The first poem I ever published was a villanelle, when I was a freshman in college. It would be many years before I learned what an iamb is, as I was about to be overwhelmed by instructors who thought meter had been outlawed a century ago, but I think it scans:
THE LOVE OF MY LIFE ASKS ME FOR A VILLANELLE
You ask me for a villanelle: How’s this?
It’s not too good, but still, it fits the form.
It’s like, if I were missing lips, I’d kiss
Somehow, someway. How could a man resist?
If I could barely rain, I’d play the storm.
You ask me for a villanelle: How’s this?
I’m running out of rhymes. I’m growing pissed.
I wrack my brain but I’m not even warm.
Still, even if I lacked the lips, I’d kiss.
My God, this writing poems is hard business.
So very few real good at it are born.
You ask me for a villanelle: How’s this?
I’ll try real hard, my love, if you insist,
But I can’t help but write the same old corn.
It’s like, if I were missing lips, I’d kiss.
It’s somewhat foggy, but, you catch the gist?
I try for you. You are my guiding norm.
You asked me for a villanelle: How’s this?
It’s like I’m missing lips and still I kiss.
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