Long Villanelle Poems
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We had saved our precious stock of grandpa’s grape
prepared the ground and amended the soil.
After laying out the orchard, we planted cuttings with our own hands.
Fed the young vines with love and creek water
and waited for the work of the rain and sun
before giving birth to the wine.
To insure that his family would produce the best wine.
Grandpa, tho’ as straggly as his grape
cleared trees and topped them to admit the sun.
He would not purchase plants for his soil
and dug the trenches wider and accessed our water.
He was self sufficient and he propagated vines by his hand
We prevented winds from whipping vines out of hand
to best grow and mature the soul of our wine.
The vines followed the contour of steep site which brought the water.
The rows ran north and south to suit the grape - -
this presented light while drying and controlling the soil
allowing the plants to follow the eastern and western sun.
We placed much faith on the drying done by the sun.
We had one to backfill. We wished we had more willing hands.
We had two to dig holes, and one to hold the vine and tamp the soil,
as the fruit began to ripen to marry our precious wine.
A crew of four was used for setting the grape.
The Vines should not be sprinkled with too much water.
We made plans to prevent soil erosion and loss of water
to the harden the wood and expose it to rays of the sun.
The Niagra White and Riesling grape.
Both needed pruning and the waste hay cut our hands.
We made sure our methods were best for the wine.
They would mature late, even in warm soil.
We found that more humus was wanted by the soil.
Some magic was performed to deliver more water.
alas, for the reward of a not so remarkable wine.
Again the wait, the prayers, the morning dew and sun.
More work, more time, sweat and callused hands.
The next year we tried a grafted grape.
We had saved our precious stock of grandpa’s grape
prepared the ground and amended the soil.
After laying out the orchard, we planted cuttings with our own hands.
Fed the young vines with love and creek water
and waited for the work of the rain and sun
before giving birth to the wine.
Our final wine was surrendered by the sun.
We captured the prize from our water and our soil.
My hands, today, still stained with the color of the grape.
Villanelle: Whose terse lines lie entangled in the colophon
for the author - male or female, prince or pauper, playboy or priest - of the
THIRUKKURAL*, the reputed "bible" of the Tamils, the principal Dravidian race credited with having engendered the first literary heritage of the Indian sub-continent. Only one thing might be said of him with certitude:
he tamed the language like none other and was more alive to his "times" and his literary, inter-personal, romantic, religio-philosophical and political environment than any prince, philosopher or priest ever since. In my view, whoever he may have been, he was an unjustifiably oppressed individual like King Wen who wrote the judgments on the hexagrams and provided the explanations of their images and the Later Heaven arrangement of the Yi Jing, the Canon of Change.
Whose terse lines lie entangled in the colophon
Words come asunder blown on road side-table
Debris of wanton collisions intone
Long-gone ages singe the stylo his work shone
Who knows what diamond crumbs spill disable
Whose terse lines lie entangled in the colophon
Sans case-endings morphemes participial pun
Regimented feet in seven steps enable
Debris of wanton collisions intone
Who confined meaning in drumbeat phoneme moan
Lest envy upper-caste knowledge expose enable
Whose terse lines lie entangled in the colophon
None know who he was nor what age saw he sun
Savants pat cheeks his lines to render readable
Debris of wanton collisions intone
While lordly conferees seek to feather nests own
His sculpted riddles tease meaning and jumble
Whose terse lines lie entangled in the colophon
Debris of wanton collisions intone
* Thiru=Sacred; KURAL, meaning "short" or epigrammatic composition in the form of couplets (1330: ten kurals allotted to each topic in three books with a short introduction), composed and ordered according to the rules of a strict classical prosodical pattern: the "venba" metre while adhering to complex rhetorical features, such as, alliteration, assonance, initial-rhymes and ellipses. The author was known as Thiru-VALLUVAR. One of the earliest commentaries on the Kural, still extant, was made by a Tamil scholar PARIMELALAKAR during the 13th century.
