I saw my  level path turn steep and dark
I saw a tunnel black without a  light
I hesitated wondering  how to stop
But seemed intent on  death,on sudden flight.

 

No human being held out their warm hand
They left me all  alone in anguished pain
Yet how should I in that state right decide
What was best for me, what made a claim?

The golden warmth  like clouds from rising sun
Wrapped me all around till we were one
There was no speech ,no person and no blame
No demand, no order, love remained.

Beyond despair I found this unknown care.
A sheet of tears ran down my poor face  bare.

of

Dear Sir,I   must report
That while I was asleeping
On your aeroplane today
My bra was stolen  off  of me
Tell me how it was done.
I had   three jumpers on top.
Thankful, my pants are  still here
Is this a brand new crime?
I know I am  quite obese
But is that a good excuse
For these criminal folk
The bra snatchers of Aer Clingus?
I am afraid to go home
My husband thinks I am a tart
He’ll want more  and more cream
It cost me £39.99 on Amazon Prime
Your enraged customer as was
Mrs  M.Muppet Ph,D [Oxen] .B.A  { Pigs] M.Sc [LSD/E ]  D.Phil [Temporary]

The bones, the shape, the structure all are one
On that  form , we hang our little words.
Destroy the shape  and all  my poem is gone

The structure gives us something to lean on
To aid  creation , to make meaning shared
The bones, the shape, the structure all are one

Inflexibility is death, not fun
We fly upon the breezes as do birds
Negate that fact  and all real life is gone

Vulnerable to pain and hunter’s gun
We must not  live as  if all change is barred
The life, the shape, the structure come to one

Here and there we  drop a hint or pun
Into the patient hand we  drop wild cards
Negate that deed  and all real life is gone

 

Whose the heart by metal  strips destroyed?
What will be the outcome  what the buoy?
The bones, the shape, the structure all are one
Destroy the shape  and all  my poem is gone

 

 

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/articles/89288/why-write-in-form

EXTRACT:

In poetry, one of the best ways to practice technique is to write in traditional forms. But for many writers—and I’ve been guilty of this as well—this notion can elicit not just avoidance but also outright opposition. It’s easy enough to look at the current literary landscape and say there’s no point to practicing these old forms. Most journals don’t seem interested in publishing formal poetry, and though there are some fantastic poets working in form today, they are in the minority. Even when there is a resurgence of interest in form (such as New Formalism), it’s seen as an outlier, even reactionary.

Perhaps some of this opposition stems from a common misconception. Unlike other arts—and perhaps even other forms of writing—readers and writers alike often associate poetry with feeling, not technique. Part of this may stem from a misunderstanding of William Wordsworth’s famous definition of poetry, in which he begins, “Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings. …” His wording encourages a reading in which poetry simply occurs and does so uncontrollably. If this is the part of the quotation that sticks with you, it’s no surprise that you might associate poetry more with emotional intensity and less with the how of its conveyance. But in the second half of that quotation, Wordsworth tempers his original statement: “… it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility.” Those unexpected and powerful feelings are actually being observed at a calming distance from that emotion.