The widdle on the sands, a war time missed take of a film about food
Caught between the devil and a deeply rooted tree,she submitted with resignation.Then she got a job in the swivel circus which paid as well but men never let her moan.
His mark is worse than  blight.
After marriage, they made love lightly in full colour.
When in doubt,play with trout.
Curiousity thrilled our chatterboxes.
Gossip makes me shy with horror.
I have a deep sense of shame about being a wife and livewire.
Why does cricket seem so monocular?

When was Britain so trite?
We once believed we owned half the world but was it the top or bottom?
We have nothing to fear except leering elves.

I am writing this before reading what others think about the topic.so as  not to copy.
There is no simple answer  to this questionbut on the whole it is not. for me.However poetry is not mathematics and is to a large extent written from a place of deep feeling within;an event, a memory, a sentence,the vision of a sad person in the street… all these can touch the heart.And of course it is not possible to write without some feeling,unless you want to be a postmodern poet akin to th musician writing “60 Seconds” or the artist exhibiting a lavatory bowl.
The  writing in progress  seems to have its own life and demands;furthermore the form the writer chooses will affect what can be contained within it.So although the initial feeling may be based on the writer’s life,the development is not.
Many other things help to create the work;the context of the life of the poet,the culture they came from and now live in,whether they are male or/and female,their reading and education…their interaction with other poets in reading or listening,their loves and hates.Their broader reading and conversations
But it’s a mistake to take poetry as straightforward sharing of someone’s life.Somehow it can seem just as mysterious to the writer as to the reader.Yet poetry has an imprint and it’s easy when one has a bit read to tell Hopkins from Hardy,or Auden from Spender.
It’s a bit like handwriting…we have our unique patterns which is intriguing as we were taught the same way [though now teaching joined up writing is dying out,which says a lot about our culture… if one can call it culture nowadays].

I am not cynical and have much hope for the future.

When true love’s gone and doom hangs over head

When life runs like a river to the sea

Then shall I take new lovers to my bed?

And with their carnal touch consoled be?

When my love lies,so breaks my  tender heart.

When life seems grey and rocks bestrew my path.

Then, shall I my life of evil start?

And on the world shall I bestow my wrath?

When true love lies and wrecks all loyalty.

When puzzlement makes all my world seem mad.

Then I shall upend causality

And let myself do deeds which make me glad.

For I have love’s sweet child inside my soul

And I shall tend her till at last she’s whole

Read more at: http://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/when_true_loves_gone_543974

In the land which dreams dwell in

where love and joy and woe begin;

where swiftly the deep rivers flow

from those lost lands of long ago.

I wander through wild poppy fields

Underfoot the dark earth yields….

I see the flowering fruit trees start

Their blossoms gather round my heart…

I hear the sparrows sing with joy

And bees their busy wings employ

. In those lost lands I saw your face

And now I long for your embrace.

Are you real,am I deceived?

From this earth we all must leave

. Earth to earth and ash to ash

Glory,pride and boasting pass.

Leave me now,my dearest one

Soon I too will be called on.

Nothing lasts but truth is real

Keep the truth and your ideals..

Earth to earth, we rest in clay

We must give all self away

Softly on this earth I roam

Seeking still my own true home,

for until the very end

grace and love may  still descend.

Soft as wings of butterflies

Tears well up and wet my eyes.

My heart has melted into yours

Thus we grow and die like flowers