What is Poetry? by luckykey


									What is Poetry ?

Poetry is a short peace of imaginative writing, of a personal nature and laid out in lines.
We can say that poetry is a responsible attempt to understand the world in human terms
through literary composition. Poetry is an art form in which human language is used for
its aesthetic qualities in addition to, or instead of, its notional and semantic content. It
consists largely of oral or literary works in which language is used in a manner that is felt
by its user and audience to differ from ordinary prose. It may use condensed or
compressed form to convey emotion or ideas to the reader's or listener's mind or ear; it
may also use devices such as assonance and repetition to achieve musical or incantatory
effects. Poems frequently rely for their effect on imagery, word association, and the
musical qualities of the language used. The interactive layering of all these effects to
generate meaning is what marks poetry. Poetry is a natural part of our lives. It's not just
something we have to memorize and recite in front of the class. Losing ourselves in a
poem is one of the best ways of finding out who we are. The act of writing brings us to
that point of discovery, of discovering on the page something we didn't know we knew
until we wrote it. Poetry has long been part of the lore and history of cultures around the
world. But as information has become more readily available and more disposable, more
and more people find poetry difficult not only to write, but also to understand. While it
has retained its importance as an art form, it has consequently become undervalued as an
effective form of communication and expression of true emotion. Indeed, in many circles,
poetry is viewed as a tacky and unnecessary form of communication created by few and
enjoyed by fewer. But what really makes poetry difficult for many people to enjoy and
understand has less to do with poetry’s perceived value and more to do with how people
receive information today.

Why poetry consider difficult to understand compared with prose or
drama ?

Individuals have considered poetry difficult for as long as it has been around in societies,
but in the past, people tended to value poetry because of its complexity rather than
shunning it. The fact that they found poetry difficult meant that the words themselves
carried weight heavy enough to contain meanings they themselves could not otherwise
express. This may be why the love poem became so popular: people sought to express
their love and felt their love transcended the very word, so they found poetry and its
intricate and complex construction. This became symbolic of their emotion. It is very
different while we enjoy prose or drama. It will be more understood for us than poetry
because prose or drama seems like a story. It do not use the difficult words to express the
emotions it’s writer. It is happened because poetry be the most compressed form of

by George Herbert

Love bade me welcome; yet my soul drew back,
                     Guilty of dust and sin.
But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack
                      From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning,
                      If I lacked anything.
'A guest', I answered, 'worthy to be here.'
                      Love said, 'You shall be he.'
'I, the unkind, ungrateful? Ah, my dear,
                      I cannot look at thee.'
Love took my hand, and smiling did reply,
                      'Who made the eyes but I?'
'Truth, Lord, but I have marred them; let my shame
                       Go where it doth deserve.'
'And know you not', says Love, 'who bore the blame?'
                       'My dear, then I will serve.'
'You must sit down', says Love, 'and taste my meat.'
                              So I did sit and eat.

To Autumn

by John Keats

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness!
 Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
 With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the mossed cottage trees,
 And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
   To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
 And still more, later flowers for the bees,
 Until they think warm days will never cease,
   For Summer has o'erbrimmed their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
 Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
 Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind,
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,
 Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
   Spares the next swath and all its twinèd flowers;
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
 Steady thy laden head across a brook;
 Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
   Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
 Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, -
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
 And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
 Among the river sallows, borne aloft
   Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
 Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
 The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft;
   And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

Humming Bird

by D.H. Lawrence

I can imagine, in some otherworld
Primeval-dumb, far back
In that most awful stillness, that only gasped and hummed,
Humming-birds raced down the avenues.

Before anything had a soul,
While life was a heave of Matter, half inanimate,
This little bit chipped off in brilliance
And went whizzing through the slow, vast, succulent stems.

I believe there were no flowers, then,
In the world where the humming-bird flashed ahead of creation.
I believe he pierced the slow vegetable veins with his long beak.

Probably he was big
As mosses, and little lizards, they say were once big.
Probably he was a jabbing, terrifying monster.
We look at him through the wrong end of the long telescope of Time,
Luckily for us.
Anthem for Doomed Youth

by Wilfred Owen

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle ?
 Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles’ rapid rattle
 Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them ; no prayers nor bells,
 Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs, ?
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells ;
 And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
What candles may be held to speed them all ?
 Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
 Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes.
The pallor of girls’ brows shall be their pall ;
 Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
 And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

by Christina Rossetti

Remember me when I am gone away,
  Gone far away into the silent land;
  When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more day by day
  You tell me of our future that you planned:
  Only remember me; you understand
It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while
  And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
  For if the darkness and corruption leave
  A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
  Than that you should remember and be sad.

           Disusun untuk memenuhi tugas :

                  Dosen Pengampu :
              Tri Rini Widiarti, M.Hum.

                   Disusun oleh :
          Hana Indah Nugrahani (07004381)


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