I can't pretend I just made this up.

The Welsh Wordsmith’s Villanelle

His photographs and portraits line the walls.
The roistering Rimbaud of Cwmdonkin Drive,
Yes it’s drinking, clinking Dylan talking balls,

And talking balls in seven different halls,
The bardman hardman stuck in overdrive.
His photographs and portraits line the walls.

This porky poet rises ere he falls.
The welshing wizard takes another dive.
Yes it’s winking, blinking Dylan talking balls.

He’s got the wit but where’s the wherewithal?
Such drones are rightly driven from the hive.
His photographs and portraits line the walls.

He can’t resist the constant curtain calls.
‘It’s only when I write I feel alive.’
Yes it’s jinking, swinking Dylan talking balls.

He scrawls and sprawls; they love it in the stalls:
Another sodding Celtic saint to shrive.
His photographs and portraits line the walls.
Yes it’s stinking, sinking Dylan talking balls.

Who could have guessed the pent-up need was so great!

Fun work. Long live D&A.

I don't have the time to be formally perfect this evening, so this must be considered a "non-villanelle from hell."

When I discovered I'd been sent to hell,
the devil put me in a rocking chair
and told me I must write a villanelle

per day forever. By the sound and smell
I knew that there were other people there,
and soon I saw them through the smoke of hell,

and one cried out, "I never learned to spell,
and now I'm paying for it!" In despair,
another cried, "I hate this villanelle,

but I loved semicolons much too well."
And as I heard them rave and rant and swear,
I knew I was in Formal Poet Hell --

I never wrote a verse that I could sell
and now I won't be published anywhere,
or ever leave my seat in Poet Hell
or finish up this endless villanelle.

Digression: I'm reminded of a favorite Episcopal joke.
A woman dies and goes to hell. The devil places her at a table with three other women, where they are doomed to play bridge forever.
So she says, "Why are you here?"

The first woman says "I'm Catholic, but I used to eat meat on fast days."

The second woman says, "I'm Jewish, but I used to eat pork."

The third woman says, "I'm a Baptist, but I used to drink Scotch."

And the newcomer says, "I'm an Episcopalian, and I once ate my
entire dinner with my salad fork."

(Well, I guess you had to be there...)

OK all. Tell me you didn't just write them on the spur of the moment. There is a special type of hell for you if so.....

Tony, how funny.

These are great. Keep them coming.

I guess villanelles about writing villanelles are legion, and I've committed several. Here's one:

My Funny Villanelle

My funny villanelle, my comic villanelle
becomes a smile from my hand;
it isn’t written well, as anyone can tell,

yet it’s so terrible it’s almost risible,
and so may meet the demand
for funny villanelles and comic villanelles

that now begins to swell and multiply pell-mell
throughout this whole wide land.
It isn’t written well, as anyone can tell;

I doubt I’ll ever sell this poem to Mademoiselle,
much less to Racing Fan.
My funny villanelle, my comic villanelle

just doesn’t want to jell, the lines aren’t parallel,
it needs a rewrite man.
It isn’t written well, as anyone can tell,

the meter limps like hell, it makes me want to yell
"Scan, funny villanelle, scan!"
It isn’t written well, as anyone can tell.
It’s time to quell my comic villanelle.

Eve: "Wh-what?! Is this the distaff side?"

. . . . . Woman has no soul, no Anima; but she has an Animus. --- Jung
. . . .. Nyah, nyah! She ain't got no penis neither. --- Freud


For more of life, he tried; but night and day
the patient, urgent worm within him ate
the little bit he had.

the little bit he had.She threw away
or lost [or hid] what need for words there may
have been and, like the child who learned to wait
for more of life, she lied.

for more of life, she lied. But Night and Day,
opposing blades too blunt to cut---[Were they
too dull to entertain or celebrate
the little bit she had?]--She threw away.


He chided her, "Such waste!. What can you say
for your Self now? Time grows so soon too late
for more of Life!"

for more of life!" She cried, "But . . . "

for more of life!" She cried, "But . . . " Night and day,
with unpersuasive hands too weak to sway
strange tides that rocked his mind, she grew to hate
the little bit She had.

the little bit She had. She threw away,
to his surprise, in shameless wild display
her grey cocoon and said, "So much for Fate!"

For more of life, he sighed.

For more of life, he sighed. But, Night and Day?
The little bit she had, She threw away.

Esther
That is brilliant - to write a villanelle to the tune of Funny Valentine

My funny valentine, my comic valentine...

cracked me up - and pure Esther.

My last was a cheat - just something prepared earlier. But here's the real stuff, an early draft it's true, nevertheless. Hot from the presses!

The Villanelle from Hell

Before I wrote this villanelle
The bugger drooped and dropped and died.
He went before to burn in Hell

Pride comes before a fall. He fell.
The good Lord smote him in his pride
Before I wrote this villanelle.

In everlasting fires to dwell,
With dancing devils to abide,
He went before to burn in Hell.

Being left with nothing else to sell
He sold his soul. At least he tried,
Before I wrote this villanelle.

The moving finger moves to spell
Naught for your comfort is supplied.
He went before to burn in Hell

The Wrath of God was loosed pell-mell
And nowhere else was left to hide
Before I wrote this villanelle.

He left a charred and sooty smell.
It’s hot in here. It’s cold outside.
He went before to burn in Hell
Before I wrote this villanelle.

well you guys have all really sunk to the challenge admirably. I may be forced to write another <cringe>

..............