Villainously Rejected Villanelles
 

After Dylan Thomas: Do not go gentle into that good night

Do Not Stay Sober on a Friday Night

Do not stay sober on a Friday night:
The young and thirsty dudes then flush with pay
Cheer, cheer there will be partying tonight.

Dull guys who think that night’s for love are right,
And having learned dry words scare girls away,
Do not stay sober on a Friday night.

Good dudes, the few still sane, are very bright,
Aware good deeds get punished every day,
Cheer, cheer there will be partying tonight.

Wild guys, like Icarus, who favored light,
Soon knowing that from sun they’ll dry and fry,
Do not stay sober on a Friday night.

Grave dudes in Rome, wine drunk with blurry sight,
Eyes round like bocce balls for games they play
Cheer, cheer there will be partying tonight.

Suave guy within the back-bar mirror’s twilight,
My twin forever, smiles as we both say,
Do not stay sober on a Friday night,
Cheer, cheer there will be partying tonight.

Ode to a Villanelle

You have to like the villanelle.
It beats the chore of counting sheep.
It seems to cast a drowsy spell.

It makes you feel pretty well.
At least it doesn’t make you weep.
You have to like the villanelle.

It does one thing and does it well.
It puts the wide awake asleep.
It seems to cast a drowsy spell.

It’s just the thing for show and tell.
Or spouting as you drive your jeep.
You have to like the villanelle.

I like the form as you can tell.
I like it more than Meryl Streep.
It seems to cast a drowsy spell.

It’s time to put it in a shell—
This little nut that’s yours to keep.
You have to like the villanelle.
It seems to cast a drowsy spell.

Brilliant, you guys. Don't give up.

THE THING ABOUT

The thing about a villanelle is that
no one likes them -- yet the form won't die.
It's where so many poets think it's at

and that they earn a feather for their hat
whenever they complete one. My reply:
the thing about a villanelle is that

they always seem so lifeless and so flat.
The mystery is understanding why
it's where so many poets think it's at.

Just let me share with you this little stat:
the world already has a big supply.
The thing about a villanelle is that

we need them like a blind mouse needs a cat,
like deserts need a little bit more dry.
It's where so many poets think it's at,

so here's my own, my tit exchanged for tat.
Thank goodness, it's now time to say good-bye.
The thing about a villanelle is that
it's where so many poets think it's at.

A Columbia Journalism Student Interviews Dylan Thomas
 

Relax, my boy, and drain another pint;
I used to be a bright - eyed chap like you;
Who wants to cash out sober in the night?

Remember, Kipling said the best get tight;
I've steeped my liver in a sea of brew.
Relax, my boy, and drain another pint.

My doctor says my kidneys are a fright,
My arteries are loaded up with goo;
Who wants to cash out sober in the night?

My heart is heavy, but my verse is light;
I'm old, but I have learned a thing or two.
Relax, my boy, and drain another pint.

I'll babble on like this 'til morning's light;
Old topers talk in circles, it is true.
Relax, my boy, and drain another pint.
Who wants to cash out sober in the night?

These are great! Here is ghastly! My incredibly disgusting confection of Iago’s misogynist words on women.


“Iago is the most honest character in Othello.”
—Attributed to W. H. Auden

Honest Iago’s Villanelle

Come on, come on; you are pictures out of doors,
Saints in injuries, devils when offended.
But then again, I think you are all whores.

It plucks out brains and all; but my muse labours
If you be fair and wise, fairness and witted.
And even so, you’re pictures out of doors.

Bells in your parlours, wild cats in kitchen chores
Or on your backs, your appetites are fed.
An honest man would call you honest whores.

You coyly hide from Venice rotten cores
And find a white that will your blackness wed,
So are proper as pictures out of doors.

Hussies you be to sell your sweetest stores,
Players in housewifery, and housewives ill-bred.
An honest man must call you honest whores.

Filth, thou liest—all villainous paramours!
You rise to play and go to work in bed.
Come on, come on; you’re mere pictures out of doors.
But then again, I know you are all whores.


Entirely Iago’s own words.

HONEST VILLANELLE

Here's the first line. It will be recast
and used again before this poem is through.
And here's the line I’ll end upon at last.

The challenge of a villanelle is vast.
I started poorly, reader, telling you
Here's the first line. It will be recast,

and even though I knew it was half-assed,
I figured, well, at least I know it’s true.
And then I wrote the line that would come last.

By now, dear reader, you are shocked, aghast,
and wondering if you have grounds to sue.
Here’s the twelfth line. Like the first, recast,

its vapid senselessness is unsurpassed.
It’s like a food you cannot taste or chew,
as is the line I’ve told you will come last.

I join you in your hope that it comes fast.
We all have much, much better things to do.
Here’s the first line, thoroughly recast.
And here's the line I’ll end upon. At last!

Reminds me of Lope's "Soneto de repente," which I suspect you had in mind. Woderfully done, Bob, this and the first one.

David R.

Bob, you inspired me:



VILLANELLE DE REPENTE

A villanelle has nineteen lines, I know,
but all I need to think of is thirteen,
and after this there’s only ten to go.

I’ll use some punctuation now to show
how I can change the way a line is seen:
A villanelle has nineteen lines. I know

if I enjamb on to the line below
the repetend, it might seem less routine.
And now there’s six, or maybe ten, to go –

it all depends on how you count. And so
I’m past ten lines, or nine – see what I mean?
A villanelle has nineteen. Lines, I know,

are scarce, so I am thrilled to trim my flow
some thirty-one point six percent more lean.
And now there’s only four, or two, to go.

Here’s one last line to rhyme with “know,” and “go,”
and one more line to fill the in-between.
A villanelle has nineteen lines, I know,
and I'm so glad there’s no more left to go.


David R.

As long as we're beating up on villanelles--

Villains

There has to be a very special hell
For poets who—from boredom or from spite--
Decide they have to write a villanelle.

For poets who cannot temptation quell
And add to this prosaic sort of blight
There has to be a very special hell.

Who maybe being under someone’s spell
And therefore not aware of what is right
Decide they have to write a villanelle.

There ought to be a deep resounding bell
To toll for those who want to stage this fright
There has to be a very special hell.

There ought to be a prison with a cell
Reserved for those, who being less than bright,
Decide they have to write a villanelle.

There ought to be a way this bagatelle
Is recognized as something mere and slight
There has to be a very special hell
For those who choose to write a villanelle.