[Maryann Corbett]

A few more, from Rachel Hadas, in Poetry

[R E Bolick]

Hilarious, Janet and Susan. Thanks, Mike, for the spark. Thanks, Roger (I've been away and hadn't seen your grand slam!). Thanks, Maryann.

A belated reply to Jim Hayes' comment above about "my triolet."

Whose triolet?

“Your triolet’s maddeningly clever.”
What triolet? I haven’t written one.
"Such concision. Instructiveness. Who could better
your triolet’s?” Maddeningly clever?
You must mean somebody else. “Whomever
I mean, if given the chance, they’d reckon
your triolets maddeningly clever.”
What triolets? I haven’t written one!

Here's a set from Martin Rocek. Thanks, Martin

Quiet sea

waves lap
on the sand
soft slap
waves lap
shells tap
in my hand
waves lap
on the sand

Triolet

A swan and a swan, wing tip to wing tip,
one above, one below, skimming the water,
flying together, like lip seeking lip.
A swan and a swan, wing tip to wing tip,
with each beat a gasp as feathers let air slip,
sinuous motion whose pulses don't falter.
A swan and a swan, wing tip to wing tip,
shatter the mirror, geyser the water.


Triolet or triolet? (think "Let's call the whole thing off")

Do you say triolet
or instead triolet?
As you sip café au lait
do you say triolet?
Arrêté at the bidet
or peut-être, at the toilette,
contemplate: triolet?
or instead, triolet?


Toucan Triolet

The toucan can
dance the cancan --
I think he can.
Can the toucan
open a can?
Toucan's beak can.
The toucan can
dance the cancan.

Pooh and Piglet

A heffalump up ahead!
Look at the tracks in the snow.
I hope it's very well fed.
TWO heffalumps up ahead!
I wish I were in my bed
but I hope that it doesn't show.
THREE heffalumps up ahead--
Look at their tracks in the snow!


Tense past (an old joke put into triolet form)

Though it's sad, Jack's grammar was bad;
but I am glad that Jill's was good.
You may recall, Jack had had had--
oh how sad, Jack's grammar was bad--
where, instead, Jill had had had had,
which is, I'm sure, what they both should
have had--er--had had--Jack! you're bad!
Oh! how I'm glad that Jill's so good!


Finally, here's a "three cherries in row" winner from Catherine Chandler-Oliveira -- forthcoming in The Raintown Review:

A Gambler’s Triolet

He drops another token in
and hopes he hears the jackpot bell.
He’s sure this time. He’s got to win.
He drops another token in,
then watches as the rollers spin
and stop. So close! Oh, what the hell . . .
He drops another token in
and hopes . . . he hears the jackpot bell!

Just to make it official: yes, folks, do post your own as well as point me to others'.


Cheers,
BobB



[This message has been edited by R E Bolick (edited October 03, 2007).]

[Roger Slater]

TRIOLET

Three times you'll hear
this poem's first line.
It will appear
three times. You'll hear
it thrice. Draw near.
It's by design.
Three times you'll hear
this poem's first line.


ROSES ARE RED

Roses are red
I hear people bellow.
How often it's said
roses are red!
But roses, when dead,
are grayish or yellow.
Roses are red
I hear people bellow.


DISPOSABLE TRIOLET

Throw this out
when you are through.
I will not pout.
Throw this out.
I have no doubt
what you should do:
throw this out
when you are through.


INHIBITION

The thing I really want to say, the thought,
the burden of my heart, the words I'd share
if finally my lame tongue could be taught
the thing I really want to say, the thought
that sputters in my throat and comes to naught,
will not take shape and so I won't declare
the thing I really want to say, the thought,
the burden of my heart, the words I'd share.


IF YOU DON'T CALL

If you don't call
I will not sleep.
I'll climb the wall
if you don't call.
But most of all
I'll sulk and weep.
If you don't call
I will not sleep.




[This message has been edited by Roger Slater (edited October 03, 2007).]

[Mary Moore]

Here's a couple of mine, workshopped here and published in The Eclectic Muse:

EACH DAY BUT ONE

Each day that passes gives me pause to think,
that might have been the day on which I died.
My every footstep closer to the brink
each day that passes. I take pause to think:
to relish life, one needs to make the link
to death, not set mortality aside.
One day that passes, I won’t pause to think.
That will be the day on which I died.



