POETIC BLOOMINGS

POETIC BLOOMINGS is a Phoenix Rising Poetry Guild site established in May 2011 to nurture and inspire the creative spirit.

IN-FORM POET WITH RJ CLARKEN – TRIOLET SONNET

Because so many of you are Sonneteers AND so many of you are fans of the Triolet, here’s a hybrid kind of poem for this week’s challenge. Oh yes! See, you all know how certain words can be portmanteau? (Gosh, I love that word!)
Well, that noun/adjective was tailor-made made for this particular form.
Yikes, you say. But fear not, because I know you are up to the task – and besides, it’s fun!

So, here goes: According to Terry Clitheroe’s The Poets Garret ,
Whilst looking at the structure of the Triolet it was realized that if two stanzas were added together with the two refrain lines being the link there would be an octave and a sestet: a natural Sonnet.

The rhyme pattern becomes: A. B. a. A. a. b. A. B. a. A. a. b. A. B.

It would work with the A & B lines being completely repeated or just a phrase or just the rhyme word repeated. The a and b are of course just standard rhyme. There is no set syllable count, although eight syllables is common with most of the French forms.

Got that?

Good!

Here are a couple of examples by yours truly…

Forget I Mentioned the Spork

Twirling pasta with just a fork?
It neglects the job of the spoon.
You might consider an odd spork,
but it’s shy of being a fork
or spoon. Besides, it lacks the torque
you get with each. A spork’s immune
to twirling well, unlike the fork
which, when based (and twirled) on a spoon,
in concert works. Don’t be a dork:
Twirl your pasta with spoon AND fork
(and forget I mentioned the spork.)
If pasta’s messy, please festoon
your place setting (beneath your fork)
with napkins, along with your spoon.

###

Knapsacks

Inside my daughter’s blue knapsack
there’s more beside her books. There’s stuff
like make-up, and yesterday’s snack…
…but wait! There’s more in her knapsack.
A strange note from some boy named Jack,
a broken bracelet (called a cuff),
some crumpled papers and a sack
of old gym clothes. But there’s more stuff.
A letter home from Missus Mack
awaits retrieval from ‘Knapsack
of Doom.’ How does she stay on track?
I tell her, “This is quite enough.”
She laughs and dumps out her knapsack
and shrugs. “My brother’s got MORE stuff.”

###

Obviously, I’ve taken a light tone (as is generally my way) but despite the rhyme, you can use this form to express a wide array of events, emotions and stories. So, I’m gonna stuff all my ‘stuff’ into my portmanteau (or knapsack) and wait to see what you do with this form.

Ready…Set…Start poeming!

MARIE ELENA’S TRIOLET SONNET ATTEMPT

Pipe Down. I’m Trying to be Thoughtful.

Hush now. Hush … I’m trying to write,
Which takes a lot of thought, you know.
I’ve got to keep my goal in sight.
Hush now. Hush … I’m trying to write.
I’m trying hard to be polite,
But need to focus brain cells, so
Hush now. Hush … I’m trying to write.
This takes a lot of thought, you know.
Don’t want a brawl; don’t want to fight.
HUSH now. HUSH … I’m TRYING to WRITE!
I’m NOT annoyed. I’m NOT uptight.
My stack is NOT about to blow!
But you MUST HUSH … I’m trying to write,
And that takes THOUGHT, I’ll have you know!

© copyright 2013, Marie Elena Good

WALT SNEAKS IN AGAIN TRIOLET

In The Night

In the night, she calls my name
to warm and comfort her, in the night.
It feels so right as our hearts inflame
in the night. She calls out my name
and I know things will never be the same,
no beacon will ever burn so bright,
in the night, she calls out my name
to warm and comfort her. In the night,
distance comes between us and it’s a shame.
In the night, she calls my name
and yet I will be close by; a player in true love’s game
lifting our hearts to the highest heights.
In the night, she calls my name
to warm and comfort her, in the night.

© copyright 2013, Walter J Wojtanik

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122 thoughts on “IN-FORM POET WITH RJ CLARKEN – TRIOLET SONNET

  1. Stone Walls

    A broken heart lives in a broken frame:
    Its strength has run out, and also its love,
    For too many years fed on pride and blame,
    A broken heart lives in a broken frame:
    Building up stone walls for defense its aim,
    The stone inside was never got rid of;
    A broken heart lives in a broken frame:
    Its strength has run out, and also its love,
    Death has come at last to stop it, to claim
    The broken heart locked in the broken frame,
    The lights go out, death has doused the dead flame
    Flickering in that heart, devoid of love;
    A broken heart lived in a broken frame:
    Its strength ran out, its stone walls killed its love.

    © Copyright Erin Kay Hope – 2013

  2. Erin, that is one very sad, poem, coming straight after RJ’ and ME’s light-hearted ones. . I’m off now to try this fascinating form.

