He  grabbed my love and did not  it return
Labelled me insensitive.unkind.
He  struck my heart without   care or tconcern
I learned that in his soul he ‘s deaf and  blind

He labeled me   insensitive.unkind.
Not the perfect mother of his dreams
In his  deepest soul, he is  still blind
Makes connections mainly for his schemes

I was not the perfect mother of his dreams
His need was for a breast  to like upon
He  wants   women mainly for his schemes
Which failed with me and so he is long gone,

His need was for a breast  to like upon
In ease and comfort like a new born  child
He  failed with me, and so he is long gone,
For I prefer my company more wild.

In ease and comfort,  he lay  like a  child
He  never thought to ask  what I’d  prefer
For I prefer my company more wild.
Only to the lion of God defer

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pantoum

Structure

The pantoum is a form of poetry similar to a villanelle in that there are repeating lines throughout the poem. It is composed of a series of quatrains; the second and fourth lines of each stanza are repeated as the first and third lines of the next. This pattern continues for any number of stanzas, except for the final stanza, which differs in the repeating pattern. The first and third lines of the last stanza are the second and fourth of the penultimate; the first line of the poem is the last line of the final stanza, and the third line of the first stanza is the second of the final. Ideally, the meaning of lines shifts when they are repeated although the words remain exactly the same: this can be done by shifting punctuation, punning, or simply recontextualizing.

A four-stanza pantoum is common (although more may be used), and in the final stanza, lines one and three from the first stanza can be repeated, or new lines can be written. The pantoum form is as follows:^[1]

Stanza 1
A
B
C
D

Stanza 2
B
E
D
F

Stanza 3
E
G
F
H

Stanza 4
G
I (or A or C)
H
J (or A or C)

Verse forms[edit]

The pantoum is derived from the pantun berkait, a series of interwoven quatrains. An English translation of such a pantun berkait appeared in William Marsden‘s A Dictionary and Grammar of the Malayan Language in 1812. Victor Hugo published an unrhymed French version by Ernest Fouinet of this poem in the notes to Les Orientales(1829) and subsequent French poets began to make their own attempts at composing original “pantoums”.^[2]Leconte de Lisle published five pantoums in his Poèmes tragiques (1884).

There is also the imperfect pantoum, in which the final stanza differs from the form stated above, and the second and fourth lines may be different from any preceding lines.

Baudelaire‘s famous poem “Harmonie du soir”^[3] is usually cited as an example of the form, but it is irregular. The stanzas rhyme abba rather than the expected abab, and the last line, which is supposed to be the same as the first, is original.

• A catechism  for liars
  The Jerusalem rivals.
  She reduced them to idols.
  A catechism for tryers
  A cataclysm of tyres.
  A catachumen  of  squires
• Bare crones were all they had
  Barely alone in bed
  Rare phones  on my iPad keep calling me mother
•  He was bare-faced   and  hairless
  She found him on the bypass
• Barge Inn .No canoes allowed.No canoodling by order.
• Parking  is sad when alone.Rent a companion tonight.
• Parking up the wrong  tree again?
• A worn  miner deified her.Queen of the Coke
• Heroine of  briefs.Always worn out.
  Heroism is  wreathed
  Heroin is   the  theif
• Casket Vase: keep your loved on on the sideboard
• Brass  passwords are next.Pass.
•  He sat on   her eyelid all night.
  She batted his  sighs back
  Drat, the  diarrhea’s underground
• Baited to death
  Waiting for breath.
  Say it,he’s left

I have  filled my mind   with  dreams   and thoughts
I have drawn conclusions  that seem real
What’s of  value’s not by effort bought.

As Ted Hughes said,  his fishing was the sport
Which brought both meditation and a meal.
I have   studied minds   and  dreams   and thoughts

You see ,like that,   new images are caught.
In silence and in noticing  the feel
What’s of  value’s not by effort bought.

What we find may not be what we sought
At  first ,it may not show its wise appeal
I have  found a  mind  by  dreams   and thoughts

In the night the images  take flight.
God’s lioness  destroys what  is  congealed
What’s of  value’s not by effort wrought.

Like a butterfly, a flowering dart
Of love and beauty  which was once concealed
I have  found my mind  by  dreams, my  wordless thoughts.
What’s of  value’s not by effort bought.

