Submit Your Poems
Get Your Premium Membership


Villanelle Art Poems | Villanelle Poems About Art

These Villanelle Art poems are examples of Villanelle poems about Art. These are the best examples of Villanelle Art poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

If you don't find the poem you want here, try our incredible, super duper, all-knowing, advanced poem search engine.

Details | Villanelle | |

The Tall Ships Burn

Burnished gold, aged bronze patinaed by the firelight
singed by sullen Sol, not stayed by Poseidon's hand;
aflame, aflame, tall ships burn, see their masts ignite.

Impenitent, sky rains ash blackening the night.
Fire sends a smoky pall upon the sea and land,
burnished gold, aged bronze patinaed by the firelight.

Fire eats: the air, snuffs man's breath; highlighting their plight,
all hands on deck, the Captain calls, out his command.
Aflame, aflame, tall ship burns, see their masts ignite.

Hell's inferno comes calling on this sun lit night,
foul winds blow, fire roars, and so the flames are fanned;
burnished gold, aged bronze patinaed by the firelight.

Without their ship, crews are lost to a debtors blight.
Up the went like scarecrows shriven by the brand,
aflame, aflame, tall ships burn, see their masts ignite.

Cinder shower catch the dock; workers run in fright.
Pain and heartache fill the wharf; still, they must disband.
Burnished gold, aged bronze patinaed by the firelight
aflame, aflame, tall ships burn, see their masts ignite.

Keelmen Heaving in Coals by Night' by Turner

Published by Dual Coast 2014



Details | Villanelle | |

The United Nations

Did you get my
Number yet?


Details | Villanelle | |

Whispers of Light

While sleeping I hear whispers of light.
How softly he spoke with a quiet glow,
Illuminating colors swarming the night.

Blue’s bold, red’s extreme, yellow’s delight,
Mixing and blending creating a wonderful flow.
While sleeping I hear whispers of light.

Slowly the colors become intensely bright;
They are alive and begin to grow,
Illuminating colors swarming the night.

He comforts me into the zone of twilight.
Oh what a dream “I can see Van Gogh.”
While sleeping I hear whispers of light.

I become free like a bird in flight,
And can see all the joyful colors below,
Illuminating colors swarming the night.

Why are people staring at me, how impolite.
For eternity in a gallery as part of the show.
While sleeping I hear whispers of light,
Illuminating colors swarming the night.


By: Greg Stanley
February 5, 2014


Details | Villanelle | |

Hail to the Knight of Woeful Countenance

Hail to the Knight of Woeful Countenance, 
the impossible dream with lance in hand.
Alonzo had dreamed, dreams of ambiance.

Knight, Don Quixote, rose in allegiance
The man from La Mancha, felt in demand
Hail to the Knight of Woeful Countenance.

His squire Sancho Panza, flaunted the stance
From old Rocinante, slain windmills at hand.  
Alonzo had dreamed, dreams of ambiance.

His make believe love, a one way advance.
Dulcinea, ……………..gets no wedding band.
Hail to the Knight of Woeful Countenance.

Castles and mules and a loser’s penance.
Bound  by the rules only Knights understand
Alonzo had dreamed, dreams of ambiance

Retiring, a dream brings him assurance
New found sanity, he swears with raised hand
Hail to the Knight of Woeful countenance
Alonzo had dreamed, dreams of ambiance

Sept 15, 2012 © cghjr


Details | Villanelle | |

One Art

The art of loving isn’t hard to master
So many things seem filled with love.
To be lost in a love forever.

Love more everyday. Accept the disaster
Of a lost mind hours thinking of your love.
The art of loving isn’t hard to master.

Then practice loving farther, loving faster
People, and places, and who it is you have to love. 
All of these will bring us together.

I lost my heart, And look! My forever
Next-to-last, of my love went.
To be lost in a love forever.

I gained hope, a lovely one. And faster
Some realms I owned, I will always have hope
I love them, and it will be a forever.

