We explain what poetry is, what types exist and examples. In addition, the difference between poetry and poem and examples of poetic resources.

What is poetry?

Poetry is a literary genre written in verse or prose characterized by expressing ideas, feelings and stories aesthetically and beautifully poetic resources with which he expands language borders.

The gifts and talents of poetry writers are recognized by the subtle word choices and use of metaphor and rhyme that lend musicality to the works. The most popular ones touch on themes related to love and romance, battle and heroism, and the traditions of a people.

The tremendous ancient cultures developed different and particular poetic styles, such as the haikus in Japan or the ode in Greece, which were usually written in verse and gave importance to the use of meter or rhyme. At the beginning of the 20th century, an avant-garde current developed that expanded the dimensions of poetry, incorporating free verse and new mechanisms and ways of relating to language.

Characteristics of poetry

It is a literary genre.
It can be written in verse or prose.
It uses poetic devices.
It deals with any topic.
It can lend itself to multiple interpretations.
It manifests itself in the poem.
It can have a meter and rhyme.
It was changing over time.
It uses subjective descriptions.

Types of poetry

According to its content, poetry is classified into:

  • Epic poetry. It narrates past events, actual or not, related to the feats of heroes; some of its subgenres are epics or epics. For example, The Aeneid, by Virgil or The Odyssey, by Homer.
  • Lyric poetry. Express thoughts or deep feelings. In ancient times, poems used to be recited accompanied by the lyre (string instrument). For example, Ode to Aphrodite, by Sappho.
  • Dramatic poetry. It narrates events and includes the interaction of the characters through the use of dialogue. For example, The is the Comedy, by DntDanteighieri.

examples of poems

Rima XXI, by Gustavo Adolfo Becquer.
What is poetry? You say while nailing
in my pupil, your blue pupil.
What is poetry? Are you asking me that?
You are poetry.
I grow a white rose, by José Martí.
Cultivate a white rose
in June, like January
For the honest friend
who gives me his free hand.
And for the cruel one who rips me
the heart with which I live,
Thistle or nettle cultivation;
I grow the white rose.
The Pure No, by Oliverio Girondo.
He does not
the non-inoculums
the unborn
the noo
the non-postlodocosm of impure zeros is not that noan noan noan
and noon
and surimono loan to the amorphous morbidity noo
let’s not give
no deo
without son without sex or orbit
the bone graft is not in a single module
no pores, no nodules
neither me nor grave nor hole
the macro is not even dust
the no more nothing, everything
the pure does not
without no
Peace, by Alfonsina Storni.
We go to the trees…the dream
It will be done in us by divine virtue.
We go to the trees; the night.
It will be soft for us, the light sadness. We go to the trees, the soul
Numb with a wild perfume.
But keep quiet, don’t speak, be pious;
Don’t wake the sleeping birds.
It’s true, by Federico García Lorca.
Oh, what a job it costs me
love you as I love you!
For your love, the air hurts,
the heart
and the hat.
who would buy from me
this headband that I have
and this thread sadness
white, to make handkerchiefs?
Oh, what a job it costs me
love you as I love you!
Early morning, by Octavio Paz.
quick cold hands
remove one by one
the blindfolds of the shadow
I open my eyes
I am alive
in the middle
of a still-fresh wound
Rama, by Pablo Neruda.
A branch of aroma, of mimosa,
fragrant sun of numb winter,
I bought it at the Valparaíso fair
and I continued with the smell and with the aroma
to Isla Negra. We crossed the fog,
bare fields, hard thorns,
cold lands of Chile:
(under the purple sky
the dead road). The world would be bitter
on the winter journey, in the endless,
in the uninhabited twilight,
if you didn’t accompany me every time,
every always,
the core simplicity
of a yellow branch.
Just a name, by Alejandra Pizarnik.
Alexandra Alexandra
below is me
It’s so tiny, by Mario Benedetti.
what you know
it’s so little
what you know about me
what you know
they are my clouds
are my silences
are my gestures
what you know
it is sadness
of my house seen from outside
They are the shutters of my sadness
the caller of my sadness. But you don’t know
at most
you think sometimes
that is so little
what I know
of you
what I know
that is, your clouds
or your silences
or your gestures
what I know
it is sadness
of your house seen from outside
are the shutters of your sadness
the caller of your sorrow.
But you don’t call.
But I don’t call.
I write, I think; I read… by Idea Vilariño.
I write
I think
I translate twenty pages
I hear the news
I write
I write
Where are you
where are you

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