The concept

It's a box that contains a receipt printer and an interface with several buttons. A user would press a button that reflects their emotional state (happy, sad, anxious, etc.), then the machine prints out a more-or-less appropriate poem on a receipt printer, beautifully formatted and embellished with simple artwork.

It could be occasionally repurposed for certain themes, like Pride Month to print out queer poems.

I want to place it someplace public and well-trafficked, like Dolores Park or on Castro Street.

Feedback

I like poetry. The idea of a (free) vending machine that gives me a poem to uplift my day excites me. But I wonder if this appeals to others enough to be worth fully realizing. I don't want to spend time and money building something that'll go totally unloved.

Also curious about anti-vandalism measures or ideas. I'm sure some jerk will try graffiti-ing it or peeing on it.

Lastly, anyone interested in collaborating?

T'was picking fruit down under, where
I learned the truth of underwear
Davenport made the best boxer
costed more but last forever

At first my junk was hanging loose
no more briefs snuggling like a noose
but soon I loved it hanging free
it's quicker when you have to pee

Decade later holes not in sight
Bought some more in case they might
Thought they'd be with me till the end
Thirty years they've been my friend

Now I'm down to last seven pair
Out of business they went I fear
Brought down low by cheap knock offs
Where oh where is my Undie Guru now?

I sang her name in words forgotten
Rough bellows of lost yearning
A hurt hound without path
A sorrow meaning without an end

I heard the rain, heard the ocean
Lick the sand without defect
The water, where it falls
Is always beautiful all the same

I saw, my God, that you made her
Carefully crooked, imperfect
And inside her deep mournful eyes
The tears that I could never shed

The sky is clear
except for some
soft grey clouds
beyond the hill

The early setting sun shines orange
on the woods
and the houses
that sit atop the ridge

Not a single bird crosses
the pale blue sky
though I can hear
their chorus
and a gentle wind blows
cold
on my face

I can smell the traffic
from the road behind my house
mingling with
the earthy smell of trees
from the field in front

Neither my hot black coffee
nor my dressing gown
are enough
to keep the
cold
at bay
on this
the first truly frosty day
of the year

Occupied by the primal cries of democracy and its dying eyes.
Ain't no reason to keep pushing some days the infighting the outfighting the needless highlighting of differences in ourselves and others, not some injustice just arbitrary maladjustment.
These words ain't here to minimize or demoralize but to quantify and qualify the true enemy.
We are cannibals, our self absorption and self adornment lead to self consumption and our mutually assured destruction.
As we consume we forget we need to resume what we started, we assume that we’ve done enough and that the movement will carry on without us.
It’s too late, in the death throws of Democracy we choose a different path, without occupation, preceded by preoccupation, we now find ourselves the subject of this new occupation.

I'm an undoubted pleb when it comes to just about everything artistic (with the exception of music, in which I have impeccable taste). A while back, I suggested I'd be interested in seeing some critique or general discussion of already-known or published poetry, if only so I could get others' opinions on things that usually go over my head. This is an effort to get the ball rolling, with a poem that is one of my favorites.

Also, I'm not sure if this belongs here or in ~arts, please classify as appropriate.

Morning - Frank O'Hara

I've got to tell you
how I love you always
I think of it on grey
mornings with death

in my mouth the tea
is never hot enough
then and the cigarette
dry the maroon robe

chills me I need you
and look out the window
at the noiseless snow

At night on the dock
the buses glow like
clouds and I am lonely
thinking of flutes

I miss you always
when I go to the beach
the sand is wet with
tears that seem mine

although I never weep
and hold you in my
heart with a very real
humor you'd be proud of

the parking lot is
crowded and I stand
rattling my keys the car
is empty as a bicycle

what are you doing now
where did you eat your
lunch and were there
lots of anchovies it

is difficult to think
of you without me in
the sentence you depress
me when you are alone

Last night the stars
were numerous and today
snow is their calling
card I'll not be cordial

there is nothing that
distracts me music is
only a crossword puzzle
do you know how it is

when you are the only
passenger if there is a
place further from me
I beg you do not go

So we have all these people, and they all seem to be pissed.

