Rate this poem i wrote...?

Accidentaly just posted in 'fashion and accessories' oops! Lol... so here it is.

... 1-10 would be LOVELY but it doesnt really matter.

All I want to know is if it seems confusing to anyone else... It's for my freshman genre class.... it was a description assighnment. :) Due tomorrow, im kinda nervrous. Anyway,

Its about the painting, girl in a blue armchair by cassat. here's a link :

http://www.nga.gov/cgi-bin/pimage?61102+...

POEM:

Girl In A Blue Armchair

She could feel the anger boiling through her-

A streak of rebellion in a young life of forced compromise.

They said she didn閳ユ獩 have a choice,

That she didn閳ユ獩 have a say in something like this,

But she knew she did-

And so she sat.

She plopped down on the chair and held still,

Arm propped up behind her head,

Shielding her from the sharp poke of the couch閳ユ獨 buttons

Against the clips perfectly hidden beneath her heavy

mop of dark wavy hair,

They were the only thing holding it up,

But she would pull them out.

The left arm was slung carelessly across the armrest

Of the tacky too-old armchair,

Which scratched at her knees because her dress was

crumpled up,

And she knew the wrinkles were going to set in,

And her mother would threaten to no longer press her clothes,

If they were just going to end up looking like

They had been though a machine-

But she didn閳ユ獩 care,

She let it stay that way.

And didn閳ユ獩 even think about crossing her legs.

Her eyes were frustrated, uncooperative brown beads,

Staring with malice at the dead, gray-green floor.

She wanted to say it matched the furniture well enough,

Highlighting the coarse, fibrous patches of color

amidst the sea of blue cloth,

But they didn閳ユ獩.

She felt alone in this unfinished house,

With it閳ユ獨 empty tan walls, and clear, curtain-less windows.

She felt alone without part of her family,

When it was just her living in her grandmother閳ユ獨 house,

Because she had stolen the money from

Her father閳ユ獨 wallet,

And used it to buy the new pair of socks She had wanted for so long.

But had never been allowed.

To her now, they were just the same as the other

hideous, worthless pieces of cloth that were forced upon her feet.

PS... I WILL CHOOSE A BEST ANSWER :)

Rate this poem i wrote...?

Sounds like a narrative instead of a poem. How does it make you feel? What do you see when you think of it?

Watch Dead Poet's Society. The scene about a 'sweaty-toothed madman". The kid is forced to describe a photo of Walt Whitman:

Keating: Mr. Anderson, I see you sitting there in agony. Come on, Todd, step up. Let's put you out of your misery.

Todd: I, I didn't do it. I didn't write a poem.

Keating: Mr. Anderson thinks that everything inside of him is worthless and embarrassing. Isn't that right, Todd? Isn't that your worst fear? Well, I think you're wrong. I think you have something inside of you that is worth a great deal. [writes "I sound my barbaric yawp over the rooftops of the world." W. W. on the chalkboard] Uncle Walt again. Now, for those of you who don't know, a yawp is a loud cry or yell. Now, Todd, I would like you to give us a demonstration of a barbaric "yawp." Come on. You can't yawp sitting down. Let's go. Come on. Up. You gotta get in "yawping" stance.

Todd: A yawp?

Keating: No, not just a yawp. A barbaric yawp.

Todd: [quietly] Yawp.

Keating: Come on, louder.

Todd: [quietly] Yawp.

Keating: No, that's a mouse. Come on. Louder.

Todd: Yawp.

Keating: Oh, good God, boy. Yell like a man!

Todd: [shouting] Yawp!

Keating: There it is. You see, you have a barbarian in you, after all. Now, you don't get away that easy. The picture of Uncle Walt up there. What does he remind you of? [Tod hesitates] Don't think. Answer. Go on.

Todd: A m-m-madman.

Keating: What kind of madman? [Tod hesitates again] Don't think about it. Just answer again.

Todd: A c-crazy madman.

Keating: No, you can do better than that. Free up your mind. Use your imagination. Say the first thing that pops into your head, even if it's only gibberish. Go on, go on.

Todd: Uh, uh, a sweaty-toothed madman.

Keating: Good God, boy, there's a poet in you, after all. There, close your eyes. Close your eyes. Close 'em. Now, describe what you see.

Todd: Uh, I-I close my eyes.

Keating: Yes?

Todd: Uh, and this image floats beside me.

Keating: A sweaty-toothed madman?

Todd: A sweaty-toothed madman with a stare that pounds my brain.

Keating: Oh, that's excellent. Now, give him action. Make him do something.

Todd: H-His hands reach out and choke me.

Keating: That's it. Wonderful. Wonderful.

Todd: And, and all the time he's mumbling.

Keating: What's he mumbling?

Todd: M-Mumbling, "Truth. Truth is like, like a blanket that always leaves your feet cold."

[Class laughs]

Keating: Forget them, forget them. Stay with the blanket. Tell me about that blanket.

Todd: Y-Y-Y-You push it, stretch it, it'll never be enough. You kick at it, beat it, it'll never cover any of us. From the moment we enter crying to the moment we leave dying, it will just cover your face as you wail and cry and scream.

[the class claps because of his excellent poem]

Keating: [whispering to Todd] Don't you forget this.

Rate this poem i wrote...?

It Kinda makes sense but if your a poem writer you'll understand it which i am BTW I give it a 10 on a scal of 1-10

Rate this poem i wrote...?

yeah it sounds more like a story than a poem...you need to add a stanza or two and maybe some more poetic techniques (similies, metaphors, alliteration, rhyme, etc..) But in general its a really good painting to do a poem on if i were going to give u a mark out of 10 i would say 6 or 7!

good luck

xx

Rate this poem i wrote...?

interesting....not bad, u have good imagination.....u get a 10

Rate this poem i wrote...?

Feels more like a bland story rather than poetry.

You're just describing random things.

I want to know how you feel through your writing, not just cold hard facts, or what you believe to be facts.

Spice it up!!

Rate this poem i wrote...?

If I rate this work of yours,

I'd have to give it three.

A poem here I do not read,

A book is what I see.

A novel or a play I think,

Is what I'd say it is.

But as a poem it is lost,

It hasn't any fizz.

The writing of a story good,

Is not an easy thing,

But if you want a poem then,

You have to make it sing.

To rhyme is nice but not required,

But tempo there must be.

A rhythm makes the reading flow,

The words will then be free.

Free to bounce around your head,

To make an image bright.

Of what has been or what's to be,

Or what is out of sight.

Rate this poem i wrote...?

Confessions of the heart are always the best in poetry...