What Is Poetry? How To Define It?

What is poetry, how to define it, What the base of it? Is poetry a selection of words, Musical and lyrical, Making the music, Calling We are the music-makers? Or, is poetry a presentation Of the best thoughts in the best order? What is it, I understand it not? Poetry is poetry, of the poet’s and of poetry, Poet, poet, poet, poetry, The poet after poetry And poetry in the poets, Just for poetry’s sake, The poets’ sake, The world of poetry and of poets, Away from here, Anything that give you to your time most. Poetry is emotion, feeling and sentiment, Emerging from the heart, Pure poetry, natural poetry, Poetry poetry, Lyrical, loveful and natural, Poetry breaking loose from emotions And you putting down on paper, Your feeling, your emotion, Your sentiment. Poetry meditative, spiritual and metaphysical, This is an advanced stage When you make use of Or something as faith and religion Adds to your art of poetry-writing And it also depends on the poet, His mind and idea, His feeling of the Cosmos and Divinity, The blessings bestowed upon Or seen in the virtues of life, The things of reckoning and rumination. The passion for poetry is good, It contributes and destroys too, The zeal for, A never-ending engagement, An ever-continuing process, Write, wrtie and write, But when the fire, zeal or passion of it Burns you, You think it poetry has come to you. Poetry is painting, Painting in wods and words as symbols, signs and pictures, A poem a painting of a young girl, A portrait of an artist, Caeerist, eventful and aspiring; A paiting of the scenes and landscapes You see, Feel to paint and describe. Poetry is scenes and sights and their penetration, Poetry is sites, Select you the theme of your poetry, Natural scenenry and sights, The grizzled pond heron stalking, The small breed white cow, the white stork and the white lilies Dotting the space somewhere In the marsh, The vulture on a carcass labouring Like one of the tannery. To say it, poetry is ornithology, the science of birds, Bird-watching, House-sparrows dancing, hopping and playing, The blue bird flapping the wings, The dark brown mynahs walking in pairs, The golden orioles singing beautifully, The wild cats passing by And the triblas after to hunt them down brutally, The wooden pigeons purring With the days drawing out at noontime. The bib-big black bats hanging by the leafless cotton tree In spring, But full of big-big red-red flowers, Waiting for the evening to deepen To take their flights, Through measuring wave-lenghts, The shall-small black bats figuring in From the cracks of the walls in houses, Umbrella-ed and webbed, The eyes dotted-dotted. The wild palash trees, shortish-shortish but leafless With the herald of spring, But full of the bloosms in clusters, Hanging by And the blackly cuckoo singing by From them, The melodies breaking, Tuned so nicely, The bird is black, pitch dark, coal black, But the sweetnote is so giftedly divine. Poetry of the flower-gardens and the orchards, The groves and bowers, You lying in a reclined state And the whiffs and wisps coming from, The cool shade to the delight of yours, The wild flowers hanging by Namelessly and attractively, Telling of, What it is in a name, What it seems to be is nothing And nothing is what it seems to be. The hilly rivulet flowing in between, Murmuring and babbling by Through the hills, A brook With the knee-deep water, The highland water resource Trickling down Through a pebbled course, Zigzagged and flowing With the stones and rocks As boulders lying on, On the midway and by the side of. The landscapes solitary-solitary and secluded, An area cut off and in isolation Where the population is very thin, The mud-built hamlets scattered far over The vast stretch of land, Dotting the landscape, Sighted or sightless, With none is there, Nowhere anyone to hear Your call, The cows, goats and sheep grazing In the far off, Just the lulls, tinklings of the bells hinting it. Here and there resting under the trees, I can see The broken bamboo and rope made sling cots, The earthen bowl and pitcher Lying broken With the red flags And ashes and coals And a skull somewhere on the sands Telling of the remains and remnants Of the souls gone by. Poetry as art and architecture, art and craft of making, Making and re-making and building, The things under consctruction, Made from limestone powder clay and baked bricks, From rocks and stones, Chiselled, crafted and modelled into, Clay-shaped, stone-cut statues, Cut to size, The terracotta temples, Small-small, beautiful-beautiful. Poetry as the statues, the statues of Buddha, The Buddhas of peace And they making it far wide In the Far East, Cambodia, Thailand, China and Japan, Sikkim, Tibet, Arunachal, Sri Lanka, The Buddhas of brass, copper, pewter, Silver, gold and clay, Modelling and shaping them beautifully And namelessly, Who the artisans and artistes, How old the art, We know it not? Poetry as an image of the dark daughter Smiling in the hamlets and thorps of India, The sun-burnt earth and parching, Under hot and humid conditions, Eking out a very poor living, Left to the poor destitutes of destiny, What it is in her lot, cannot be blotted, A poor girl living poorly, Malnourished and maltreated, Ill-fed, ill-clothed Passing her days anonymously, Telling a tale of poverty, backwardness and malnourishment, Illiteracy, superstition and underdevelopment.