[Kate Benedict]

[Deep apologies to Yeats and good hags everywhere]

Willy Vanilli Villanelle
(or The Sex Appeal’s Desertion)


I must lie down where all the ladders start,
and sleep under the rungs with wiggly rats
in the foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart.

The smell down here is sulphurous and tart:
the old slut keeps a multitude of cats.
I must lie down where all the ladders start.

I may no longer climb them and depart.
I pitch my woo upon these fetid mats
in the foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart.

What maid would find me fair, a worn old fart,
a fop, beddraggled in his tattered spats.
I must lie down where all the ladders start,

choose hags for friends and all that hags impart--
their vexing cackles and their hexing vats--
in the foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart.

I’m done with poetry, I’m done with art.
Redheads spurn me, I attract old bats.
I must lie down where all the ladders start,
in the foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart.

[RCL]

Very nice, Kate. It also seems to echo Thomas's "Lament," with the old ram-rod dying of welcomes, etc.

------------------
Ralph

[MScott]

RCL: The technical part is what I was worried about the most. However, the explanation is pretty simple actually--obviously not enough, shame on me. It's about those people who believe in following God's word 100% being added as jewels in his crown as reward for their faith. The stanza below that's so vague,

Fulfilled with promise, like a spool of thread
across a chop of icy barren floes
not one of them acknowledged they were dead

is supposed to say the faithful will have a tiny path to lead them through life and be so happy they won't even care they've died.

But oh well. If the format is right that's 50%.

Thanks for taking time to let me know how it hit you.

M

[A. E. Stallings]

Kate--delightful!

The experiment seems to be working...

[PrttyKtty]

OOPS! I see that I mis-posted for this thread by posting a new topic! Apologies. I'll move it over here. Alicia, if you can delete the other post, that would be great.

Apologies to Yeats (Among School Children)


French Twist

O body swayed to music, O brightening glance
that even more than words imparts affection,
how can we know the dancer from the dance?

Her rhythmic prance has captured him in trance;
dim light and mirrors make a soft reflection
of body swayed to music and brightening glance.

Ah, such is France renowned of swift romance,
that his amour is not without detection,
but does he know the dancer from the dance?

He takes the chance to proffer his advance,
though he is troubled he might find rejection
of her body swayed to music, her brightening glance.

Their cozy stance his intimacy grants;
alas, too late he keens his misperception
and surely knows the dancer from the dance.

She looks askance; he jumps, as through his pants
he feels the hard demand of her erection.
As her body sways to music, her brightening glance
says, NOW he knows the dancer from the dance!

[This message has been edited by PrttyKtty (edited April 03, 2001).]

[RCL]

PK, I also saw last night's episode of Ally McBeal, but just don't write as fast as you do! A magic moment.

------------------
Ralph

[PrttyKtty]

Ralph,
Was Ally McBeal related? I have to admit that I rarely watch television at all, and I've never seen Ally McBeal. It would be really weird if the theme was similar!
Mary

PS edit. I just asked a co-worker who does watch it. She explained what you meant! That IS weird!

[This message has been edited by PrttyKtty (edited April 03, 2001).]

[Julie]

Please don't laugh too hard at this, my first attempt at a villanelle. The lines are from Helen Hunt Jackson's Poppies on the Wheat.

Deceit


I shall be glad remembering how the fleet
sails in as I stand on a windy knoll.
Lithe poppies run like torchmen with the wheat

in fields below, as red as any sweet
strawberry as the warships take their toll.
I shall be glad remembering how the fleet

young men dash up my hill on tired feet
accepting what I give them in a bowl--
lithe poppies. Run like torchmen with the wheat;

but wise men are more careful where they eat,
recalling whose fine hens and goats they stole.
I shall be glad remembering. How the fleet,

fat clouds roll in! They slyly think to cheat
me of my vision. I accept my role.
Lithe poppies run like torchmen with the wheat

below, and all their dead lie in defeat.
The ships! I have no time to gloat and stroll,
but shall be glad remembering how the fleet,
lithe poppies ran like torchmen with the wheat.

[Jerry H Jenkins]

This is a pastiche of three of Shakespeare's sonnets (10, 18, 55). I've taken a few liberties with some of the repetends and his lines, but this is fairly close to the lines of his I've chosen.

The Genetic Engineer Reflects

I am shamed by that which I bring forth.
Make thee another self, for love of me,
for you, in living, bear things nothing worth

That wonder which shall perish from the earth.
Though beauty still may live in thine or thee,
I am shamed by that which I bring forth.

Chill winds do blow from out the barren north
and freeze all earth with monstrous poverty.
And so do you, who bear things nothing worth.

For in your mirrored you, some phantom stirreth
the waning codes of your true memory
and shames me by what you and I bring forth,

So even Satan, seeing it, abhorreth
the fruits of his own ancient devilry.
And so should you, to bear things nothing worth.

In all for whom or what I foster birth,
let there be naught of thee and less of me,
for I am shamed by that which I bring forth
and so should you, to bear things nothing worth.

[A. E. Stallings]

Mary, I'll never read those lines the same way again. Ha!

Julie, lovely and strange. I think I am missing a reference though. Is the speaker meant to be someone particular--Cleopatra, Circe?

Jerry, Mr. Form and Function--too clever by half! You have succeeded in composing an entire poem by splicing and cloning...