  3. Henrietta Choplin on said:

    Bad Hair Day

    My little tree has no leaves left
    But berries bright upon her head
    Her arms are sticks with clothes bereft
    My little tree has no leaves left
    The birds catch wind of goodies left
    Some folks may think that she is dead
    My little tree has no leaves left
    But berries bright upon her head
    The candies red, the birds are deft
    My little tree has no leaves left
    They pick her treats, from flight they rest
    They shave a spot atop her head
    My little tree has no leaves left
    But berries bright upon her head.

  4. RJ, you Form Queen you … you majorly ROCK!!!

  5. RJ Clarken on said:

    -♥-

  6. flashpoetguy on said:

    WE NEED TO HELP OTHERS

    They claim no good deed goes unpunished.
    Still we must do good anyway.
    Choose not to care and we’re finished.
    They claim no good deed goes unpunished.
    Do it even if they shun us.
    Kindness will bring us happy days.
    They claim no good deed goes unpunished.
    Still we must do good anyway
    Or run the risk we’ll be admonished.
    They claim no good deed goes unpunished.
    Reap the joys that good has won us.
    It doesn’t matter what they say.
    They claim no good deed goes unpunished.
    Still we must do good anyway.

    #

  7. Walking Away is Hard to Do
    “You can’t get a cup of tea big enough or a book long enough to suit me.” – C.S. Lewis

    Putting down a well written book
    can be harder than you would think.
    An invisible strand, with hook,
    keeps tugging at you from that book…
    making you want to go and look,
    ignoring each task with a blink.
    Perhaps a quick read from that book
    no one would know, no one would think
    there was no supper, I couldn’t cook
    because I couldn’t put down a book.
    With longing my body just shook –
    like wanting, no needing a drink.
    Oh hell, I go grab that damn book!
    I’ve got a bit of time, I think.

  8. SIMON’S TREE

    The dwarf maple tree, short and round,
    never ceases to make us smile.
    In memory of our old hound,
    the dwarf maple tree, short and round,
    was planted, and from that we’ve found
    he lingers around us awhile.
    The dwarf maple tree, short and round,
    never ceases to make us smile.
    Recalling that pup from the pound,
    the dwarf maple tree, short and round,
    reminds us that love can abound
    from pets who are born to beguile.
    The dwarf maple tree, short and round,
    never ceases to make us smile.

    © Susan Schoeffield

  9. The Troilet Handle

    Hit the handle on the Sonnet Troilet
    Watch the swirling as it’s sucked down the drain
    Flush the words through the trap on the troilet
    Hit the handle on the Sonnet Troilet
    Flush your worries and compassions with it
    Don’t let it bother your poem void brain
    Hit the handle on the Sonnet Troilet
    Watch the swirling as it’s sucked down the drain
    You’re better off if you’re left without it
    Hit the handle on the Sonnet Troilet
    Don’t keep a copy, just get rid of it
    You’ll sleep much better once it’s down the drain
    Hit the handle on the Sonnet Troilet
    Watch the swirling as it’s sucked down the drain

    © 2013 Earl Parsons

  10. Pingback: Simon’s Tree | Words With Sooze

  11. Future Unknown

    Sometimes I feel that I must weep
    We might be on the edge of doom
    I lie awake, I cannot sleep
    So many promises to keep
    Once more, I feel that I must weep
    The news is filled with too much gloom
    How many of us sigh and weep
    Because these messages of doom
    Into our nightly dreams can creep
    And when I wake, I have to weep
    For promises I will never keep
    For prophets’ words that someday soon
    All of us will sigh and weep
    When standing on the edge of doom.

  12. ejparsons on said:

    A Beautiful Trip

    They say our lives are but a voyage
    A voyage made up of many trips
    Trips where we choose every passage
    Trips looked back on at end of voyage
    Will we regret our extra baggage
    Or will we ignore our many slips
    Regrets will only thwart our voyage
    We need look forward and guide each trip
    Life’s waters can do severe damage
    Rupture our ship and doom our voyage
    Many give up on life so savage
    The world is strewn with abandoned ships
    Unfulfilled lives; incomplete voyage
    So sad; life is a beautiful trip

    © 2013 Earl Parsons

  13. Family Restaurant

    I wish that baby would not whine.
    We’re eating here, trying to talk.
    The poor thing would be home, if mine.
    I wish that baby would not whine.
    Her parents act as if that’s fine!
    Perhaps she’s teething, babies balk
    at that; what can they do but whine?
    That whining infiltrates our talk,
    the tension rising up our spine.
    As that child whimpers, steady whine,
    her parents lift a glass of wine,
    and people at all tables galk.
    Oblivious to baby’s whine,
    the parents smile and softly talk.

    RJ and Marie, you both deserve blooms for those poems. Marie, you inspired me with other occasions when children demand attention and become the only topic.