VISIT TO THE NURSING HOME

Momma, don’t you know it’s me?
It’s John, your oldest son who’s here.
Who’s that? What do you want? Who’s he?
Momma, don’t you know? It’s me!
I hear a voice but I don’t see
my Johnnie. He’ll be nine this year.
Momma don’t you know? It’s me.
It’s John, your oldest son. Who’s here?


Mary E. Moore

[grasshopper]

I had the pleasure of including this one in WORM 36, and it was also my Editor's Choice for that issue. This was my explanation for my choice:' This has a special resonance for me as I grew up in London. The triolet is not an easy form to write successfully, but here the repetends add a sense of slow dignity, building into a haunting and beautiful poem.')

Peter's Request
(a triolet)

Scatter my ashes down into the Thames
from Battersea Bridge at night,
its white lights blazing like precious gems.
Scatter my ashes down into the Thames,
who wears her bridges like diadems
as the Empress of India might.
Scatter my ashes down into the Thames
from Battersea Bridge at night.

Mitchell Geller

[Henry Quince]

A response to Roger’s EXAMPLE OF A TRIOLET:

How to Say Triolet

While you may choose to rhyme it with day,
Some pronounce it as trioLETT
(Merriam-Webster gives it that way).
While you may choose to rhyme it with day,
The anglicized -LETT will also play.
You Francophones can frown, and yet,
While you may choose to rhyme it with day,
Some pronounce it as trioLETT.

[Kate Benedict]

There's a sad/wistful one of mine here:
http://www.barefootmuse.com/archives...3/benedict.htm


And a bad dream one here:
http://www.poemeleon.org/kate-bernadette-benedict/


And a really silly one here:
http://www.geocities.com/food_and_ca...ndicedtea.html

[Wendy Sloan]

A little belatedly, I've discovered this thread.
Welp, haven't been on line much lately (neck problem) so ... my loss.
Not to ignore the other great examples here --

but, Susan, that "Hypothetical" is terrific. Chilling.

[Michael Cantor]

Sorry for the delay in responding - I was travelling, and couldn't get to my files. Here's Summer Island.

Summer Island

You sit outside, consorting with your wine
as I, inside, consider what to say
or do to try to redefine the line
you sit outside. Consorting with your wine
now seems your choice; and solitude is mine,
and neither works to overcome the way
you sit outside, consorting with your wine
as I, inside, consider what to say.

And another, that was workshopped here a while back:

Toy Soldiers

The little tin men in their little tin hats
bang their loud little drums for the blood they won't shed;
and the ones who don’t fight lead the rat-a-tat-tats
when the little tin men in their little tin hats
fill the air with their calls like a clamor of cats —
until nothing is left but the rats and the dead,
and the little tin men with their little tin hats,
and their loud little drums, and the blood that's been shed.

And this older sequence (they're pretty, I guess, but I should have done more with the final repetends in the second and third):

A Bouquet of Triolets

This damp New England island spring
has hints of songs of cardinals
and that seems all that God will bring
a damp New England island. Spring
comes hard this year; the cold rains cling
and only wood-stove fire dulls
the damp. New England island spring
hears hints of songs of cardinals.

In summer’s dusk the beach-wise Labs
pinwheel and dart and bite the foam
that rattles stones and shells and crabs
in summer’s dusk. The beach-wise Labs
will chase and fetch till sunset grabs
last light from day, then shoot for home.
In summer’s dusk the beach-wise Labs
pinwheel and dart and bite the foam.

The island slows in autumn chill
as herons tip-toe through the marsh.
Red sumacs flare, swans thrum, but still
the island slows in autumn; chill
winds carve the emptied beach and spill
salt hints that winter will be harsh.
The island slows in autumn chill
as herons tip-toe through the marsh.

Dead gray and February bleak;
no color on this frozen beach
relieves the ice-flecked sands that streak -
dead gray and February bleak -
to meet a black horizon, seek
the end of day where gull bones bleach
dead gray and February bleak.
No color on this frozen beach.

[Roger Slater]

"Summer Island" is real nice, Michael. Not sure I've seen it before.

Here's a light one inspired by a certain president I will not name (but his name rhymes with toosh):




ALL IDEAS BUT MINE

All ideas but mine
are a recipe for defeat.
That's how I define
all ideas but mine
and where I draw the line.
Allow me to repeat:
All ideas but mine
are a recipe for defeat.