VILLANELLE IN CLOCKWORK

Wind me up and let me go,
I’m made of plastic, cork and tin,
hear me whirr and watch me glow.

My wheels and cogs are words and though
I have a robot heart within,
wind me up and let me go.

My feet will stamp but that’s all show,
I’m quite incapable of sin,
hear me whirr and watch me glow.

Sometimes I lose direction: throw
myself around and cut my chin,
wind me up and let me go.

I’m brighter than your average Joe,
I’m neat in boot and glove and fin,
hear me whirr and watch me glow.

You like great gags or tales of woe,
mechanical, sharp as a pin?
wind me up and let me go.

Feelings? Well, I wouldn’t know,
I think you get what you put in,
wind me up and let me go,
hear me whirr and watch me glow.

gonzo villanelle
 

We get to choose our kith but not our kin,
Which means the latter have us by the throat.
It magnifies the pickle we are in.

Perhaps there are some issues we can win.
Though hell is other folk, as Sartre wrote,
We get to choose our kith but not our kin.

Good luck, those who pick winners with a pin.
If superstition is the antidote
It magnifies the pickle we are in.

Enhancing opportunities for sin,
We fool around disgracefully, but note:
We get to choose our kith but not our kin.

To cross the family can cause chagrin.
The easy way is hacking it by rote.
It magnifies the pickle we are in.

We never hear the truth, only the spin
That says we're free; then when it comes to vote
We get to choose our kith but not our kin.
It magnifies the pickle we are in.

wow, a lot has happened since I last checked in yesterday. There are some fantastic poems here! This is my first, Cyn's poem gave me the push.


Greenhorns


I’m trying hard to ride Ol’ Villanelle,
but western saddles chafe me and my mare.
We need a spot to stop and rest a spell.

The tumbleweeds, the blowing dust, the smell
of cattle make her spook and paw the air.
I’m trying hard to right Ol’ Villanelle--

she’s circling left-- I rein her straight and yell,
now giddyup! She bucks and snorts. I swear.
We need a spot to stop and rest a spell,

driving steers through strange frontier is hell
because we don’t possess the savoir faire.
I’m trying hard to ride Ol’ Villanelle

without the use of crop or spur, mon Belle
just doesn’t have a bit of oomph to spare,
we need a spot to stop and rest a spell.

I wish we’d never left the L Bar L.
Nell’s back is sore, and so’s my derriere.
I’m trying hard to ride Ol’ Villanelle.
We need a spot to stop and rest a spell.

I can't believe I'm wasting my time on this and there's not even an extra fiver or tea set to strive for.


HELL

Flames to burn you, sewage waste to smell,
your eyes both punctured and your body flayed.
What's worse, you must compose a villanelle.

The preacher did not lie to claim that hell
would not be fun, your every sin repaid.
Flames to burn you, sewage waste to smell,

a hunger and a thirst you cannot quell,
your face a grotesque monster masquerade.
What's worse, you must compose a villanelle.

Perhaps you will be strong enough to dwell
where every moment you will be sauteed
with flames to burn you, your own flesh to smell,

but how will you endure it when each cell
of your poor sinning writhing brain is made
-- oh horror! -- to compose a villanelle?

God's got you by the short hairs. You'd do well
to toe the line, stop sinning, and evade
flames that burn you, sewage you must smell,
and worst of all, the goddamn villanelle.

I can't believe how many of you are doing this when you don't HAVE to. I, at least, had an excuse!

These are brilliant though, better than most examples I could find when trying to become inspired.

Are we allowed to post serious villanelles?

My villanelles are alweays serious, David.

I don't make the rules, but I'd say any villanelle is from hell - serious or not - so it should not be excluded

--Wot: slagging off my esteemed compatriot? I thought, he cannot be serious.

painting by numbers
 

Oh the agony. You could get a Hank Williams or Roy Orbison song out of this. It's only a set verse form, not Godzilla on stilts.