/lit/ - Literature

[Anonymous No.21495336]

Will you be a famous poet?

[Anonymous No.21495368]

>>21495336
Different sound though

[Anonymous No.21495465]

>>21495368
You won't be a famous poet

[Anonymous No.21495811]

Just entorhr frwnchismof the English language but no I we wei could all be important writers of the new twenties but no one here no I shall not be a poet you are ordained to be not selftitled it does not count it cannot you can't judge yoursekf

[Anonymous No.21496531]

>>21495336
No, because poetry is not something done for fun anymore

[Anonymous No.21496555]

>>21495336
Who in the fuck would want to be a poet?
Imagine actually wasting all your time
Just to write down a lame ass shitty rhyme.
Poets are fucking faggots and you know it.

[Anonymous No.21496634]

>>21496555
:(

[Anonymous No.21496651]

>>21496555
nice poem

[Anonymous No.21496662]

>>21495336
That's not up to me. If I ever write something that draws fame or acclaim, it will not be because I made it so. It will be because I kept my nose to the grindstone and wrote and wrote and wrote. Why worry about things that are outside your control? Work without any expectation of result.

[Anonymous No.21496853]

The only people allowed to be famous poets are diverity hires like rupi kaur and that niggy that read the poem at bidens inauguration.

Can you imagine if ezra pound was alive nowadays? he would be shitposting on pol

[Anonymous No.21497144]

>>21495336
I'm 26 and have written about 600-700 poems that I have been told are good. I would say it's within the realm of probable but I have never tried to be published (I'm a privacy nut).

[Anonymous No.21497146]

>caring about modern audiences
catch you in 5000 years when they're reading the stories I left in a cave and none of your nonsense

[Anonymous No.21497648]

>>21495336
No

Asleep, then woken, I found this:
Myself, before a precipice,
Heaped high, a mound of bodies rise,
Right before my dumbfound eyes,
All featureless, their mouths were gone,
My legs shaking, as I stepped on
Them, whose forms as foundation lie,
For a lanky tower to the sky,
Some crumbling papers clutch in hand,
Still others hold fistfuls of sand,
And at its pinnacle is found,
Those by the living world renowned,
Now blind, Homer and Milton there,
With Virgil, Dante, and Shakespeare,
And many else whose names we know,
But far, far more laid silently below,
And staring at that fruitless stack;
I from that place took one step back,
Onto the rich, calm, country field,
And to my grave one more step yield;
A life of plainest pleasures fond,
As tempered as a shaded pond,
Into the dark and cool earth sealed,
Striding softly to what lies beyond.

[Anonymous No.21497661]

>>21496555
Rude.

[Anonymous No.21497671]

Become an historical

[Anonymous No.21499014]

>>21497671
Yes