So many people and they all seem to have... something amiss.

Many of these people, their concerns are just... entirely dismissed:

By other people with the same problems who somehow look at these perfectly normal people and react: "I have been nixed!"

These problems are pervasive in our memories and experiences and on a metaphorical wall they are fixed;

And yet the root causes are consistently misinterpreted, and ultimately missed.

And the result is we are betting everything for the sake of getting our cathartic and revengeful fix?

That is being delivered to us by people that if they were to meet us, would utterly reject us and loudly hiss?

And if that gamble fails I will be the one to pick up the scraps, and mop up the piss?

Man, I didn't want to grow up to this.

I'm working on this for a poetry class I'm taking, any criticism is welcome.

Edit: Italicized some text I forgot when I copied it out of Word.
Edit 2: Fixed some phrasing.

Coming Out 2.0

When I first came out
I thought it was over.
Done.
I know myself now,
My life can finally be
worthwhile and fun.

But there was always a mess I dared
not touch. Who do I like? What gaze
makes me blush? I suspected the feminine
but held out hope – only taking up one letter
made it easier to cope.

And some people do change after starting
HRT, so patiently I hoped men would appeal
to me. I had some feelings before, it seemed reasonable
they would grow. But as time went on I realized I had
nothing to show. My feelings for men were entirely gone,
but still hopeful for a straight-passing future, I pressed on.

I had definite feelings for women before,
But at times the attraction seemed a bit more –
Did I want to be them or did I want to be with them?
The former I assumed, as it helped to distract,
focus on my work, brush my desires under the mat.

I’d think “She looks cute”, but “in that outfit”, “with that hairdo” and other qualifiers
I began to append, convincing myself what I felt was normal and, like a
Chicagoland road, no bend. When I began to notice some feelings bubbling up I said
“Female friendships are close, it’s nothing, the end.” But try as I might, they flowered
and bloomed, and soon I could not help but be all-consumed. Maybe I’m bi, I thought,
That isn’t so bad. More options for dating, how can I be mad? I told my friend my feelings, and as
expected, for me she had none. She’s still one of my best friends, so I’d neither lost nor won.

I dealt with the rejection and moved on. I could still be bi, better not
jump the gun. You can’t take back coming out, you’ve got one shot – nail it
and be done. I thought everything would be the same, but the floodgates were open,
my restraints had been broken. I could finally be honest about my feelings
for women (endless, confusing and interwoven) and for men, which were at most
an appreciative token.

A week after confessing to my crush, it was obvious
who won. The Sapphic feelings and desires made
their presence known, their intent to stay,
and more difficult than coming out
as trans was admitting
to being gay.

always seem happy and dandy
and talk of love and romance
a riven smile on the face
to hide thoughts of pain

for her, everything has a verse
a waltz at each step
a flimsy variety of beauty
that melts after rehearse

huge hipster glasses
coffee without any taste
a window facing concrete
is now hummingbirds enlaced

and when she sings all her love
I am always in disbelief
cause when someone shouts too much
I sense a hooded grief

You were smart and pretty
and praised every word I said

Responded to my commands
like a very well-trained basset

You gave me food, shelter, affection
in bed, you did as I pleased
and such strong devotion
was hard for me to receive

Cause how could I trust someone
who clearly and truly loves me?

In this grass where we sit,
I saw many full moons lit

Kissed them shivering in the wind,
felt like solution, formed decision, ultimate end

But the frenzy always fades,
pretty mirage in the haze

Silly me...

