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Definition: Poetry is an imaginative awareness of experience expressed through meaning, sound, and rhythmic language choices so as to evoke an emotional

response. Poetry has been known to employ meter and rhyme, but this is by no means necessary. Poetry is an ancient form that has gone through numerous and drastic reinvention over time. The very nature of poetry as an authentic and individual mode of expression makes it nearly impossible to define. Ancient Philippine poetry Ancient Filipino poetry is an extension of earlier cultures of Southeast Asia, having a common MalayoPolynesian cultural source. - Themes sprang from sources close to religious and political organizations as well as personal relationships and social institutions. As such, themes were basically religious (in praise and invocation of the gods), heroic (war songs, songs of praise for warriors' prowess, epics), lyric (love songs and poems, lullabyes), and didactic (riddles, maxims). - Highland poetry were composed mostly of epic and religious themes. It also celebrates their day-to-day experience with nature and their society. Two important epics are worthy of note - Hudhud and Alim - Muslim-Filipino Literature is influenced by Arabic and Hindu cultures while keeping its Sanskrit base. It is predominantly composed of Maranao narrative poetry, known as darangan. It consists of 25 epic tales revolving one great hero named Bantugan. Features of ancient Philippine poetry Stories of epics, done in poetry displayed tremendous vitality, color and imagination. Tales of love and adventures about native heroes, endowed with powers from the gods, battle monsters, and triumphs over formidable armies, rode the wind, traveled in flying shields and protect the earliest communities of the islands.

Miultimo adios "My Last Farewell" Farewell, my adored Land, region of the sun caressed, Pearl of the Orient Sea, our Eden lost, With gladness I give you my Life, sad and repressed; And were it more brilliant, more fresh and at its best, I would still give it to you for your welfare at most. On the fields of battle, in the fury of fight, Others give you their lives without pain or hesitancy, The place does not matter: cypress laurel, lily white, Scaffold, open field, conflict or martyrdom's site, It is the same if asked by home and Country. I die as I see tints on the sky b'gin to show And at last announce the day, after a gloomy night; If you need a hue to dye your matutinal glow, Pour my blood and at the right moment spread it so, And gild it with a reflection of your nascent light! My dreams, when scarcely a lad adolescent, My dreams when already a youth, full of vigor to attain, Were to see you, gem of the sea of the Orient, Your dark eyes dry, smooth brow held to a high plane Without frown, without wrinkles and of shame without stain. My life's fancy, my ardent, passionate desire, Hail! Cries out the soul to you, that will soon part from thee; Hail! How sweet 'tis to fall that fullness you may acquire; To die to give you life, 'neath your skies to expire, And in your mystic land to sleep through eternity ! If over my tomb some day, you would see blow, A simple humble flow'r amidst thick grasses,

Bring it up to your lips and kiss my soul so, And under the cold tomb, I may feel on my brow, Warmth of your breath, a whiff of your tenderness. Let the moon with soft, gentle light me descry, Let the dawn send forth its fleeting, brilliant light, In murmurs grave allow the wind to sigh, And should a bird descend on my cross and alight, Let the bird intone a song of peace o'er my site. Let the burning sun the raindrops vaporize And with my clamor behind return pure to the sky; Let a friend shed tears over my early demise; And on quiet afternoons when one prays for me on high, Pray too, oh, my Motherland, that in God may rest I. Pray thee for all the hapless who have died, For all those who unequalled torments have undergone; For our poor mothers who in bitterness have cried; For orphans, widows and captives to tortures were shied, And pray too that you may see you own redemption. And when the dark night wraps the cemet'ry And only the dead to vigil there are left alone, Don't disturb their repose, don't disturb the mystery: If you hear the sounds of cithern or psaltery, It is I, dear Country, who, a song t'you intone. And when my grave by all is no more remembered, With neither cross nor stone to mark its place, Let it be plowed by man, with spade let it be scattered And my ashes ere to nothingness are restored, Let them turn to dust to cover your earthly space.

Then it doesn't matter that you should forget me: Your atmosphere, your skies, your vales I'll sweep; Vibrant and clear note to your ears I shall be: Aroma, light, hues, murmur, song, moanings deep, Constantly repeating the essence of the faith I keep. My idolized Country, for whom I most gravely pine, Dear Philippines, to my last goodbye, oh, harken There I leave all: my parents, loves of mine, I'll go where there are no slaves, tyrants or hangmen Where faith does not kill and where God alone does reign. Farewell, parents, brothers, beloved by me, Friends of my childhood, in the home distressed; Give thanks that now I rest from the wearisome day; Farewell, sweet stranger, my friend, who brightened my way; Farewell, to all I love. To die is to rest. Allegorical Quatrains Bienvinido Lumbera Alas for me, my friend, Solitary is the peace of thread: Once it snaps at the bobbin, It ends up tangled in the heddlerod Though the hill be high And reach up to the highland, Being desirous of heights It will finally be reduced to discern. When one submits to a wound, He does not feel the pain; To one who resists it? A mere scratch become a sole, I'm the fish the size of the "sap sap" No wider than a barnade; But I'm creating quite stir Because I'm swimming around With a Big "apahap"

