On Poetry

The sun
Drifted across the sky
Against the wind.
He darted behind the clouds
In and out, in and out, and peeked through them,
Here and there
To shine his light
On the land below
And warm it with his touch.
(I just made that up. It’s crap.)

I disagree that pretty words alone constitute poetry.

Poetry is one or both of either of two things, rhythm or rhyme:

Rhythm but no rhyme:
Of man’s first disobedience and the fruit
Of that forbidden tree whose mortal taste
Brought death into our world and all our woe
With loss of Eden, till one greater man
Restore us, and regain the blissful seat

Rhyme but no rhythm:
Yesterday
All my troubles seemed so far away
Now it looks as though they’re here to stay
Oh, I believe in Yesterday.

Rhythm and rhyme:
Two households, both alike in dignity
In fair Verona where we lay our scene
From ancient grudge break to new mutiny
Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.

I say rhythm and rhyme is the best poetry. Ignoring both is prose with line feeds.

 

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