I am trying to write a pantoum.The cursor keep jumping so if I disappear I shall be with that…

Another winter, come  so soon has shown
That I survive despite  the sharpest pain
Such solitude as this I’ve rarely known
And yet I’m here and so I shall remain

That I survive  accompanied by  pain
By grief and anguish sharp as knife to heart
And yet I’m here and here I shall remain
This flickering candle’s light will not  blow out

By grief and anguish sharp as knife to heart
I suffer in the company of beasts
The flickering candle’s light survives  my doubt
Late after Nazareth, came the Holy Feast.

Life is only known  when  we  can live
In solitude as  that I ’ve grown to love
As  tranquil consolations, it shall  give
Despite fierce  winter,comes the holy dove
Despite fierce winters, we   believe ,we  love.

http://www.writing-world.com/poetry/villanelle.shtml

When shame has fallen on me like a curse

And scarlet cheeks now decorate my face;

Coats on the hall stand

Smelling of you

https://philosophynow.org/issues/58/The_Death_of_Postmodernism_And_Beyond

Secondly, whereas postmodernism favoured the ironic, the knowing and the playful, with their allusions to knowledge, history and ambivalence, pseudo-modernism’s typical intellectual states are ignorance, fanaticism and anxiety: Bush, Blair, Bin Laden, Le Pen and their like on one side, and the more numerous but less powerful masses on the other. Pseudo-modernism belongs to a world pervaded by the encounter between a religiously fanatical segment of the United States, a largely secular but definitionally hyper-religious Israel, and a fanatical sub-section of Muslims scattered across the planet: pseudo-modernism was not born on 11 September 2001, but postmodernism was interred in its rubble. In this context pseudo-modernism lashes fantastically sophisticated technology to the pursuit of medieval barbarism – as in the uploading of videos of beheadings onto the internet, or the use of mobile phones to film torture in prisons. Beyond this, the destiny of everyone else is to suffer the anxiety of getting hit in the cross-fire. But this fatalistic anxiety extends far beyond geopolitics, into every aspect of contemporary life; from a general fear of social breakdown and identity loss, to a deep unease about diet and health; from anguish about the destructiveness of climate change, to the effects of a new personal ineptitude and helplessness, which yield TV programmes about how to clean your house, bring up your children or remain solvent. This technologised cluelessness is utterly contemporary: the pseudo-modernist communicates constantly with the other side of the planet, yet needs to be told to eat vegetables to be healthy, a fact self-evident in the Bronze Age. He or she can direct the course of national television programmes, but does not know how to make him or herself something to eat – a characteristic fusion of the childish and the advanced, the powerful and the helpless. For varying reasons, these are people incapable of the “disbelief of Grand Narratives” which Lyotard argued typified postmodernists.

This pseudo-modern world, so frightening and seemingly uncontrollable, inevitably feeds a desire to return to the infantile playing with toys which also characterises the pseudo-modern cultural world. Here, the typical emotional state, radically superseding the hyper-consciousness of irony, is the trance – the state of being swallowed up by your activity. In place of the neurosis of modernism and the narcissism of postmodernism, pseudo-modernism takes the world away, by creating a new weightless nowhere of silent autism. You click, you punch the keys, you are ‘involved’, engulfed, deciding. You are the text, there is no-one else, no ‘author’; there is nowhere else, no other time or place. You are free: you are the text: the text is superseded.

© Dr Alan Kirby 2006

http://www.webexhibits.org/poetry/explore_famous_free_background.html

“Modern interpretations.

The promise of irregular cadence continued to beckon unconventional and narrative poets, and began appearing as vers libre in the 19th century French poetry of Jules Laforgue and Gustave Kant. Germany’s Johann Wolfgang von Goethe also experimented with free verse. By the latter half of the century, Walt Whitman had mastered the form, and bards such as Christina Rosetti, Robert Louis Stevenson, Charles Baudelaire, Gerard Manley Hopkins, and W.E. Henley were writing free verse. Still, it wasn’t until Richard Aldington used the term “free verse” in a 1915 anthology introduction that the form took an English name.

Yet, as T.S. Eliot warned, “No verse is free for the man who wants to do a good job.” While free verse is irregular, lyrical, and unmeasured by line counts and stanzas, metrical and rhythmic precision remain just as vital as in other poetic forms.”

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/books/what-to-read/david-hockneys-guide-to-keeping-your-eyes-fresh-in-an-instagram/

When we have strangled virtue at her birth
When evil thoughts are all that we can find
And  we  cannot take a draught of cheerful mirth;
Escape from this black prison  of ithe mind.

http://writersrelief.com/blog/2009/11/un-think-your-poetry-how-to-write-better-poems/

Quote:

Finally, after you’ve taken the time you need to get a little perspective on your own writing, go back to your poem with your “editing hat” on. Because the creative act is generative and the act of editing is critical, it can help to break those two processes apart and tackle them one at a time. Edit carefully and without judging your own creativity. When critiquing your own writing, always strive to be the generous and sensitive editor that you would be for someone else.