(c) T. Wignesan - Paris, 2017
VILLANELLES IV
She Always Grew Roses
by Michael R. Burch
a belated eulogy for my grandmother, Lillian Lee
Tell us, heart, what the season discloses.
“Too little loved by the ego in its poses,
she always grew roses.”
What the heart would embrace, the ego opposes,
fritters away, and sometimes bulldozes.
Tell us, heart, what the season discloses.
“Too little loved by the ego in its poses,
she loved nonetheless, as her legacy discloses—
she always grew roses.”
How does one repent when regret discomposes?
When the shadow of guilt, at last, interposes?
Tell us, heart, what the season discloses.
“Too little loved by the ego in its poses,
she continued to love, as her handiwork shows us,
and she always grew roses.”
Too little, too late, the grieved heart imposes
its too-patient will as the opened book recloses.
Tell us, heart, what the season discloses.
“She always grew roses.”
The opened-then-closed book is a picture album. The season is late fall because it was in my autumn years that I realized I had written poems for everyone in my family except Grandma Lee. Hopefully it is never too late to repent and correct an old wrong.
Little Sparrow
by Michael R. Burch
for my petite grandmother, Christine Ena Hurt, who couldn’t carry a note, but sang her heart out with great joy, accompanied, I have no doubt, by angels
“In praise of Love and Life we bring
this sacramental offering.”
Little sparrow of a woman, sing!
What did she have? Hardly a thing.
A roof, plain food, and a tiny gold ring.
Yet, “In praise of Love and Life we bring
this sacramental offering.”
“Hosanna!” angel choirs ring.
Little sparrow of a woman, sing!
Whence comes this praise, as angels sing
to her tuneless voice? What of Death’s sting?
Yet, “In praise of Love and Life we bring
this sacramental offering.”
Let others have their stoles and bling.
Little sparrow of a woman, sing!
“In praise of Love and Life we bring
this sacramental offering
as the harps of beaming angels ring.
Little sparrow of a woman, sing!”
Keywords/Tags: villanelle, villanelles, refrain, roses, angel, angels, sparrow, sacrament, sacramental, family, grandmother, heart, ego, season, seasons, legacy, elegy, eulogy, remember, remembrance
Because Her Heart Is Tender, for Beth
by Michael R. Burch
She scrawled soft words in soap: “Never Forget”
dove-white on her car’s window (though the wren,
because its heart is tender, might regret
it called the sun to wake her). As I slept,
she heard lost names recounted, one by one.
She wrote in sidewalk chalk: “Never Forget!”
and kept her heart’s own counsel. No rain swept
away those words, no tear leaves them undone.
Because her heart is tender with regret,
bruised by razed towers’ glass and steel and stone
that shatter on and on and on and on ...
she stitches in damp linen: “NEVER FORGET!”
and listens to her heart’s emphatic song.
(The wren might tilt its head and sing along
because its heart once understood regret
when nestlings fell beyond, beyond, beyond ...
love's reach, and still the boot-heeled world strode on.)
She writes in adamant: “NEVER FORGET!”
because her heart is tender with regret.
Published by Neovictorian/Cochlea, The Villanelle, Nietzsche Twilight, The Eclectic Muse, Nietzsche Twilight, Nutty Stories (South Africa), Poetry Renewal Magazine, and Other Voices International
Because Her Heart is Tender (II)
by Michael R. Burch
Because her heart is tender
there is hope some God might mend her, …
some small hope Fates might relent.
Because her heart is tender
mighty Angels, come defend her!
Even the Devil might repent.
Because her heart is tender
Jacob’s Ladder should descend here,
the heavens open, saints assent.
Because her heart is tender
why does the cruel world rend her?
Fix the world, or let it end here!
Double Trouble
by Michael R. Burch
The villanelle is trouble:
it’s like you’re on the bubble
of beginning to see double.
It’s like you’re on the Hubble
when the lens begins to wobble:
the villanelle is trouble.
