POETRY

Poetry is a literary form to express feelings and thoughts through out a rythmic written tone.

What determines what is a poem or not a poem is basically the way its written and expressed to the reader. Poems are written in verses which seek to express the emotions or impressions of the world for the author; where it is common to use rhyme and other tools of language. They usually express or evoke emotions, use symbolism, irony, metaphors to let you perceive a meaning. Poems sometimes used assonance, alliteration, and rhythm to achieve musical effects. They are lyrical expressions which hold a stylized narration through writing and this is what it makes them so unique and distingue among stories, books, articles etc.

PABLO NERUDA

(1904-1973) was perhaps the greatest Spanish poet of the 20th century. The poet known as Pablo Neruda was named Neftalí Ricardo Reyes Basoalto at his birth in 1904. He changed his name because his father disapproved of the son's poetic interests. Neruda grew up in southern Chile and in 1921 moved to Santiago and enrolled in college with the intention of preparing himself for a career as an instructor of French. He was first published in 1923. He was universally considered the finest surrealist poetry in Spanish and he always insisted that he was specifically a Latin American Poet. Neruda was awarded the International Peace Prize in 1950, the Stalin Peace Prize in 1953, a Doctorate in Literature from Oxford in 1965, and the Nobel Prize in 1971. He was a diplomat for several years and always involved in politics. Neruda was clearly a prolific writer; He cannot be categorized by a single poetic style. No sooner had he mastered one poetic form or mood than he moved to another. From the sensual and erotic to the hermetic, surrealist, political and the epical. The least that can be said of Neruda is that he was the greatest Spanish poet of the century.

Always by Pablo Neruda

I am not jealous

of what came before me.

Come with a man

on your shoulders,

come with a hundred men in your hair,

come with a thousand men between your breasts and your feet,

come like a river

full of drowned men

which flows down to the wild sea,

to the eternal surf, to Time!

Bring them all

to where I am waiting for you;

we shall always be alone,

we shall always be you and I

alone on earth,

to start our life!

ROBERT PENN WARREN

(1905-1989), American man of letters, was dedicated to art as a way of exploring the meaning of contemporary existence.Writer and poet Robert Penn Warren (1905-1989) was born in Guthrie, Kentucky on April 24, 1905. He twice received the Pulitzer Prize: one for fiction in 1947 and another for poetry in 1958. He was among the most persuasive and reasonable defenses of the South's cultural and social heritage to that date.Robert went to school until he achieved his doctorate in 1930 when his first published. Warren's fiction, usually historically based, considers the implications of man's initiation into awareness of the potential evil in himself and the world. His later verse was more romantic and transcendental, reflecting the influence of American writers. Warren himself appears as the seeker of some solution to universal moral.Warren died of cancer September 15, 1989, in Stratton, Vermont. During his long and respected career, he was the recipient of many awards.

A Way to Love God
by Robert Penn Warren
Here is the shadow of truth, for only the shadow is true. And the line where the incoming swell from the sunset Pacific First leans and staggers to break will tell all you need to know About submarine geography, and your father's death rattle Provides all biographical data required for the Who's Who of the dead. I cannot recall what I started to tell you, but at least I can say how night-long I have lain under the stars and Heard mountains moan in their sleep. By daylight, They remember nothing, and go about their lawful occasions Of not going anywhere except in slow disintegration. At night They remember, however, that there is something they cannot remember. So moan. Theirs is the perfected pain of conscience that Of forgetting the crime, and I hope you have not suffered it. I have. I do not recall what had burdened my tongue, but urge you To think on the slug's white belly, how sick-slick and soft, On the hairiness of stars, silver, silver, while the silence Blows like wind by, and on the sea's virgin bosom unveiled To give suck to the wavering serpent of the moon; and, In the distance, in plaza, piazza, place, platz, and square, Boot heels, like history being born, on cobbles bang. Everything seems an echo of something else. And when, by the hair, the headsman held up the head Of Mary of Scots, the lips kept on moving, But without sound. The lips, They were trying to say something very important. But I had forgotten to mention an upland Of wind-tortured stone white in darkness, and tall, but when No wind, mist gathers, and once on the Sarré at midnight, I watched the sheep huddling. Their eyes Stared into nothingness. In that mist-diffused light their eyes Were stupid and round like the eyes of fat fish in muddy water, Or of a scholar who has lost faith in his calling. Their jaws did not move. Shreds Of dry grass, gray in the gray mist-light, hung From the side of a jaw, unmoving. You would think that nothing would ever again happen. That may be a way to love God.