Art Villanelle Poems | Examples
These Art Villanelle poems are examples of Villanelle poems about Art. These are the best examples of Villanelle Art poems written by international poets.
The magic you will always return to,
Isn't just the body of your love's quest;
Like the body, your burdened soul once glue.
The fragrance of her smiling face, pursue...
Risk of timing grace you never confessed:
The magic you will always return to,
Is of unseen peering eyes beyond clue,
To free the touching mind posing unrest...
Like the body, your burdened soul once glue.
Awful memories mind never subdue;
Through the worst, best moments wish be confessed-
The magic you will always return to.
Catching a glimpse of crime, love denied queue,
Trying to cover up pleasure... expressed;
The magic you will always return to,
Like the body, your burdened soul once glue.
The canvas waits beneath a tempered blade.
A pale silver knife, not forged for war, I wield.
I paint the silence that the wounds betrayed.
The sky lies torn in strokes of celeste shade,
each slash more raw, no truth left unrevealed—
the canvas waits beneath a tempered blade.
No brush can bruise the dark the way I’ve flayed
these hues loose, their former grace repealed.
I paint the silence that the wounds betrayed.
My muse—half shadow, half cascade—
emerges from each mark I will not shield.
The canvas waits beneath a tempered blade.
No line stays; no form can be obeyed.
I seek what's felt, not what can be concealed.
I paint the silence that the wounds betrayed.
She stares back now, the shape that art mislaid—
a scar turned sycamore across the field.
The canvas waits beneath a tempered blade.
I paint the silence that the wounds betrayed.
A tune that’s doused in giocoso
will leave listeners with a full heart;
It bleeds with a rhythm staccato;
Fly guitar that’s not born to follow
joins forces that act like a kickstart;
A tune that’s doused in giocoso;
Sangere holding a melos with flow
throws that lyrical poisonous dart;
It bleeds with a rhythm staccato;
The message is kind but not mellow,
it’s more like a ferocious jumpstart;
A tune that’s doused in giocoso;
Falling into a chorus you know,
three minutes and thirty of fine art;
It bleeds with a rhythm staccato;
He’s such a graceful virtuoso,
emotions he tends to pick apart;
A tune that’s doused in giocoso,
it bleeds with a rhythm staccato.
I wonder why these words are short
When they should have been rather long,
That, we have fair time to abort.
Fine, we’re not in judicial court,
Nor are scared of the judge’s gong,
Wonder still why the words are short.
There are those caught as if in fort
And feel, an abrupt ‘no’ is wrong,
Wish, they’d enough time to abort,
And say no in a polite sort
Of way that sounds a sweet dingdong,
I wonder why yes too is short.
None of the two should be so curt
And should be said like a sweet song
That gives enough time to abort.
To say them well’s a rare fine art
T’be cultivated all along,
I wonder why these words are short,
We need enough time to abort.
___________________________
Villanelle |02.10.2024|word, yes, no
Poet’s note: We often find it so difficult to say no, we are forced to say yes under pressure. Why? Perhaps both ‘yes’ and’ no’ as words are so short, they do not give us enough time to think. This Villanelle is born from this lack of comfort.
To reach to thy heart
I wrote poems all my life.
Too late on my part
When I knew in utter strife,
The roadblocks were far too rife.
Dear poet, please come get your tapestry,
Tacked across the window—it hangs askew.
My cat’s convinced it’s hers to claw, you see.
The reds all clash—they’re far from harmony,
But hey, it fills the space and hides the view.
Dear poet, please come get your tapestry,
Its threadbare pattern does not speak to me;
Much too common, and maybe that’s your clue—
My cat’s convinced it’s hers to claw, you see.
It’s not a work of art, and nothing’s free
From dust or frays. (Did I just spy some glue?)
Dear poet, please come get your tapestry,
And now I wonder why you let it be
The thing that guests first spot when they walk through.
My cat’s convinced it’s hers to claw, you see.
It stabs my eyes, though I am rarely pleased,
A story’s just a string from old to new.
Dear poet, please come get your tapestry,
My cat’s convinced it’s hers to claw, you see.
I hold your hand, my guiding light
To our home, a warm November hearth
My treasure, my altar to life
Sweetest coffee, my pure delight
Blanket of bliss, your jubilant mirth
I hold your hand, my guiding light
In crisp ashen skies flies a kite
When sunshine tires you make up its worth
My treasure, my altar to life
Hair tranquil midnight, skin Valette white
Angelic kiss, your hips sway with your pert
I hold your hand, my guiding light
You surpass art, O perfect sight
I was made for you since birth
My treasure, my altar to life
Starshine my goddess of achrondite
I covet time with you on this Earth
You are my all, and all is right
My treasure, my altar to life
When soul mirrors mourning moonrise,
rose silk ink bleeds fluent fine art,
while the goddess of thunder sighs.
Forsaken flowers face grey skies,
to illuminate kohl glass heart,
when soul mirrors mourning moonrise.
Shadows swirl amidst cosmic ties,
searching for stars from miles apart,
while the goddess of thunder sighs.
Dreams glow like neon gold fireflies,
yearning for songs that never depart,
when soul mirrors mourning moonrise.
Some rhymes are stained in scarlet dyes,
to thaw the pain on a night's dart,
while the goddess of thunder sighs.