It’s like you’re Barney Rubble
scratching itchy beer-stained stubble
because you’re seeing double.
Then your lines begin to gobble
up the good rhymes, and you hobble.
The villanelle is trouble,
just like getting sloshed in the pub’ll
begin to make you babble
because you’re seeing double.
Because the form is flubbable
and is really not that loveable,
the villanelle is trouble:
it’s like you’re seeing double.
He enters looking bedraggled, tired and worn out, his skin like Vellum, blank and pale. Lifting his eyes to catch their gaze he gives a slight nod to acknowledge their presence. He scans the room as he would a poem, looking for an Indent that leads to a quiet corner. A half-lit light casts a shadow on the flock wallpaper, (ink stained)! He sits hidden from view, away from plagiaristic eyes. Head in hand scribbling while listening for a new word. A muse sings, emanating an un-heard Beat that guides his rhythm while searching for that elusive vowel. On the floor a scattering of pencil shavings and broken lead... frustration at the loss of an adjective, the Half-Rhyme squeezes like a tourniquet on the brain...
Frustration runs high as Enjambment slips off the stage and gathers in reflective pools. The Lady Pastoral reads an Elegy to the passing of Sir Rondeau Redouble, he lead a very lonely life, ascending and then diminishing becoming less Didactic, the Footle holds a Lantern for the loss, while the Limerick found it quite humorous.
At the bar a Stanza of poets gather, disciples of Villanelle, and regale of their latest triumphs in Womans Quarterly. The Epulaeryu's compare their Diamante while eating their babba ghanoosh. At the pool table the movers and shakers decant opinions on the latest 'form' something to do with A.E.I.O.U...Acrostic looks it up and down looking puzzled, Blank Verse remains silent. They dissect, analyse the entrails, the faint hearted look a little Grook. The atmosphere is tense, Verbs drift like dust in the light, causing confusion, they mop their brows with a tired Senryu, the Haiku has little to say on the matter...
A Quintain of intellectuals quietly sit, the Sicilian sipping slim line Monoku's ( no ice ) hoping for a Couplet before the end of the night. On a stool sits the barfly spilling his Bio over the counter top exposing an Ode-ious life, (Metaphorically speaking). On stage the hottest group in town, Chant Royal and the Syllables...singing their latest Sestina, the notes drift across the room resting on the floor, congealing into a Poet-tree fountain, they feel at home as the last act MC McWhirtle enthrals with his Ballad, the barman Ric Tameter calls time, the evening is a Rap, the club is Epic...
Do you know what is
the best part of
being with you?
To feel your warm
deep inside even
without holding your
hands.
Do you know what is
the worst part of
being with you?
To talk foolishly
about everything in
our every
convesation not
saying the word
running in my head "
I love you".
Do you know what is
the most exciting
part of being with
you?
To think same things
in the same time and
cry and laugh.
To miss you crazily
even you are here..
Do you know what is
the most painful
part of being with
you?
To share you with
many people even I
don't know
To envy childishly
everyone beside you,
talk with you.
Do you know what is
the happiest part of
being with you?
To walk with you
side by side on the
streets with the
doubtfulness of to
encounter a familiar
face
To get wet under the
rain persist of the
umbrella in my hand.
To wait for you with
a wild flower in my
hand..
To eat the same food
in the same place.
Do you what is the
most romantic part
of being with you?
to find you in every
page of books
To tell things to
the moon and stars
at nights I can't
tell you..
To find you in every
pages of book I
read, lyrics of
songs and poems.
Do you what is the
hardest part of
being with you?
To imprison my
indescribable
feelings that I felt
for the first time
into a boat in the
middle of the hope
sea cos of the fear
of losing you.
To accomplish being
friends not lovers
for years. To walk
barefoot on the
sharpest side of the
knife. Put my
eyedrops not salt on
my bleeding heart.
Do you what is the
only side affect to
be with you?
How can you know?
You were never with
me.
If you were with me
my hands would had
yours..
I wouldn't make up
my mind..
