And here's another from those thrilling days of yesteryear - so far back that I had not yet started crapping on people for writing poems about poetry. This one was in the Umbrella Journal, and is a sonnet about a villanelle - or possibly a villanelle about a sonnet. Or a villanelle about a villanelle. Or something.
Do Not Go Gentle into that Quenelle
I wish I could create a villanelle
With poet’s flourish, and a sous-chef’s care,
As sweet and subtle as a plump
quenelle.
A proper, formal Miss, of classic phrase,
Her soft, hypnotic voice can weave a spell
That leaves this anxious suitor in a daze:
She is my siren of the villanelle.
I must find piquant lines that mingle well
(The recipe demands a perfect pair)
With which I could create that
villanelle
As easily as I take shrimp and shell
Them, grind them, beat in egg whites full of air
And sweetly, subtly, raise a plump
quenelle.
Those retold lines and oft-repeated rhymes,
Old-fashionedly romantic Gallic pace,
The ease with which she makes each point four times,
Accent her elegance, her form, her grace.
But overlabored tercets will not swell
My dish - If I could blend their essence with the flair
I wish, I would create a
villanelle
That marries words and verbs in parallel
With nutmeg, cayenne, heavy cream; prepare
It sweet and subtle; as a plump
quenelle,
And if she seems to stutter, just as well -
No twists or turns or sonnets’ clever ways
Disturb the quiet, mesmerizing swell
Of every echolalic, encored phrase,
French-kissed with fruits de mer and bechamel,
A mix to metaphorically declare:
I wish I could create a villanelle
As sweet and subtle as a plump
quenelle.
As I begin to see that I adore
A nagging and reiterative bore.