Villanelle villanelle

After reading my previous poem, a friend sent me a villanelle that a friend of hers had written, and asked if I had considered using that poetic form.  In truth, it had always intimidated me, so I never even tried.  But after reading the rules and a few famous examples, I decided to bravely tackle it myself.  Then, of course, I needed something to write  about.  After a couple false starts, I decided to make it an exercise by using the form itself as the theme of the poem.  So the poem isn't necessarily deep or philosophical, but ironic.  In fact, I am rather pleased with my little joke.

I don't think I can write a villanelle.
I cannot seem to fit the pattern'd rhyme
(I've given up, in case you couldn't tell)

I wander through the freeform verses well
but struggle with such metronomic time;
I don't think I can write a villanelle.

These days iambic meter doesn't sell
and I have better ways to earn my dime.
(I've given up, in case you couldn't tell)

I might try a sonnet, locked inside a cell
with bread and water, given enough time...
I don't think I can write a villanelle.

I haven't strength to strain for that brass bell
and haven't hope to hear its blessed chime
(I've given up, in case you couldn't tell)

And so I'll slouch in my prosaic hell
despairing to such mighty mountains climb.
I don't think I can write a villanelle.
(I've given up, in case you couldn't tell)


The poem that inspired me to attempt the form is here.

The ghost

Here at last is a poem that has pressed me to be written for a long time.  This phantom haunted me almost constantly for years, gradually fading as such shades are wont to do.  Now I rarely see or hear her until I open an old album or listen to certain music.

The imagery is intended to point back to Shadow Thoughts, but the primary juxtaposition is, I hope, obvious.

The ghost

Alone and wandering on a winter day
I clutch my sputtering candle 'gainst the draught,
as shadows among tarnished promises play,
and dusty frozen faces shine and laugh.
Before me now, a rusted lock and bar
hides apparition of affections old,
whose fair form dims through years like youthful scar,
yet murmurs memories piercing, pale, and cold.
So, turning from that wisp wrapped in regret,
I soon recall a warm inviting den --
upon a gilded shelf my candle set
and flee back to my cheery hearth again.
This guttered wick still flickers for that soul,
but in the blaze of thine my heart is whole.