Wouldn't miss you
when you were by
me..
Wouldn't envy..
Wouldn't scare of
walking in streets..
Wouldn't get wet
under rains..
Wouldn't pour out my
problems to the moon
and stars, so drunk
in every song..
Wouldn't afraid of
losing you, would
jump from the boat
to the sea with my
bleeding feet..
And in each strike I
would scream your
name..
But you were never
with me..
YOUR MIND WAS NOT
WITH US OR YOUR
HEART
Days and days have passed no new introspection
Nothing to search for, the clock moves so slow
Looking into my eyes reveals an empty reflection
At times anger coursed through me like an infection
Guilt turned to blame and like a cancer it did grow
Days and days have passed no new instropection
The reasons why not found, I search every direction
Such powerful emotion and feeling, I had to let go
Looking into my eyes reveals an empty reflection
Hearing words like these you raised your objection
Over the time I know my patience has been low
Days and days have passed now new introspection
Facing the fading will of time there is no protection
Patience from above required, sadly I live here below
Looking into my eyes reveals an empty reflection
A new foundation in the midst, awaiting ********
Imprisoned by uncertainty, emotion cannot flow
Days and days have passed no new introspection
Looking into my eyes reveals an empty reflection
Written By Wayland Bunch II on 1/6/2014
Inspired by Love will tear us apart by Joy Division
Lyrics below from lyricsmode.com
Love Will Tear us Apart-Joy Division
When routine bites hard,
And ambitions are low.
And resentment rides high,
But emotions won't grow.
And we're changing our ways,
Taking different roads.
Then love,
Love will tear us apart again...
Love,
Love will tear us apart again...
And love,
Love will tear us apart again...
Love,
Love will tear us apart again...
Why is the bedroom so cold?
You've turned away on your side.
Is my timing that flawed?
Our respect runs so dry.
Yet there's still this appeal,
That we've kept through our lives.
Then love,
Love will tear us apart again...
Love,
Love will tear us apart again...
And love,
Love will tear us apart again...
Love,
Love will tear us apart again...
You cry out in your sleep,
All my feelings exposed
And there's a taste in my mouth,
As desperation takes hold.
Is it something so good,
Just can't function no more.
Then love,
Love will tear us apart again...
Love,
Love will tear us apart again...
And love,
Love will tear us apart again...
Love,
Love will tear us apart again...
If you orginally read this then, you would have seen it was a villanelle, actualy same it was the poem Hope, which I posted before this one. A very silly copy/paste error that was pointed out. Anyway fixed but original was too long now it's two poems. Thanks for reading.
He know returns the clerihewer of the fewer
Throwing his poetry soup idols in the sewer
With these naughty little lines of rhyme
It's MOSTLY in fun time after time
I think this is very long overdue
Of these I have written quite a few
Technically this one is out of form
With the rest I'll get back to the norm
I don't know what happened to our King of the quatrain
He's writing couplets and rhymes, but I won't complain
Just hopefully he doesn't ever do a free verse
Or I may have to break the rules and curse
Speaking of Jack the Quatrain King and cursing
He has an admirer of his poetry that's been rehearsing
I say that because who leaves comments before the coffee's even hot
I have my suspicions that Mr. Spivey is a robot
Once more with our King to what level does he make me stoop
I left a comment for a poem that contained in the title, Betty Boop
But haha my comment was the first to post
Too bad my house still reeks of burnt toast
I have always written alone, but now enterred a contest of group
With a green eyed girl that once wrote a poem about dog poop
I just had a little fun with it, but never asked her why
Because no one else would write about it was her reply
No if you're going to enter a teamwork contest do it with a Star
For surely you'll have a lot more chances to go very far
Of a thousand different jokes I could make
I'm going to leave it at that for my soul's sake
She seems like a sweet Welsh girl, but I think she has some fire inside
I think if she get's mad the best tatic would be to run and hide
Hopefully I won't let my big mouth get me into that situation
I'll let my words do all of my confrontation