I just met you yesterday
And once again tremble my veins

I cannot defend
my lack of years
my lack of tears
my lack of guilt

I will always regret
the tears and sweat
that I've put upon your face

For it is a disgrace
the things I've done
the thoughts I've thunk
the things I've done to you

When I killed that man
in the cabbage patch
at half-past 3 am

When I killed that man
that I knew you loved
that I, too, loved
that I knew was marked for greatness

When I killed that man
with a knife to the heart
with a mind full of rage
with a mind ablaze
 with many a myriad thought

I could almost say it was jealousy
(i know that I cannot)

I could almost say it was hatred or spite
(but i know that I cannot)

I could even say it was impulse to slay that man who I knew and who knew not what he wrought
(but still this thing that i want to say--
 i know but one thing: say it, I cannot)

For it was not calculated
nor can I say that I hated
that man, though I often berated
him for things that control them?  He could not.

For the reason that I did all these things that I did
was simple in the extreme
was harder to digest
    than powdered ice cream

And even I could give you a ream
of paper to show the things I did
of paper to show you these things that I did
of paper on which to pour out my sin
of paper, cathartic, explaining my doing
of paper, incredible, pure white and blank,
          and innocent, available, asking me to taint it

An I could give you a billion words to explain all the pain which I caused
   I could give you only two

NO REASON.

Ask not for whom the cradle weeps; it weeps for you.


O sly kitten, O accursèd cat, cry,
cry for the weft and the warp of the world; cry,
cry for the sin and the sorrow and suffering; cry,
cry on the bloodshed, but more on the tears; cry,
cry for divisions, and ill-wrought connections; cry,
cry for the laughter, so far out of reach; cry.
And in crying find solace; peace——rhythm——be still.

                                               cry 
and cry——cry for the widows and widowers, woven together forever,
by weeping and painless heart-let.
   But your pain is not theirs.
   For, though burdened with truth, you will never be cut 
   by the serrated and blunted edge of polite fiction.
   Enough!


When the cat's in the cradle, the mice will play,
And I hope that they fly far——far-far away.
But the tears of the kitten forever abide,
and someday they'll catch you.
               will you take it in stride?

Simple question. For people's original poems posted in ~creative, should they be tagged "poem" or "poems"?

"poetry" is the broader category, and includes discussions about poets and poetry in general. However, when someone posts their poem, should that be tagged "poem" or "poems"?

The tagging guidelines say (or used to say - since I re-organised the Docs pages, I can't find this reference any more) that tags should be plural. That indicates that "poems" is the better tag. But the post contains a single poem, which makes "poem" the better tag.

Opinions?

EDIT: In the end, I went with the popular choice. When I looked at the tags used in ~creative, I found over a hundred topics tagged "poem" and only four topics tagged "poems". It seems that most people naturally choose "poem" when posting a poem, so I standardised the few differently tagged topics to use "poem".

I'm interested in finding more great songwriters across different genres and I want to defeat my own bias, so don't tell me the artist or genre (or maybe put it in <details> tags).

Here are a few of mine -

Emancipate yourself from mental slavery, none but ourselves can free our minds

If you're really as tough as your defenses, you'd let them fall

Tried to deceive me, you only deceived you; what you thought was invisible was only see-through

I said, "If you won't save me, please don't waste my time"

Emotional luggage, nothing of it, I don't check bags; I just carry on, leave that bullshit in the past

Nothing no scary like a gunman voice when people beg a gunman think twice, and him say no

To turn your sick soul inside out - so that the world, so that the world can watch you die

Coincidentally, not all those songs are necessarily at the top of my recommends, but they are the first memorable one-liners that came to mind. I won't mind if your picks aren't the greatest songs of all time either if the line still hits.

I post a fair amount of poetry to Tildes, with the hope of getting feedback or starting discussion.

Yet, as you can see from looking at the poem tag, there generally isn't any kind of discussion on poetry posts. Even Bishop's departure post only received six comments.

So, why is this? What stops you commenting on poems? I would like to have discussions about what I write with the people here. I don't know if there's something I can do to make it easier to engage with me regarding my work, or if there's something else preventing the discussion.