Villanelles II

Villanelle by Michael R. Burch Is poetry mere turning of a phrase? Has prose become its height and depth and sum? What happened to the songs of yesterdays? Does prose leave all nine Muses vexed and glum, with fingers stuck in ears, till hearing’s numbed? Is poetry mere turning of a phrase? Should we cut loose, drink, guzzle jugs of rum, write prose nonstop, till Hell or Kingdom Come? What happened to the songs of yesterdays? Are there no beats to which tense thumbs might thrum? Did we outsmart ourselves and end up dumb? Is poetry mere turning of a phrase? How did a feast become this measly crumb, such noble princes end up in a slum? What happened to the songs of yesterdays? I’m running out of rhymes! Please be a chum and tell me if some Muse might spank my bum for choosing rhyme above the painted phrase? What happened to the songs of yesterdays? The vanilla-nelle by Michael R. Burch The vanilla-nelle is rather dark to write In a chocolate world where purity is slight, When every rhyming word must rhyme with white! As sure as night is day and day is night, And walruses write songs, such is my plight: The vanilla-nelle is rather dark to write. I’m running out of rhymes and it’s a fright because the end’s not nearly (yet) in sight, When every rhyming word must rhyme with white! It’s tougher when the poet’s not too bright And strains his brain, which only turns up “blight.” Yes, the vanilla-nelle is rather dark to write. I strive to seem aloof and recondite while avoiding ancient words like “knyghte” and “flyte” But every rhyming word must rhyme with white! I think I’ve failed: I’m down to “zinnwaldite.” I fear my Muse is torturing me, for spite! For the vanilla-nelle is rather dark to write When every rhyming word must rhyme with white! Villanelle: Ars Brevis by Michael R. Burch Better not to live, than live too long: this is my theme, my purpose and desire. The world prefers a brief three-minute song. My will to live was never all that strong. Eternal life? Find some poor fool to hire! Better not to live... Granny panties or a flosslike thong? The latter rock, the former feed the fire. The world prefers... Let briefs be brief: the short can do no wrong, since David slew Goliath, who stood higher. Better not to live... A long recital gets a sudden gong. Quick death’s preferred to drowning in the mire. The world prefers... A wee bikini or a long sarong? French Riviera or some dull old Shire? Better not to live... The world prefers...