Villanelle Unveiled

I wrote a villanelle. Three actually, but the one I’m going to post is the only one I really like. This form was making me neurotic, I swear. I didn’t want to write it because I felt I would fail miserably. (Free verse is the only kind of poetry I’ve ever done, after all.)

But it wasn’t letting me rest either. I just had to write it, the weight of it was getting unbearable.

So after three tries, this is what materialized. Criticism is more than welcome, but please be gentle. I don’t want my first born to be slaughtered just yet.

 

Oh, curse the power that put me to sleep

While the lady in the apron stood at the shore,

“Here’s a warning, darling, don’t go in too deep.”

 

I gave the ocean all my treasures to keep.

But the lonely fisher-boy evened his score.

Oh, curse the power that put me to sleep.

 

What you sow, the others will reap,

the waves came whispering at my door.

“Here’s a warning, darling, don’t go in too deep.”

 

Once, the moon was a hurdle for my sheep.

Now, it rules the tides that crash and roar.

Oh, curse the power that put me to sleep.

 

Don’t take me down to where the weeds creep.

Don’t push me to mend what the wind tore.

“Here’s a warning, darling, don’t go in too deep.”

 

I ran to where my dreams lay in a heap.

I sorted them, put them back in my store.

Oh, curse the power that put me to sleep.

“Here’s a warning, darling, don’t go in too deep.”

 

P.s. Changes have been made after applying the constructive criticism given by Marie.

To-Do

Tomorrow, I’ll attempt a villanelle.

Should I try a sestina too?

Maybe after I master the villanelle.

It might take ages, or not.

Speaking of which, I’ve never even tried a sonnet before.

 

Tomorrow, tomorrow, I’ll love you tomorrow.

Working Does This to Me

I’m at a payphone

trying to call home

now that you’ve locked me out the door.

 

I pay half the rent.

It just isn’t fair.

Do you read my letters? Do you?

I write letters

on faded paper

 

pretending to work on a typewriter –

messy stains

click. clack. Ting.

 

They question me.

My sanity

 

She can not read.

(She’s dead)

(She’s dead)

 

Are you?

Then how do you speak to me?

I know no

necromancy.

Poison Poetry

Poison on the tip of your pen.

You suck it, savour

 

the bitter drug

It is the ink you write your

poems with.

 

It’s fatal, so you spew it

all over the world,

 

contaminate,

leave them to swill it,

drink it, die.

 

Your words a kiss

so simple, so sweet,

sugar, honey, love

death

The Door

I’ll cover my door with poetry

Don’t enter if you don’t understand.

Don’t string up lines that don’t connect,

Don’t pretend to know me or my life.

The verses might not make sense

But there’s a reason why they are there

They have meaning to me, should have some for you

if you mean to enter my lair.

They’ll be simple

and there’s no rush, so please

be patient, be kind, be calm,

for in those verses lies my life

and all of what I am.