Good poetry, it seems,
Is lists.
Lists of facts.
I love you.
I despise you.
I eat an orange, peeled from
north to south, every Sunday.
Lists of randomness.
An eagle, broken in its nest.
A doll with its arms torn off.
The sound of a man swallowing,
Who has just murdered a cat.
Good poetry, is seems,
Is anatomy.
Ribs, white, cradling a bloody heart
Like a new-born child.
Love, composed of
Sweat, and
Skin
Evisceration
The final day of
The Somme
burning in his eyes.
I shall insert a caesura
(or should it be a caesarean?)
in which the child died
in which the mother reacted
as a 1950s heroine,
with emotion choked inside.
I should end with
A list.
1. Your fingers
2. The inside of an eggshell
3. Cracks between paving-stones
4. The flowers that grow in them
5. Beginnings
6. Endings.














Critiques
You seem to think that you cannot write poetry. Where did you get this insane idea? While it's unconventional (which is technically what poetry is about!), it manages to be both amusing and thoughtful.
"The sound of a man swallowing,
Who has just murdered a cat"
Is a perfect line. It's poetic and startling to the reader, which makes them pay attention.
"I eat an orange, peeled from
north to south, every Sunday."
Also another very good line. Specific and with strong imagery.
The entire poem generates a somewhat wistful and aloof feeling, because although it's a rant, all the examples are poetic.
I like the list at the end, but the numbers seem to break the flow. I'd get a second opinion about how they fit, because the poem might seem off without them. Maybe see how - 's instead of numbers works? Or none at all, and just have the lines.
Overall, very good job! The imagery is excellent; the tone is perfect.
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