  14. Pingback: Wonder of the Wood | Metaphors and Smiles

  15. Wonder of the Wood
    ~
    She’s crimson with inspiration
    the heart of the forest,
    she implores you for adoration;
    burgeoning with autumn’s inspiration-
    eyes rise and souls stir with elation.
    Kissed of red-bliss-blessed with interest,
    lilting leaf canopy’s assured inspiration
    the very source of joy in the forest;
    a gift of sifted sunlight-an exultation,
    she’s cerising with pure inspiration.
    Nimble foliage fingers beckon motivation-
    begs one to tumble words-wonder-rest.
    She’s crimson with inspiration
    the heart of the forest.
    ~
    Copyright © Hannah Gosselin 2013

    P.S. I sort of made a verb out of the color cerise…why not right?! 🙂

    Thank you for the form and your examples Rj and Marie!! You both had me chuckling…I love your senses of humor!

  16. elishevasmom on said:

    Freedom
    (a Triolet Sonnet).

    I so much prefer free form poetry.
    My muse just seem to think better that way.
    It flows to the paper so easily.
    I so much prefer FREE FORM poetry.
    Ideas connect themselves seamlessly.
    No difficulty in what to say.
    I so much PREFER free form poetry.
    My muse just seems to think better that way.
    When given a choice, then I’ll always agree.
    I SO much prefer free form poetry.
    With it my muse wanders aimlessly
    Searching expressions to better convey.
    I so MUCH prefer free form poetry.
    My muse just seems to think better that way!

    Ellen Knight 11.13.13
    write a Triolet Sonnet for

  17. For someone who doesn’t like writing in form, you sure did a dandy job with it!!

  18. Facing New Forms

    It is a challenge, this new form
    when sonnets do not come easily.
    Time to step out of the norm.
    It is a challenge, this new form,
    one for which I need to brain-storm.
    My stomach is getting incredibly queasy.
    It is a challenge, this new form,
    when sonnets do not come easily.
    My enthusiasm is running luke-warm,
    it is a challenge, this new form.
    Oh, the pressure on me to perform,
    while for others the words are a breeze.
    It is a challenge, this new form,
    when sonnets do not come easily.

  19. Crimson Death

    The last rose of summer bent its red head,
    The petals scattered, drifting to the ground
    To lie in a heap of dull crimson…dead…
    The last rose of summer bent its red head,
    Unable to face the cold season’s dread,
    It withered and fell, died without a sound;
    The last rose of summer bent its red head,
    The petals scattered, drifting to the ground,
    Returning back to the earth whence it fed;
    The last rose of summer bent it’s red head,
    And, scarce noticed, lay there shriveled and dead,
    The last sign of summer’s death that I found;
    The last rose of summer bent its red head,
    The petals scattered, drifting to the ground…

    © Copyright Erin Kay Hope – 2013

  20. William Preston on said:

    GARDEN ANGELS

    Of little things are songbirds made:
    the wings; the notes; the airborne grace;
    the plumage in full dress displayed.
    Of little things are songbirds made,
    and all around, in sun and shade,
    they spread sheer joy about this space.
    Of little things are songbirds made:
    the wings; the notes; the airborne grace;
    the freedom found; the great parade
    of little things. Are songbirds made
    to merely live? All joy would fade
    if so. But no, they bless this place.
    Of little things are songbirds made:
    the wings; the notes; the airborne grace.

    copyright 2013, William Preston

  21. William Preston on said:

    RJ, Marie, and Walt, your offerings set the tone here. The first two are so funny, and the last is so heart-achingly beautiful.

  22. Henrietta Choplin on said:

    So many poems to enjoy… I will return to read everyone’s work after my busy morning… 🙂 !!

  23. WmPreston on said:

    A DISCOVERY AT THE SINGLES DANCE

    I danced with you in triple time
    and fell in love at the first beat:
    there was no reason, was no rhyme;
    I danced with you in triple time
    and all the music turned sublime,
    as if it rose from my own feet.
    I danced with you in triple time
    and fell in love. At the first beat,
    passion commenced to stir and climb;
    I danced with you in triple time
    and once again was in my prime
    and you were Venus: gay; complete.
    I danced with you in triple time
    and fell in love at the first beat.

    copyright 2013, William Preston

  24. We Interpret in Accordance with Our Own Experience

    In the parable of loaves and fishes
    –because of my background–
    I imagine Jesus
    sharing out the sort of loaves and fish
    I’ve always known: bream, goldfish, cat; bushels
    of soft bread with big pores. And only the crust is brown
    in the parable of loaves and fishes.
    Because of my background
    the fish is fried and salty and greasy and delicious
    in the parable of loaves and fishes
    until somebody off the side says I’m suspicious.
    That’s my overabundance, and I’m taking it home.
    That parable of loaves and fishes:
    Need to check its background.

  25. Chase Ketchikan

    Chase Ketchikan until it catches you
    Unlike the harsh Alaska you may think
    No polar bears or snow to your wazoo
    Chase Ketchikan until it catches you
    With temperatures 40 to 62
    A place with nature you can feel in sync
    Chase Ketchikan until it catches you
    Unlike the harsh Alaska you may think
    And everywhere you’re treated to a view
    Chase Ketchikan until it catches you
    Where you can zipline, fish, hike, and canoe
    Where air and sea acts as the transport link
    Chase Ketchikan until it catches you
    Unlike the harsh Alaska you may think

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