Poetry is sententious.

They got it.

My six-year-old doesn’t like poetry unless it rhymes or is sententious. He tends to prefer cheerful rhythm & rhyme. I don’t blame him.

Sandburg has some nice definitions of poetry, as has Paz. And many others.

Poetry is an utterance made by someone who is aware of the history and/or culture of poetry and who intends the utterance to be recognized and received as a poem in that history and/or culture. The utterance can be visual or oral, or signed visually or tactilely. Poetry serves a cultural and/or aesthetic function for anybody who desires it.

Some say that poems are made of words, but I don’t trust ‘em — poems can be made of sounds or silences, letters or numbers or marks, gestures. I don’t particularly trust words anyway — in phrases I trust. Except when . . . except when . . .

I wouldn’t try to define poetry to a six year old. Give examples, not definitions.

Same with baseball. Watch it; play it with the kid if possible; don’t explain it without examples in hand.
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Ride a cock horse to Banbury cross
to see a fine lady on a white horse.
With rings on her fingers and bells on her toes
she shall have music wherever she goes.

And that, my dear, is poetry.

Terreson
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(maybe) poetry can’t be defined because it exists in a place where definition is made (and broken).

(or that poetry is what defines and therefore isn’t definable)

or it is just something silly people do

or it’s a “if you have to ask you’ll never know” type of thing…
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poetry’s what God made mummy
and daddy with little blossom,
heart warming child of two
people who made you, lightly

lilting the swing in a voice
you can hear it in your tummy
where kittens come from, who
stay warm in the basket, yoy
stop pulling ears offa bunny
and hitting your sister, you
little horror, poetry monster
lilting in your ear, whisper
for to be horrid ‘n naughty
hit your brother, hurt, kick
your mother and father for
not giving you enough cash
to spend in the mall, pack
it in now – ow, arghh, ha ha
ha, poetry silly, only make
beleive, Reality dearest one
glimmer, cuisle the very
heartbeat and essence of all
here before us, poetry is
love and peace, hate and war,
the music of what happens
here in the now of it all
life lullaby baby, sleep now.
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“vast, mighty draughts of death-spells
in active voice, in passive silence, in the neutral balance between,
in the proper construction of rhyme,
in this way it narrates the path and function of my cauldron.”

Reality happening in musical wrapping,
a stray note stolen and put in the cauldron
of motion “which bestows the merit of every art,
through which treasure increases,
which magnifies every common artisan,
which builds up a person through their gift.”

This is 8% of the total word count in an untitled 7C text first translated in 1983 from Old Irish and needing no title because it (with the other 92%) was the first text given to the focloc on their first day at singing school.

“It is greater than every domain
it is better than every inheritance,
it brings one to knowledge
adventuring away from ignorance.”
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The challenge is in doing this without losing the adults’ attention.
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“Twinkle, twinkle little star,
how I wonder what you are.”
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Zach, it occurs to me that if we presented your ‘definition’ to teenagers, we could build a huge audience for poetry.
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Galen, I wasn’t aware of that link! Thanks for it, though it probably renders this thread somewhat irrelevant. Still, those who haven’t posted a definition are encouraged to do so here….
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Read the answers here: http://herecomeseverybody.blogspot.com
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