I wish, however, that you
could help me out by actually defining
how you
separate verse from poetry....
...it's certainly not an easy thing to pin
down.
Let me see if I understand this.
This is obviously poetry:
Hope is the thing with feathers
that flutters round the soul...
And the following is verse?
Hope springs eternal from the human breast
Man never is, but always to be, blest.
Hm. What about this:
Fear no more the heat o' the sun,
Nor the furious winter's rages;
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone, and ta'en they wages;
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.
Versus
With rue my heart is laden
For golden friends I had,
For many a rose-lipt maiden
And many a lightfoot lad.
(Thanks, Hugh Kenner)
I think I'm getting it. Poetry:
The nectarine, and curious peach,
Into my hands themselves do reach...
Verse:
I say tomato, you say to-mah-to;
I say potato, you say po-tah-to;
Let's call the whole thing off!
Sometimes you need context. For example
He thought he saw an albatross
That fluttered round the lamp
could be poetry (if hope fluttering around the soul is poetry,
why not?) but read the next couplet, and you can tell it's just
verse:
He looked again and found it was
A penny postage stamp.
Sometimes though you can tell from just one line. For
instance:
Horseman, pass by!
is clearly poetry. But
Worms play pinochle in your snout
is a harder one, a judgment call probably.
Sometimes it is really hard to tell. For example these two little
couplets by I think Oscar Williams:
I
I
Why?
II
We?
Wheee!
Personally, I'd say they are poetry. (Note the economy with which
the first stanza enunciates the existential predicament, and the
second its amelioration.) But what about this:
Hell's bells, another day?
O maman, j'ai sommeil!
I suppose the "Hell's bells" is a giveaway--but
curiously, if the lines didn't rhyme, they would more likely be
poetry.
What about the following a) verse, b) poem (you choose) "by
me"*?
Monday wake up feeling sad;
Tuesday morning very bad.
Wednesday and Thursday stay in bed;
Friday worse, and Saturday dead.
People tell me it's only verse or worse, but to me it's "die
ewige kunst."
Walter Miale
http://survivalversusdoom.net
*This is how the young Clara Wiek identified the
composer of a little number she played for Robert Schumann, at least
in the movie.
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