Bobbels's profile
AGE:
22
LOC: Ireland
GEN: Male
LAST LOGIN: July 22
LOC: Ireland
GEN: Male
LAST LOGIN: July 22
Though i have all the physical dimensions of a real person, i have reason to believe that i may be fictional. Therefore, imagine me in whatever way you want. If you like fishing, then i am a fisherman. If you like eating, then i am a big, juicy steak (or, of course, soya bi-product).
Items
Version 3
7 Reviews
7 Comments
Poetry is something of a tonic to prose. It doesn’t need to adhere to plot or character or any of those Forsterian notions of the novel. Poetry can simply BE. It can be about how a towel lies on the bathroom floor, how someone feels as they eat breakfast, how the small of their lover’s back gets them going, or how they can find pleasure even in the daily commute. Poetry can say in 4 lines what would sound unbelievably odd and embarrassing in 4 pages of prose. Of course, prose has attributes t...
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Version 4
4 Reviews
3 Comments
There is a man in his mid-30s and he wishes, for the duration of this narrative, to remain nameless. Nameless is passing blood and he does not know what to make of it. It floats in the toilet bowl every time he goes. He guesses there’s something wrong, but he doesn’t know how bad. Nameless can’t ask. He’s a man, a tradesman, and men with decorum and an image to keep do not go saying things like that to anybody, according to him. He worries, that’s for sure, but only during the fact. Beyond th...
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Version 1
2 Reviews
0 Comments
‘I’ll have some of those mushrooms you gave me last day, love.’ ‘Right, Mrs. McGrath, but I’ll tell you again: they’re a bit more expensive than the others.’ ‘That’s all right, love. I only collected my pension today. I’m fine.’ ‘If you say so, Mrs. McGrath.’ ‘I do. Sure, they go magic with a casserole.’ ‘They do, Mrs. McGrath. Magic.’ He counted out thirty long-stemmed mushrooms into a small sandwich bag and sealed it at the top. Mrs. McGrath smiled at him. He picked the change out of her ha...
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Version 2
1 Review
1 Comment
If this was India it would be a godhead. Knurled and bitten by the seasons, its branches arthritic with age, it cowers in the middle of the field. Bovine acolytes, black and white devotees, Manichaean every one, sit at its base, grazing. One winter, the cliché-laden clouds dropped snow on Christmas day. The snow weighed on the godhead, and, perhaps unprepared for the winter winds, one of its branches fell. The branch rolled to the bottom of the slope, making a trail in that morning’s snow, an...
Ratings & Rankings
Version 1
0 Reviews
0 Comments
He's unwelcome, like fart under bedclothes.
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Reviews
That was great. Very readable and very enjoyable. It's always good to hear from writers and those who seem to be knowledgable in the craft. I found myself agreeing with pretty much all your points. A little bit of humility in one's work is always healthy, and though i don't like getting bad reviews, i always do try to understand where the critic is coming from. Acknowledging that, like you said, is very important. Great job. It was a pleasure to read.
That's excellent. You've a command of language that is quite rare to read on Urbis. It's definitely up there with publishing standards. It's descriptive, but not stultifyingly so that it distracts. You've hit just the right balance. I like the name Prager, too. Something about it seems to just fit the idea of the character that you built up. I'm sorry i'm not being very constructive - i guess all i have to say is keep it up. Write the way you're writing now. Good job.
That was really good, but i'm confused about the tea thing. It seems to me that it sort of trivialises the poem. The line 'i'm steeped in this' is a very powerful one, empowered even more by its repetition. It just seems a pity to put it to waste with tea. There's no reference point with tea, nothing for the reader to understand its significance (at least, i couln't glean its significance anyway). Even if you took the tea out and didn't put anything in its place, the poem would increase in va...
That was brilliant. Very vivid and very new. There were a lot of images there that i've never seen described that way. I particularly liked the neck-cannon and the squall of stupid pop. Two things i noticed: it should be 'his brain's blown fuse' and 'continues breathing tides'. The latter sentence would work as you have it already, but there's not other precedence for mis-punctuation, so i'm taking it as a typo. Great work. An enthralling read.
Firstly, the flow of words worked well. I liked the use of repetition and the two line refrains helped to give the poem a nice structure. One thing i would suggest to link it up a bit more is 'something shattered' in the first line. But that's just me, you're the poet. The images didn't really work for me, and, therefore, i didn't feel disturbed or even perturbed. To achieve that there has to be a sense of character, and a setting. I assume it's set in Morgan's Gulch, and i can imagine the su...
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