'No greater love than yours' Nicanor Tiongson There is no greater love than yours, O Most Sacred Heart, so we, the Filipino people, offer you our hearts. In our temples and in our homes, we cry out to you. May your kingdom stand firm from Aparri to Jolo. Long we have hoped for Your Empire in the East. Like the sun burning bright is the faith of the Philippines, It stands strong like a rock and fills all void like the sea. Never shall these islands be possessed by sin, for on our mountains is raised your heavenly sign and the gates of Hell shall not prevail. The Storm Theodore Roethke Against the stone breakwater, Only an ominous lapping, While the wind whines overhead, Coming down from the mountain, Whistling between the arbors, the winding terraces; A thin whine of wires, a rattling and flapping of leaves, And the small street-lamp swinging and slamming against the lamp pole. Where have the people gone?There is one light on the mountain. 2 Along the sea-wall, a steady sloshing of the swell, The waves not yet high, but even, Coming closer and closer upon

each other; A fine fume of rain driving in from the sea, Riddling the sand, like a wide spray of buckshot, The wind from the sea and the wind from the mountain contending, Flicking the foam from the whitecaps straight upward into the darkness. A time to go home!-And a child's dirty shift billows upward out of an alley, A cat runs from the wind as we do, Between the whitening trees, up Santa Lucia, Where the heavy door unlocks, And our breath comes more easy-Then a crack of thunder, and the black rain runs over us, over The flat-roofed houses, coming down in gusts, beating The walls, the slatted windows, driving The last watcher indoors, moving the cardplayers closer To their cards, their anisette. 3 We creep to our bed, and its straw mattress. We wait; we listen. The storm lulls off, then redoubles, Bending the trees half-way down to the ground, Shaking loose the last wizened oranges in the orchard, Flattening the limber carnations. A spider eases himself down from a swaying light-bulb, Running over the coverlet, down under the iron bedstead. Water roars into the cistern.

We lie closer on the gritty pillow, Breathing heavily, hoping-For the great last leap of the wave over the breakwater, The flat boom on the beach of the towering sea-swell, The sudden shudder as the jutting sea-cliff collapses, And the hurricane drives the dead straw into the living pinetree. Summer Song Summer long I'll sing to you my summer song Read a poem A summer song It isn't long It's just a song From my heart a poem long but not at all my summer song My summer long is something special a poem, a song to my heart belong Summer breeze summer long I'll sing to you my summer song Planting Rice Planting rice is never fun, bending over 'til the set of sun. Cannot sit, cannot stand, Plant the seedlings all by hand. Planting rice is not fun, Bending over 'til the set of sun. Cannot sit and cannot stand, Plant the seedlings all by hand.

There are lions and roaring tigers, And enormous camels and things, There are biffalo-buffalo-bisons, And a great big bear with wings. Theres a sort of a tiny potamus, And a tiny nosserus too But I gave buns to the elephant When I went down to the Zoo! These lines are the first verse of At the Zoo, a poem by A. A. Milne. Milne also wrote the Winnie-the-Pooh stories. What makes this poetry? WHAT MAKES A POEM? Any imaginative writing arranged in a pattern of lines may be a poem. The lines often rhyme, but not always. Most poems also have rhythm. And they use words in ways that get you to notice and feel things in a special way. We usually divide poetry into two main types: narrative poems and lyric poems. Narrative poems tell a story. One of the oldest kinds of narrative poem is the epic. An epic is a long verse tale that usually tells about a hero and the adventures of the hero. Lyric poems suggest an emotion or feeling. They are usually shorter than narrative poems. The Japanese haiku is a kind of lyric poem. It is only 17 syllables long. FEATURES OF POETRY Lets look at At the Zoo. What features of poetry does it have? At the Zoo has rhyme. Rhyme is the repeating of sounds at the end of words. Youll notice that the words at the end of lines two and fourthings and wingsrhyme. Lines six and eight, ending in too and zoo, also rhyme. The odd-numbered lines in the poem do not rhyme. This is one of many patterns of rhyme that poets may use. Perhaps you have noticed the rhythm of the lines. They have a beat, almost like music. The rhythm, or beat, of the lines in this poem is one-two-three (There are li-), one-two-three (-ons and roar-). Do you notice that you put an emphasis on every third syllable? Some words in a line begin with the same sound: biffalo-buffalo-bisons. This kind of repetition of sound adds to the music of a poem. So do words that sound like what they mean, such as roaring. Apart from these details, At the Zoo creates a feeling. It suggests a happy young child. There are mispronounced words like potamus and nosserus. There are fanciful images like a bear with wings. These features create the mood of the poem. MOOD AND IMAGERY Here is part of a poem with a different mood. Its the beginning of The Raven by American writer Edgar Allan Poe. Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

What kind of mood does Poe create with images like midnight dreary and forgotten lore? Isnt it mysterious and lonely? Can you find some repeated sounds? We dont even need to understand the words of a poem to enjoy it. Lewis Carroll, the author of Alice in Wonderland, sometimes wrote nonsense verse, like Jabberwocky. Heres how Jabberwocky begins: Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimbel in the wabe: All mimsy were the borogroves, And the mome raths outgrabe. It has rhyme and rhythm. And like all good poetry, it asks our imaginations to do some work. Carroll made up the words in this poem, but they sound almost like real words. What do you think a brillig day is like? Can you imagine a slithy tove? Can you picture the tove as it gyres and gimbels?