What the Devil IS Poetry?

Here's a clue to the insuperable difficulty of
defining 'Poetry': five writers have written a bio
of Sylvia Plath but English and Drama Professor
at London University, Jacqueline Rose, finds all of them
seriously deficient, especially in their appraisal of her poetry. Rose states her case stunningly in,
     
            The Haunting of Sylvia Plath
                Harvard Univ. Press 1991

Speaking personally I enjoy 'defining' the poetry fragment,  "...bare ruined choirs where late the sweet birds sang....."  from near the beginning of the beloved Shakespeare sonnet.  Most obviously the poet is describing himself in metaphor, but oh! what a metaphor! By today's age- arithmetic Shakespeare was relatively young when he wrote the sonnet. But no matter, he felt old, and perhaps was losing his hair, and depressed by circumstances. "Ruined choirs" to be the branch of a tree in winter strikes me as magnificently 'Poetic.'  Damn me if I actually know why it thrills me. Could it perhaps be the poet's mingling of pride with sadness? Sweet birds singing represents his poetry in the past when 'singing' was commonplace from others too. In the past when I read this same poem I skimmed by this part happy with the rhythms and nice sentiments, regarding the opening lines as more or less mood music. But great poets aren't really into mood music solo, they pack in more per word than do mere rhymers of nice sentiments.

The sonnet becomes by the end, wooing, and acknowledgment of his lover. The poem was written in a culture in which self-deprecation was applauded, not sneered at as in our present culture here in America,
where self-revelation and modesty are sometimes treated as cowardice and evasion. Think Rap: 'I'm tough, I'm invincible, I'll shoot ya, I'm indestructible, me me me me you aint nothin.'  And, drop me, women swoon?!  God help teachers of English poetry in American schools in the barrio and the hood, or any HS where the majority is aiming for careers outside the arts, and primarily for money.

Barry

"That time of year thou mayest in me behold / When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang / Upon those boughs which shake against the cold / BARE RUINED CHOIRS, WHERE LATE THE SWEET BIRDS SANG. / In me thou see'st the twilight of such day / As after sunset fadeth in the west, / Which by and by black night doth take away , / Death's second self that seals up all the rest. / In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire, / That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, / As the deathbed whereon it must expire, / Consumed with that which it was nourished by. / This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong, / To love that well which thou must leave ere long."

                       -    Shakespeare, 1609

Today, are we, perhaps, satisfied with the 'poetry' of greeting cards? I think so. That's pretty much what's posted on AOL poetry boards and folders, and god help you if you ask for cream in your milk. Our 'Poetry' in all things is diluted: in marriage, sex, agreements, promises, friendships, contracts, aims, aspirations, and even in our hopes and dreams. We settle. I've settled. God help us.

Barry