[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

[Esther Murer]

I don't suppose we could have a link to Cyn's thread over at Met, wherever that is?

Esther

[Maryann Corbett]

I've added the link now, at the top of this thread.

[Roger Slater]

If the subject here is villanelles in general, without "hell" involved, I have one in the can that fits the bill. I've put a "noindex" code in this post since this one has a qualified acceptance in the Finch anthology:

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 kept on writing, knowing it was 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 that’s destined to come last.

We can only hope that it comes fast.
We all have better things by far to do.
Here’s the first line, thoroughly recast.
And here's the line I’ll end upon at last.

[Tony Barnstone]

Mexican Movie, 1939

In dubious light we see the villain, El
Diablo, riding on a pale white horse.
A Devil lives inside this villain; hell
is gila monsters coiled inside the bell
of the dead church, the late sun’s tepid force.
In dubious light we see a villa, El
Casa del Sur, by whose adobe shell
Diablo reins his horse. But a still worse
Devil lives inside: our villain’s hell
is named Rosita Cruz, for whom he fell
in lust, for whom he took the villain’s course.
In dubious light we see the villanelle
Diablo witched up hoping it would spell
the end of her resistance, but of course
the Devil lives inside this villa; hell
is beauty dead to poems, to him: Why, tell
me, Dios, why so much pain? Are you the source?
In dubious light who knows the villain’s Hell?
What Devil lives inside this villanelle?