Anonymous Writing Workshop

Welcome to your Anonymous Writing Workshop. For those of you who prefer to remain anonymous when sharing your work, feel free to post your writing here! Anyone can post responses to these works, but, please, follow the following rules:

1. Constructive Criticism only, please no flames.

2. Try to acknowledge both what you liked and what you did not feel helped the work, and give specifics. The writer will not know what you mean unless you give them an example!

3. Don’t be afraid to share your work! We’re all writers here!

4. If you want to be anonymous, write Anonymous under your name! Place your email if you would like to know if people respond, don’t worry, it won’t be posted!

Thank you for your visits!

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5 thoughts on “Anonymous Writing Workshop

  1. Sanctuary

    Trees are like caverns.
    Or a diverted water-
    Cascade over a jut.
    Like dog rose and violet,
    Sea pink and campion,
    Willow-herb and thistle,
    brush over wind-swept Cliffs,
    plunge deep into blue,

    Their shadows turn green,
    Dancing toward lamp-
    Light—yellow tops iron-black
    Dropping into soil—springs
    From branch to root,
    Where I lean, listening
    To whispers filter from under
    Shelter of a theatre dome:

    Leaves are petals at sunset—
    Soft embers melt lines
    Until they turn to curves—
    Gracefully ripple with wind
    As an Irish Elf would dance
    on currents of water—spirals
    slowly to music only it can hear:
    soft trickles of chimes in the air.

    • Completely enjoyed this piece, thanks for posting! Liked the specific names for plants in the first stanza, as it made the poem more original than ‘oh the pretty trees!’ Also, the short lines and dashes, and the older/fanciful language work well to create a consistent theme, reminds me of some Shakespeare and Dryden.

      Glad this poem is not in a rigid iambic rhythm the whole way through, with the subject matter of whispering wind through tree canopies. Some sections do seem long without any punctuation, so many words before someone reading aloud could take a breath or stop to think…so maybe a few more ‘breaths’ here and there. The line breaks seem well chosen, though – interesting words for readers to consider.

      Overall, wonderful, lovely work!

  2. At this moment I experience the desire for spontaneous grace. For the rain that holds off till ten minutes after your hike, for the extra five minutes a friend waits until your arrival, for the extra twenty miles your car somehow runs until the gas station.

    For the soft edges on the too-metallic recliner, for the last three rays of the sunset, for the directions you look up at the one coffeehouse where the public computer actually gets Wi-Fi.

    For the reason why some businesspeople stop and give change to a strange homeless person, for the reason why a receptionist smiles and lets you in too near closing time, for the reason why people share words of support and a few bucks to folks online without asking for proof first.

    For the mirror kind enough to break and shift your image in all the right ways, for the dandelion in the cracks that escapes the neighbor’s weed-whacker, for the train that waits for you.

    For the traffic cop who winks – just once – at the jaywalkers or the driver ten or fifteen miles over the limit, for the single parent whose garage sale customers tell him/her to keep the change, for the time your housemate who loves angry talk radio actually switches on music.

    For the gleam of a rainbow in the soapscum on your dishes, for the time when your Mom actually doesn’t open her mouth when there are still dirty dishes in your room, for the reason I still do favors for a friend everyone says could do more for herself.

    For home, for love and memories, for the grace notes at the end of the symphony. For the extras which get and keep us up in the morning.

    — After the concept of ‘Spontaneous Prose,’ and dedicated to Jack Kerouac, Neal Cassady, Edie Kerouac, Gary Snyder, and Diane Di Prima.

  3. A Child’s Dream:

    my sleep, stories of the planets
    of sky with threads of twilight
    in the lime dew of imagination
    the atmosphere dark and sea-blue
    like my favorite blanket of sacred texts and secretive dreams
    the sun uplifting me
    staring into the corridors of my unseen innocent eyes
    as woven fire
    pouring me a river
    a glass of sun tea
    my favorite kind
    the neon lights of stars
    of midnight yellow, lime green, and orange stream down on my universe, my world
    consumed with dry ocean in the wide summer
    raining down monotonous drops of my own footsteps running away from me
    i try to chase after them
    i try crying out… asking all the questions that i know
    but all the answers it tells me
    in my ear,
    breathe, nothing but a breath

  4. meltdown

    It’s a nuclear show and the stars are gone,
    Seen from ten hundred feet in the air
    While the smoke chokes neat streets.
    Below ground, nightmares tremble when
    Human monuments fall to the ground,
    Like the last fifty years never happened.

    And overhead in the blood-red sky,
    The clouds are the color of old gold.
    And the soldiers hold their heads high
    To hide how low their hearts really are,
    Heavy reverence for the enemy families
    That their favorite general wanted dead.

    Home and in their Sunday best they
    Are hailed as loyal sons of their nation,
    Brave soldiers who risked their lives to
    Destroy the enemy who lived across the sea.
    And when they become death, destroyers of worlds,
    The love melts down and all they can do is smile.

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