I paint sunsets with cold desires,
find crystal clear cues to restart,
when soul mirrors mourning moonrise,
while the goddess of thunder sighs.
Humming just like an electric daisy
a cloudless sky filled with high voltage;
The underlying sound calms my crazy;
Smoke from the trains rather hazy
zoom zoom on elevated wattage;
Humming just like an electric daisy;
It’s like the song was made just for me,
listening to music scented with sage;
The underlying sound calms my crazy;
Biological senses reconstruct reality,
you escape your body’s weak cage;
Humming just like an electric daisy;
Creating art out of mental debris
motivated by eliminating carnage;
The underlying sound calms my crazy;
Inner peace so prevalent lately
some may say I rely on a mirage;
Humming just like an electric daisy,
the underlying sound calms my crazy.
I'm lonely
Everyone takes me for fun
Thinking its just a story
Deserted by the one whom I loved
She promised me
So I gave her all
I'm in a path of loneliness
My soul keeps going
With no holiness
I thought it was love
She blinded me
Now I know she deserves no trust
I can't continue
Cause broken my heart,she has
Made it disable
"Curse be unpond her "
As I cry
Says my mother when the wind hiss
Now I'm in order
A.I Chat GPT just type a topic in
and that masterpiece will spit out;
That’s all you really need to begin;
It’s the most unforgivable sin,
automatic art shouldn’t equal clout;
A.I Chat GPT just type a topic in;.
Poach what it means to be human,
write feelings you know nothing about;
That’s all you really need to begin;
Bots are a cheap impersonation,
broken tech leads to an idea drought;
A.I Chat GPT just type a topic in;
Pass us that false bravado no question,
incapable of a complex route;
That’s all you really need to begin;
You’re selected for instant publication
drowning without any depth no doubt;
A.I Chat GPT just type a topic in,
that’s all you really need to begin.
You’ve never been on a subway,
I’ve never made homemade ice cream;
Maybe we’ll explore together someday;
High rise suite or an opulent chalet,
come with me hang out in my dream;
You’ve never been on a subway;
Walk the city get lost along the way
still all those lights will simply gleam;
Maybe we’ll explore together someday;
My ‘Train Approach’ sign stuck on delay
above urban art on an elevated beam;
You’ve never been on a subway;
The first bite of a brand new entree
me with a garden would be a scream;
Maybe we’ll explore together someday;
With me around there’s never a replay,
I promise to take it to the extreme;
You’ve never been on a subway,
maybe we’ll explore together someday.
It’s not about you I write for me;
To keep a positive mind or vent,
so much more than art it’s therapy;
Poetry let’s me be real gutsy;
Speaking the way I have always meant,
it’s not about you I write for me;
Using clever vocabulary
the benefits won’t cost you a cent;
So much more than art it’s therapy;
I express myself so easily
this time alone is perfectly spent;
It’s not about you I write for me;
I’m able to shout creatively
a breakdown it tends to circumvent,
so much more than art it’s therapy;
Finding a taste of serenity
as my pen goes crazy a moment;
It’s not about you I write for me;
So much more than art it’s therapy.
Schooling life- a main pursuit to learn,
Is surrounded by various impairments:
As much as catching fun-fill cruises, spurn!
Easier said than done- taking the right turn;
Good enough to measure apt adjustments,
Schooling life- a main pursuit to learn.
Goals avoid suffering consequential burn;
Been on phone longer than reading confronts-
As much as catching fun-fill cruises, spurn!
Aims widen scopes to balance grades concern
"Phone-'let there be light;' book- darkness affronts"
Schooling life- a main pursuit to learn.
Objectives object what football games yearn,
Both on field and view centre attachments,
As much as catching fun-fill cruises, spurn!
Late night matches during exams, pattern
Crying-read sleepy eyes' grace advancements...
Schooling life-a main pursuit to learn,
As much as catching fun-fill cruises, spurn!
No day have I ever work with the clock,
Come sun; come moon to running time's relay...
There- my upright stand rests on solid rock.
While sun shines; upon my sweats, my hands knock...
Wealth's door at health's risk- foot bills I delay.
No day have I ever work with the clock.
Boys are not stones; men are not rock to mock,
If demands can't be met despite survey,
There- my upright stand rest on solid rock.
Honor men: burden carriers that unlock,
Scary box of obligation's dismay...
No day have I ever work with the clock.
Appreciate strength, will and pain men block.
Happy world international men's day!
There- my upright stand rest on solid rock.
With hope to meet up everyday's house stock,
And wish peace and health not be led astray.
No day have I ever work with the clock,
There- my upright stand rests on solid rock.
Pump on, lest death may play its part,
with weight of sin or righteousness.
It is not ours, this beating heart.
Indeed, when schemes may fall apart,
though souls be gripped by frightfulness.
Pump on, lest death may play its part.
And though the wiles of a sweetheart,
her leave to cause much woefulness.
It is not ours, this beating heart.
Or when death nears, and angels dart,
seek not redress for life’s caress.
Pump on, lest death may play its part.
All things forever from the start,
are linked as one through timelessness.
It is not ours, this beating heart.
Life is but hues of nature’s art,
not bound to whims of false noblesse.
Pump on, lest death may play its part.
It is not ours, this beating heart.