Even loving you, a great gesture
I shant have lied. For I hope
The art of loving isn’t hard to master
Though it may look like a great disaster.

(Based on the poem One Art by Elizabeth Bishop, this was a project in creative writing)


Details | Villanelle | |

Word Feast

See the greatest poets of all time
the circus of poems had come to town
with many a form, verses and rhymes

People came to unravel the sublime
mysteries and myths came to be known
see the greatest poets of all time

Poems about nature, cowboys, and crime
people came from all around
with many a form, verses and rhymes

Windy verses of seas of brine
there were even quatrains on clowns with frowns
see the greatest poets of all time

Haikus, senryus, and ballads were fine
limericks on ladies dressed in brown  gowns
with many a form, verses and rhymes

If words were edible many would dine
a feast most satisfying and profound
see the greatest poets of all time
with many a form, verses and rhymes


Details | Villanelle | |

Villanelle: Nothing so upturns creative cauldrons as retching up art

Villanelle: Nothing so upturns creative cauldrons as retching up art

Nothing so upturns creative cauldrons as retching up art
As the craft not art of constructing poetry for expediency
Does the poet’s art lie in not collocating words set apart

Isn’t each word a brick a stone a rock in the poet’s craft
That simple folk through the ages filed sans hypocrisy
Nothing so upturns creative cauldrons as retching up art

What representation of experience can by craft be wrought
To distill meanings imbricated in sensuous mosaic artistry
Does the poet’s art lie in not collocating words set apart

Do English words sound the same in a loud Indlish mart
Or evoke the connotations of a Shakespearean century 
Nothing so upturns creative cauldrons as retching up art

A South Asian voice reading Pope must sound like fart*
To a Dryden stunned by a Malawian’s Jacobean poesy 
Does the poet’s art lie in not collocating words set apart

The sense of sound divides Indlish poems from English craft
As galactic spaces loom in between Indlish pen and literacy
Nothing so upturns creative cauldrons as retching up art
Does the poet’s art lie in not collocating words set apart

* A reference to Eric Mottram’s comment on hearing Dom Moraes reading his poems on the BBC’s Third Programme
in the fifties, characterised as an imitation of an Oxford don farting…. Cf. Alive in Parts of this Century: Eric Mottram
at 70.  Twickenham & Wakefield: North and South, 1994, p. 17.


© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2014
 






 







 


 









 






Details | Villanelle | |

Portrait of Handsome in his Youth

Euginia Liapich
Any poem/Any form - for new poets of soup. 
November 26,2013

Well-powered ideals flowing free
Your Existential ,Passionate search for Truth
While wallowing in Unacessible Grief

It being usage rather than TB
Consumption, over-consuming to consume
Well-powered ideals flowing free

On Reminiscence of a Family tree
Upon your life in the Genetic Doom
While wallowing in Unacessible Grief

Upon exploring your Artisitic Streak
On cultivating your Poetic Bloom
Well-powered ideals flowing free

Did you for once the future nor Predict
And living with Your unwarranted Gloom
While wallowing in Unacessible Grief

Priorities changes Ideals not as Chief
By moral fall I was overconsumed
Well-powered ideals flowing free
While wallowing in Unacessible Grief


Details | Villanelle | |

Mastered art (Give or take)

When hardships in lifetimes are unforgiving
The lessons it gives is decisions worth making
I’ll learn this and master the gift of living

Unselfish and always prepared for the grieving
Of ever present humps without shadows forsaking
When hardships in lifetimes are unforgiving  

In teaching the secrets that lead to believing
That the goals make the journey worth undertaking
I’ll learn this and master the gift of living

Crystalloid nightmares with frail hope deceiving
Rainbowed hearts varied in degrees of breaking 
When hardships in lifetimes are unforgiving

Kaleidoscope dreams of creation retrieving
New found ideas from cold minds flaking  
I’ll learn this and master the gift of living

Shattered on transparent glass my mind keeps misgiving
Some rocky pasture filled with thoughts, there for the taking
When hardships in lifetimes are unforgiving
I’ll learn this and master the gift of living


