http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/books/poetryandplaybookreviews/9020436/How-poetry-can-change-lives.html

http://www.worldliteraturetoday.org/2013/september/what-use-poetry-meena-alexander

 Extract

Poetry takes as its purview what is deeply felt and is essentially unsayable; that is the paradox on which the poem necessarily turns. A poet uses language as a painter uses color, a primary material out of which to make art. But language that is used all the time and all around us—in sound bites, advertisements, political rhetoric, newsprint—needs to be rinsed free so that it can be used as the stuff of art.

The poem in its act of meaning-making turns away from the literal, its truth bound to what can be evoked. And evocation is sparked by memory. Abhinavagupta (ca. 950–1020 ce) realized this clearly. In his reflections, he writes of how poetry—far from dealing with the literal—reaches into what lies in memory, in memory fragments. It is in this way that rasa, the quick of aesthetic pleasure, is reached:

Satire

Function of Satire

The role of satire is to ridicule or criticize those vices in the society, which the writer considers a threat to civilization. The writer considers it his obligation to expose these vices for the betterment of humanity. Therefore, the function of satire is not to make others laugh at persons or ideas they make fun of. It intends to warn the public and to change their opinions about the prevailing corruption/conditions in society.

When I saw what a triolet was I didn’t think it  would be very expressive or useful.But after writing a few I began to get a feel for it in this one below so I am really pleased with the form.The song-like quality appeals to me too.I have changed some of the lines so the copies are not exact.In this triolet, that fitted very well when I changed speaker to listener

As we loved

http://niallosullivan.co.uk/index/?p=908

https://www.theguardian.com/books/2016/aug/20/helen-dunmore-my-writing-day

De witte geranium was een verjaardagscadeau
Het bloeide uitbundig alle vorige zomer lang
Als de winter kwam, ik verborg het in de heg
Op hem en zijn geliefde leven te verlengen beschermen

In het voorjaar nam ik het uit om het ruimte te geven.
Reeds bloemen waren zichtbaar en groot
En zo leefde op mijn patio stappen
Ik hoopte dat veel knoppen snel zou ontstaan

Mijn ogen waren ingesteld op een andere wereld
Ik keek niet naar het voor zeven weken
Dezelfde grote bloemen waren nog er zijn op zoek grijs
Eindelijk, besefte ik mijn gedachten had geslapen

Ik raapte het op te trekken uit de pot
Het brak in tweeën; het was de mens gemaakt, oh dwaas!
Toch is voor een heel jaar, had het me bedrogen;
Alsof ik aanzag tin voor kostbare juwelen.

Oh, afwezige geest; oh wreed verwarde blik.
Oh, vrouw blind; hoe dwaas waren mijn dagen

Il geranio bianco era un regalo di compleanno
E ‘fiorito abbondantemente tutta la scorsa lunga estate
Quando venne l’inverno, ho nascosto nella siepe
Per proteggerlo e la sua prolungare la vita cara

In primavera l’ho tirato fuori per dargli spazio.
Già fiori erano visibili e grandi
E così è vissuto sulle mie passi patio
Speravo che molte gemme sarebbero presto emergere

I miei occhi sono stati fissati su di un altro mondo
Io non guardo per sette settimane
Le stesse grandi fiori erano ancora arrivati alla ricerca grigio
Alla fine, ho capito la mia mente stava dormendo

L’ho preso per tirarlo dalla pentola
Si è rotto a metà; si è fatto uomo, oh ingannare!
Eppure, per un intero anno, mi aveva ingannato;
Come se ho scambiato stagno per gioielli preziosi.

Oh, la mente assente; oh crudelmente confusa sguardo.
Oh, cieca, e come insensato sono stati i miei giorn

My mother was given to fainting
Whenever I did any painting
So instead I  got writing
Quite out of her sighting
In case  any of my words should be tainting

My father was oblivious to all
After he had  his great fall
He died on a Sunday
Got buried on Monday
Since then we ain’t had any calls

My mother then got a grey cat
As she wept, it  would sit on her lap.
She asked the new curate
If he would baptise it
But he said :No, for   the cat is   too fat.

I studied the Old and the New
The Bible had nothing on view
Does God love  the thin more?
Are the fat such an eyesore?
I bit off the end of a pew.

Wood is quite hard to digest
And causes internal unrest.
But I had to express
My  fatal duress
Later,no doubt,I’d confess.

Most of us know quite a lot about using the Web.This article has some interesting links at the end.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/webwise/0/22562913

http://literarydevices.net/alliteration

 See the flying French depart
Like the bees of Bonaparte,
Swarming up with a most venomous vitality.
Over Baden and Bavaria,
And Brighton and Bulgaria,
Thus violating Belgian neutrality.

And the injured Prussian may
Not unreasonably say
"Why, it cannot be so small a nationality
Since Brixton and Batavia,
Bolivia and Belgravia,
Are bursting with the Belgian neutrality.
"

By pure Alliteration
You may trace this curious nation,
And respect this somewhat scattered Principality;
When you see a B in Both
You may take your Bible oath
You are violating Belgian neutrality.

http://nybookeditors.com/2015/02/poetry/

He had a mobile face with rubber skin
I guess he loved me   before I   did love  him
Like proofs in mathematics wear minds thin
And doctrines of religion make us sin
He made me laugh   and Q.E.D we’re kin.
He touched me deeply where our souls begin
He had a mobile face with rubber skin
He loved me , and soon  I  did love him

http://www.poemofquotes.com/alfredtennyson/ulysses.php

Ulysses
BY ALFRED TENNYSON

It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Matched with and aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.
I cannot rest from travel: I will drink
Life to the lees: all times I have enjoyed
Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when
Through scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vexed the dim sea: I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known; cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honoured of them all;
And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough
Gleams that untravelled world, whose margin fades
For ever and for ever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnished, not to shine in use!
As though to breathe were life. Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains: but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this grey spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle -
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil
This labour, by slow prudence to make mild
A rugged people, and through soft degrees
Subdue them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere
Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods,
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.

There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:
There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toiled, and wrought, and thought with me -
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads -you and I are old;
Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;
Death closes all: but something ere the end,

Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Though much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

Written in 1833 and published in 1842.

Read more about Ulysses by Alfred Tennyson Analysis & Poem by www.poemofquotes.com

https://www.theguardian.com/books/2008/sep/21/poetry.writing.wendycope

To end our life is said to be grave sin
We do not own our own mortality
We neither can control when we begin
To end our life was once thought  a grave sin
But shall we live regardless  when love’s gone?
Can life end without brutality?
To end our life  is  said to be grave sin
We do not own our own mortality.

When millions die unmourned in Orient
When collateral damage is ” a trifle sad”
Can I not consider whether my life’s spent?
When millions die unmourned in Orient
In the News, I’ll  never make a  dent
Is my  thought of death so bad,
When millions die unmourned in Orient;
When collateral damage is” a trifle sad”?

One day we have a garment usable
Though it may have a moth hole or a tear
The next, it’s crossed the barrier  and is waste
It’s become what no one wants to wear

In this same manner, I  am near the edge.
I can  move, but all my body aches
When might  I reach the point where I am lost;
When  too strong are my wishes to escape?

I know it will very hard to judge
Some remark,some move,some  painful thought.
Some tiny thing may push me  past the edge
And so the waves on Dover Beach I’ll haunt.

Those White Cliffs where once I  walked with ease
Now with thoughts of loss , they do me tease.