war.

And as the door of my home opens
Along with me so enter those notions. Those entertainments, those silences, those notions of good and those notions of tolerance.

But my own blood is not lucky enough, to weather the storms I sail through effortlessly before those gates.
Storms of my own making some say, but if man could control his heart what is the world but a snap of fingers from perfection.
Verily, verily I enter those gates.
If at humble gates I cannot leave those sins behind, how must I do it at those above mine.

My own contradictions. Those of ideals never met. Pushed away from me
As if by some invisible hand. Even now only the crops of other fields can I use
For referring to feeling, being, in action. Is an act reserved for those, whose feelings exist for themselves alone are felt, becoming, in practice.

In this bout, the master and slave are both entrapped. Engrossed and deposed is who I am.
Lips curve upwards but never for me, only for that train station at which one departs, returning again tomorrow.
Each day the train arrives. But never will it arrive at its own pace or leisure.
So too am I thrown from one discordant wave to another. Even to float requires some meaning no?

Alas, even Atlantis, in its non existence, it’s very essence existence in non-existence, remembrance in forgetfulness, is above some.
Children of thought, shouldn’t hold such power over man.

But still, despite this and in spite of this,
If she is to smile once more. Whatever cycle has been run whatever pathetic role must be fulfilled.
Allow me alone to fulfill it. And next time I promise towards all notions of being
To my underground all-seeing
To atone to myself. To mourn for myself.

But I have made this
I have made this promise endless times
Within my person of endless minds
And when I remember her smile again
So too I forget some nights of man.

My deception is caught. No group although has ever respected, so too have I, my role accepted.
This they and those and them of old. I can stand from them those glances cold.
My detection is caught, my deception flawed. Consistency through passion thawed.
When she alone serves my ascetic
What is my being? Transform, become, pathetic.


YEET - Note: I should preface this poem with saying, its not anti-woman although I chose not to put such a disclaimer in the poem itself for obvious reasons. Rather its looking at the condition of the modern man, lost in his role among the changing world (not that this is wrong, but a condition that can be analyzed). A condition of uncertainty, similar to modernity but obviously in a completely different psychoanalytical context. And i have personally seen most men, try to fulfill this unexplainable void (women ofc having it as well but responding differently in my experience) with the rampant sexual gratification we see today, and the same objectification of women we've seen in the past, simply in a more subtle sense however. Regardless, the poem is trying to examine the ways in which the worth of women, especially more recently can be seen as manifest by their nature (similar with their burden). Women depending on whatever context, are either from birth useless or important (based on social context and all that). They are not allowed to develop either characteristic throughout their life. Men on the other hand, are born neither in any real sense, only given a certain sense of either being replaceable or the complete master of his own destiny but must capture and essentially grow into either sense. It also serves as a critique on existential feminism specifically, a branch of feminism i disagree with, largely de beauvoirs notion that one is socialized into becoming a woman. Rather i believe women, are by nature set in their characteristics by the larger social dynamic. Whether this is to be useful or to be worthless is irrelevant to me. Men on the other hand, in the exact same social roles have the simultaneous freedom but also duty to become worthy of whatever social role they have. Even in the middle ages, a knight must consistently prove himself worthy of his love, often causing him to leave her ironically, as we've seen in stories such as Yvain. Women on the other hand are provided absolutely no agency regarding their own affairs and must as weve seen throughout history simply sit back while the men play out whatever battle they must, unable to ever make any development or choices outside of what some random man must make first. Thus the poem is not meant to be a castigation of women in any sense, but rather a look at the subtle tensions between freedom, responsibility and socialization. To sum it up, although one is either born a worthless or wonderful woman and cannot change it throughout their life, they are guaranteed a place. Women can never imo fall through the cracks of society although they may be left to the bottom rungs, as we've seen historically. Man regardless of whatever state hes born in spends his life becoming himself, and if hes unable to regardless of whatever social class hes born in, can fall through the cracks of society, as although not doomed to inferior treatment such as women, are never guaranteed a place in society. This struggle of the common man is very new i believe and perhaps something experienced only by this very latest generation although clear, in their responses to previous existential thought (and just general statistics on young men and mental health) If you disagree with my point, my articulation, the poem and how this idea is reflected, anything at all id love to talk about it with you and shoot me a message. I realize now, my explanation of the poem has become longer than anything else in the anthology and i apologize.

TL;DR poem is about the tension between freedom and duty in mens specific gender role, not an anti feminist or woman piece. If it comes off that way offer some advice to fix this.

YEET

Man is born incomplete.
Fractured, and traumatic.
Woman is born complete.
Grand and venerated.
Immature it is
To chase women, to rectify some divine injustice
Rather the real is fractured.

Women cannot complete men
As no hole exists within a whole, for which man may enter
Rather man must simply accept
That we are doomed to forever,
Be a stranger to ourselves.

It’s not the excesses of man that doom him
It’s the fissures
A grandeur which women already possess
And thus leap across the gaps of meaning
Effortlessly.
One is not born but becomes a woman?
The ignorance of importance leaks through the words and soils my paper
One is not born but proven a man.

The company of women is enjoyable.
And for where it falters,
For where it is too explicit
Too manifest
Then perhaps sit on a park bench
Although swarms of mosquitoes may interfere
This simplicity is a grandeur too.