The Moving Finger Writes
I cannot agree that much of what is, these days, called poetry, is in fact poetry.
I base that assessment on a simple rule:
If it isn't memorable, it isn't poetry, q.e.d.
If I read something, and an hour later can remember only that it is something to do with, say, a roof, then it is not poetry.
The traditional poetic device of memorably melodic metaphor marching through the mind reinforces recall. Recall of rhyme recalls the time sublime of childhood play with blocks and bricks of wooden words.
Such is the power of poetry.
The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,