I have always included the great PD in these
But I haven't talked to her in a while and couldn't ask her please
I won't take liberty at this time, I will first reflect
Really it's just a statment of respect
As thephilosopher readies for his p soup anniversary
Remembering he found this place last Christmas Day
Surely the best gift he did receive
Now for some holiday fun, DON”T LEAVE
Denise Narayadu I can't end the line with her name
To mispronounce it with a bad rhyme would be a shame
Her writing has very much intrigued me
In her poems often it's myself that I see
Of Anne Lise Andressen what can I toast
She's in a contest of which Debbi G is the host
Of who Santa Clause is her knowledge has a lack
If she asked I could easily have told her it's Jack
I mean look at Jack, white beard, hair a jolly feller
If my put my original line here, I'd be locked in a cellar
Any American could mistake Canada for the north pole
It's cold, I've never been there and at times there's a lot of snow
Jack Ellison in his Santa role this time of year
Oh from the straight and narrow often does he veer
Constant approval from the p soup ladies, I know he smiles
If I was Santa his naughty list would stretch for miles
Andrea D secretly a hater of the Villanelle
That’s atrocious what’s my basis you say
She hosted a contest and a thousand forms she will allow
BUT a max of 12 lines leaves me saying CHINGADO
PD, the SWEETEST poet destroyer she told me
A philosopher asks how sweet a destroyer can be
The poet in me reads her work with much confusion
The imagery addicting but my understanding a delusion
Becca Lucas the girl who lost her muse
If she had schizophrenia she may have several to lose
However several other problems this would pose
If one of them was mean I may be a victim of her prose
FJ Thomas gave me the wonderful gift of the Fibonacci
She might deserve a song but my muse isn’t Liberace
She wrote the Art of Being Broken, a deep piece but not long
Did some guy really leave a comment quoting a poison song
And finally I will close with Richard Lamoureux
If you haven’t seen his clerihew read it TODAY
Quiet humorous, he pokes fun with affection
His first clerihew was a work of perfection
Yes on a few new names Wayland did call
Unfortunately he still hasn’t got to them all
Some he intentionally won’t mention
It’s Christmas Eve and he seeks no dissention
Three score and ten:
The seconds turn into minutes, then to hours.
The hours spin into days, then weeks will fly by.
The weeks then quickly dissolve into many months.
The months that fleet and fly by into such short years.
All our average compliment is three score and ten.
Whatever-more is a bonus that God grants us.
We must make good use of the time that is given
Be very careful not to squander away time.
The seconds turn into minutes, then to hours.
Treasure the short time, always making your life full.
Once time passes, we cannot recall it again.
All our average compliment is three score and ten.
Never idle away the precious time you have.
Life is so full of unforeseen circumstances.
Once time passes, we cannot recall it again.
Each one of us will make mistakes along the way.
If you fall, get up quickly, try and try again.
The seconds turn into minutes, then to hours.
The long road, actually is not so long at all.
Before you know it, you will have come to the end.
Life is so full of unforeseen circumstances.
The dreams of yesterday, all but a memory.
Time has gone by like the sands in an hour glass.
The weeks they quickly dissolve into many months.
Live and love and cherish it closely to your heart.
For love will surely live on, even though you're gone.
Before you know it, you will have come to the end.
Accomplish as much as you can, never look back.
Time is unforgiving and takes no prisoners.
The seconds turn into minutes, then hours.
The weeks then quickly dissolve into many months.
Remember to enjoy life and use it up well.
The months that fleet and fly by into such short years.
For love will surely live on, even though you're gone
Whatever-more is a bonus that God gives us.
Steven Beesley (c) 2005-11-21
This is my first attempt at writing a poem in the Hybridanelle form, if you notice any mistakes please do email me.
Hybridanelle:
A hybrid of the terzanelle and villanelle form that has been developed by Erin Thomas. A detailed definition can be seen at http://allpoetry.com/Column/1086828