Sometimes writing better poems isn’t a matter of learning more technique or doing more thinking. It’s a matter of NOT thinking. Dig deep to let your subconscious do some writing, and your poetry will grow.

https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/arts-and-entertainment/wp/2013/06/20/why-is-modern-poetry-so-bad/

Why is modern poetry so bad?

By Ron Charles June 20, 2013

Harper’s Magazine, July 2013

Friday morning, America’s great poets will wake up to find that someone has TP-ed their trees and scrawled “COWARD” on the door.

A 6,000-word jeremiad about the pathetic state of contemporary poetry appears in the July issue of Harper’s magazine, which hits bookstores Friday. In “Poetry Slam, or, The Decline of American Verse,” Mark Edmundson, an English professor at the University of Virginia, upbraids our bards for being “oblique, equivocal, painfully self-questioning . . . timid, small, in retreat . . . ever more private, idiosyncratic, and withdrawn.” That’s just for starters.

“Their poetry is not heard but overheard,” he laments, “and sometimes is too hermetic even to overhear with anything like comprehension.”

And he names the names. After studying Paul Muldoon for years, Edmundson complains that he still has “barely a clue as to what Muldoon is going on about.” Jorie Graham is “portentous.” Anne Carson may be Canadian, but that’s no defense; her verse “is so obscure, mannered, and private that one (this one, at least) cannot follow its windings.” John Ashbery “says little” in his “perpetual hedging.”

“One can’t generalize about it all,” Edmundson warns, before generalizing about it all in a nuclear assault that leaves no poet standing.

Two years ago I was recovering from a major operation.I believed that then our life would then  return to “normal.” I can’t believe I have lived through two years and helped someone to leave this world peacefully.
I know now there is not really any normal.I only have to look at the News to see  it

I recall phoning my GP the day after the death and after giving my name was asked:

What do YOU want?

Because they had not believed me when I asked fo a home visit.They thought I was a nuisance.In any case ,it was incredibly rude.I felt so  awful it didn’t hit me.But when I told her the news she gasped for breath.

I am thinking mainly of clothes but the same idea can also help with books.And console yourself by imagining some other  poorer person getting a good coat or skirt.

• Give away the items that take up the most space first
• In my case that means coats.These are usually the largest items in a wardrobe.Over the years they seem to accumulate.
• OK they fasten but are they too  tight? That is a bad look.
  I have got tired of red.And my red coat is a  little tight.So out with that.
  I don’t like  very heavy clothes.So out with a  purple maxi-coat fit for  an Empress.
  Out with any more that are  clinging and tight.
• Second item that has grown in number…my shoes.
  Out with very heavy  shoes/boots
  In theory, I should wear trainers but I shall keep some of the others for now.
• I suspect that following the ” are they clingy?”  rule will probably eliminate a few winter woollies.But not today.
• 
• BOOKS
• Big books  like dictionaries  take  a lot of space.Do we need all of them? I had a huge road atlas for lorry drivers which has now gone into recycling.The idea is, starting with the big ones creates space and makes one feel good.Later we can look at the others.Usually we get access online to dictionaries and suchlike.
  I keep good novels but not non-fiction if I don’t  read it in a year.
• Number-wise look at this picture below.
•  Mmmmm!My books might not fit into this train
• 

Ghostly bikes

Never say more than needs to be said
Coincidentally ,that rhymes with bed.
Never wear underpants over your head.
Never speak boastfully  about what you’ve read.

Never hear gossip and don’t pass it along
We know in our hearts this is usually wrong..
Never say in words what is sung in a song
Never wear underslips frightfully long.

Don’t accept   gifts from men you don’t like
Never ride home on the back of their bike.
Never get up before you’re awake
Never take cats for a ride in a lake.
Never feed cats  on an  old Xmas cake.
They are no judges of how well you bake.
Never let in  anyone who appears to be fake
So many folk are now on the make

The phlebotomist
Did not look at me at all
Sixty folk to prick in just three hours,

Can you contact me
With your eyes,I asked her.
No,it slows me up.

She says she will retire
Bloody work is not humane
People never speak.

What words could we speak
To the tired, bending figure
Who can’t raise her head?

https://www.washingtonpost.com/blogs/compost/wp/2013/01/22/is-poetry-dead/?utm_term=.0cc3a2810746#comments