[Maryann Corbett]

By special request from the Met board, here's a thread for villanelles from hell. (You can check out Cyn Neely's effort there if you're looking for someone to blame )

PS: "Met" is short for "Metrical Poetry," and here's a link to the thread in question, as requested by Esther, below:
Villanelle from Hell

[Roger Slater]

I guess someone has to go first. Blame Cyn for this hellish effort she inspired:


REASONS TO REPENT

God makes us each a custom-fitted hell.
In yours, perhaps, you'll never see the sky.
In mine, they'll make me write a villanelle.

For some, damnation means to say farewell
to those you love the best, and not know why.
God makes us each a custom-fitted hell,

our private, you-may-not-check-out hotel.
Yours has rules that simply don't apply
in mine. They'll make me write a villanelle

and taunt me with this promise: Do it well,
proceed to heaven. Fat chance, but I'll try.
God makes us each a custom-fitted hell.

For some, hell's just a stench that you must smell,
for others, where you burn but never die.
For me, it's where I write a villanelle,

for you, you could be chained inside a cell
and forced to read it. Gulp! The end is nigh.
Repent! It's not too late. Or else in hell
you may be doomed to read my villanelle.

[Petra Norr]

This was my virgin voyage through the villanelle, and I only made it halfway. I think it's called a villanette. I wrote it over a year ago. The second one I wrote was posted it D & A some months ago, and it was even worse. (-:

Let's Pretend


The echoes of a villanelle won’t end
unless a poet alters them with care.
So let’s pretend there is no repetend:

A poem is rather like the house we tend;
if we don’t fill it well, my dear, it’s bare.
The echoes of a villa, Nelle, won’t end.

Which brings to mind our empty home; you spend
our cash on clothes; there’s not a single chair.
So let’s pretend there is. No repetend

has marred this poem, but I can not defend
your new mink underwear, the life we share.
The echoes of a villa, Nelle, won’t end.
So let’s pretend there is no repetend.
.

[Roger Slater]

Nice villanito, Petra.

Not that I care if a fun thread goes off in other directions, but I thought our theme here was the "Villanelle From Hell" -- see Cyn's thread over at Met.

[Petra Norr]

The heading of the thread is "Villanelles, from hell and elsewhere".
My villanito is from elsewhere. ;-)
Besides, it's hell to be married to Nelle, and it's a hellish villanelle.
But I don't want to ruin the thread, so if nobody else posts anything I'll take it away and start over.

[basil ransome-davies]

Empson's 'Missing Dates' has always been among my most-valued poems. This is a real test of formal skill, to follow the protocols yet avoid monotony. Maybe I'll have a shot.


bazza

[Patricia A. Marsh]

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.

[Cyn Neely]

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.

[John Whitworth]

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.

[Cyn Neely]

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