POETRY
Poetry is a form of literature that uses aesthetic and
often rythmic qualities of language . A poem is a literary
compostion written by a poet using this principle.
Poetry has a long and varied history evolving differentially
across the globe. It dates back at least to prehistoric times with
hunting poetry in Africa and poetry of the empires of the Nile
and Niger river valleys.
Ancient Greek attempts to define poetry, such
as Aristotele's ,Poetics focused on the uses
of speech in rhetoric, drama, song, and comedy. Later attempts
concentrated on features such as repetition ,verse form
and rhyme, and emphasized the aesthetics which distinguish
poetry from more objectively-informative writing.
Poetry uses forms and conventions to suggest
differential interpretations of words, or to
evoke emotive responses.
Some poetry types are unique to particular cultures
and genres and respond to characteristics of the language in
which the poet writes.
Poets as, from the greek, "makers" of language – have
contributed to the evolution of the linguistic, expressive, and
utilitarian qualities of their
languages. In an increasingly globalized world, poets often
adapt forms, styles, and techniques from diverse cultures and
languages.
WHY ME?
If you have to ask Why me?
When you're feeling really blue,
When the world has turned against you
And you don't know what to do,
When it pours colossal raindrops
And the road's a winding mess,
And you're feeling more confused
Than you ever could express,
When the saddened sun won't shine,
When the stars will not align,
When you'd rather be Inside your bed,
The covers pulled Above your head,
When life is something
That you dread
And you have to ask Why me?...
Then when the world seems right and true, When rain
has left a gentle dew, When you feel happy being you,
Please ask yourself Why me?, then too.
ONE ART (ELIZABETH BISHOP)
The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.
Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.
I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.
I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.
Even losing you (the joking voice,a gesture love )
I shan’t have lied. It’s evident the art of losing’s not too hard to
master though it ma y look like (Write it!) like
disaster.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
Sonnet 18
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely
and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds
of May, And summer’s lease hath all too short a date: Sometime
too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion
dimm’d; And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance, or
nature’s changing course, untrimm’d; But thy eternal summer
shall not fade, Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest; Nor
shall Death brag thou wander’st in his shade, When in eternal
lines to time thou growest; So long as men can breathe, or eyes
can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
Sonnet 17
Who will believe my verse in time to come,
If it were filled with your most high deserts?
Though yet heaven knows it is but as a tomb
Which hides your life, and shows not half your parts.
If I could write the beauty of your eyes,
And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
The age to come would say ‘This poet lies;
Such heavenly touches ne’er touched earthly faces.’
So should my papers, yellowed with their age,
Be scorned, like old men of less truth than tongue,
And your true rights be termed a poet’s rage
And stretched metre of an antique song:
But were some child of yours alive that time,
You should live twice, in it, and in my rhyme.
You may write me down in history
DEAR MARCH COME IN (EMILY DICKINSON )
How glad I am—
I hoped for you before—
Put down your Hat—
You must have walked—
How out of Breath you are—
Dear March, how are you, and the Rest—
Did you leave Nature well—
Oh March, Come right upstairs with me—
I have so much to tell—
I got your Letter, and the Birds—
The Maples never knew that you were coming—
I declare – how Red their Faces grew—
But March, forgive me—
And all those Hills you left for me to Hue—
There was no Purple suitable—
You took it all with you—
Who knocks? That April—
Lock the Door—
I will not be pursued—
He stayed away a Year to call
When I am occupied—
But trifles look so trivial
As soon as you have come
That blame is just as dear as Praise
And Praise as mere as Blame