Details | Villanelle | |

Away

Softly she enters the path into wood
Dressed in summer's white linen, black hat unband
Toddlers follow, these of her motherhood

In bloom today trees ..dogwoods, cottonwood
She carries her butterfly net in hand
Softly she enters the path into wood

Tiny little girls become sisterhood
Drawn to nature are they, bugs, blooms, and
Toddlers follow, these of her motherhood

She spies butterflies in the thick hardwood
Escape today,  play her spirit's demand
Softly she enters the path into wood

Away from the creekside where sometimes flood
Away into the scary woods not planned
Toddlers follow, these of her motherhood

Away she goes into the deep away 
Stray away from everyday dismay
Softly she enters the path into wood
Toddlers follow, these of her motherhood


Details | Villanelle | |

Natural Temptation

While Lusts fever sweats out self-possession,
Haunted Passion multiplies per heartbeat              
Turning cold blood hot with obsession.

Though the past has left an impression,
New Hunger hunts an old bed-sheet
While Lusts fever sweats out self-possession.

“No,” should speak an easy confession,
But loneliness pressures purity backseat
Turning cold blood hot with obsession.

Wild thoughts parade with indiscretion
Pendulum emotions erratically repeat
While Lusts fever sweats out self-possession.

Sex brews choice with oppression 
Baking bitter standards so semisweet 
Turning cold blood hot with obsession.

A war of feelings with no recession
Continually fight the ache to secrete,
Still, Lusts fever sweats out self-possession,
Turning cold blood hot with obsession.


Details | Villanelle | |

only one way

Ah, God, the way your little finger moved 
As you thrust a bare arm backward 
And made play with your hair 
And a comb a silly gilt comb 
Ah, God—that I should suffer 
Because of the way a little finger moved.
  
Dear, I to thee this diamond commend, 
In which a model of thyself I send. 
How just unto thy joints this circlet sitteth, 
So just thy face and shape my fancy fitteth. 
The touch will try this ring of purest gold, 
My touch tries thee, as pure though softer mold. 
That metal precious is, the stone is true, 
As true, and then how much more precious you. 
The gem is clear, and hath nor needs no foil, 
Thy face, nay more, thy fame is free from soil. 
You\\\'ll deem this dear, because from me you have it, 
I deem your faith more dear, because you gave it. 
This pointed diamond cuts glass and steel, 
Your love\\\'s like force in my firm heart I feel. 
     But this, as all things else, time wastes with wearing, 
     Where you my jewels multiply with bearing.
My lady\\\'s presence makes the roses red,
Because to see her lips they blush for shame.
The lily\\\'s leaves, for envy, pale became,
And her white hands in them this envy bred.
The marigold the leaves abroad doth spread,
Because the sun\\\'s and her power is the same.
The violet of purple colour came.
Dyed in the blood she made my heart to shed.
In brief: all flowers from her their virtue take;
From her sweet breath their sweet smells do proceed;
The living heat which her eyebeams doth make
Warmeth the ground and quickeneth the seed.
The rain, wherewith she watereth the flowers,
Falls from mine eyes, which she dissolves in showers

One day I wrote her name upon the strand, 
But came the waves and washed it away: 
Again I wrote it with a second hand, 
But came the tide, and made my pains his prey. 
Vain man, said she, that dost in vain assay 
A mortal thing so to immortalize! 
For I myself shall like to this decay, 
And eek my name be wiped out likewise. 
Not so (quoth I), let baser things devise 
To die in dust, but you shall live by fame: 
My verse your virtues rare shall eternize, 
And in the heavens write your glorious name; 
Where, whenas death shall all the world subdue, 
Our love shall live, and later life renew.
Diaphenia, like the daffadowndilly, 
White as the sun, fair as the lily, 
          Heigh ho, how I do love thee! 
I do love thee as my lambs 
Are belovëd of their dams—
          How blest were I if thou wouldst prove me!