Poem—the word that debuted in the 15th century from the Middle French Poeme, from the Latin Poema, from Greek, poiema, from poienin.—is a noun, that represents a piece of writing that partakes of the nature both speech and son, and that is usually rhythmical and metaphorical.
Poetry is not turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion, it is not the expression of personality, but an escape from personality. But, of course, only those who have personality and emotions would know what it means to want to escape from these things says T.S.Eliot. how right!
Actually Robert Frost says it right. A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong of wrong, homesickness a love sickness.
by: G.K. Chesterton
WHEN fishes flew and forests walked
And figs grew upon thorn,
Some moment when the moon was blood
Then surely I was born;
With monstrous head and sickening cry
And ears like errant wings,
The devil’s walking parody
On all four-footed things.
The tattered outlaw of the earth,
Of ancient crooked will;
Starve, scourge, deride me: I am dumb,
I keep my secret still.
Fools! For I also had my hour;
One far fierce hour and sweet:
There was a shout about my ears,
And palms before my feet.
What draws me to this particular poem, is that, the donkey which is so ridiculed was the carrier of Christ, from before his death. The only journey where the donkey didn’t carry him was to the cross.
Wickedist poem.(favourite poem by Da Ali G translation.)