The HyperTexts

The Best Villanelles by Michael R. Burch

These are the best villanelles by Michael R. Burch, whether original poems or translations. There are also trinelles. The trinelle or triplenelle is a variation of the villanelle with either three repeating lines or all lines having the same rhyme. Also included are similar poems with refrains, such as translations of rondels, roundels, rondeaux and other villanelle-like poems of my own nonce creation.

Villanelle: The Divide
by Michael R. Burch

The sea was not salt the first tide ...
was man born to sorrow that first day,
with the moon—a pale beacon across the Divide,
the brighter for longing, an object denied—
the tug at his heart's pink, bourgeoning clay?

The sea was not salt the first tide ...
but grew bitter, bitter—man's torrents supplied.
The bride of their longing—forever astray,
her shield a cold beacon across the Divide,
flashing pale signals: Decide. Decide.
Choose me, or His Brightness, I will not stay.

The sea was not salt the first tide ...
imploring her, ebbing: Abide, abide.

The silver fish flash there, the manatees gray.

The moon, a pale beacon across the Divide,
has taught us to seek Love's concealed side:
the dark face of longing, the poets say.

The sea was not salt the first tide ...
the moon a pale beacon across the Divide.

"The Divide" is essentially a formal villanelle despite the non-formal line breaks.

Villanelle: Ordinary Love
by Michael R. Burch

Indescribable—our love—and still we say
with eyes averted, turning out the light,
"I love you," in the ordinary way

and tug the coverlet where once we lay,
all suntanned limbs entangled, shivering, white ...
indescribably in love. Or so we say.

Your hair's blonde thicket now is tangle-gray;
you turn your back; you murmur to the night,
"I love you," in the ordinary way.

Beneath the sheets our hands and feet would stray
to warm ourselves. We do not touch despite
a love so indescribable. We say

we're older now, that "love" has had its day.
But that which Love once countenanced, delight,
still makes you indescribable. I say,
"I love you," in the ordinary way.

"Ordinary Love" was the winner of the 2001 Algernon Charles Swinburne poetry contest. It was originally published by Romantics Quarterly and nominated by the journal for the Pushcart Prize. It is missing a tercet but seemed complete enough without it.—MRB

Remembering Not to Call
by Michael R. Burch

a villanelle permitting mourning, for my mother, Christine Ena Burch

The hardest thing of all,
after telling her everything,
is remembering not to call.

Now the phone hanging on the wall
will never announce her ring:
the hardest thing of all
for children, however tall.

And the hardest thing this spring
will be remembering not to call
the one who was everything.

That the songbirds will nevermore sing
is the hardest thing of all
for those who once listened, in thrall,
and welcomed the message they bring,
since they won’t remember to call.

And the hardest thing this fall
will be a number with no one to ring.

No, the hardest thing of all
is remembering not to call.

Double Trouble
by Michael R. Burch

The villanelle is trouble:
it’s like you’re on the bubble
of beginning to see double.

It’s like you’re on the Hubble
when the lens begins to wobble:
the villanelle is trouble.

It’s like you’re Barney Rubble
scratching itchy beer-stained stubble
because you’re seeing double.

Then your lines begin to gobble
up the good rhymes, and you hobble.
The villanelle is trouble

and like drinking in the pub’ll
begin to make you babble
because you’re seeing double.

Because the form is flubbable
and is really not that loveable,
the villanelle is trouble:
it’s like you’re seeing double.

Villanelle: Because Her Heart Is Tender
by Michael R. Burch

for Beth

She scrawled soft words in soap: "Never Forget,"
Dove-white on her car's window, and the wren,
because her heart is tender, might regret
it called the sun to wake her. As I slept,
she heard lost names recounted, one by one.

She wrote in sidewalk chalk: "Never Forget,"
and kept her heart's own counsel. No rain swept
away those words, no tear leaves them undone.

Because her heart is tender with regret,
bruised by razed towers' glass and steel and stone
that shatter on and on and on and on,
she stitches in wet linen: "NEVER FORGET,"
and listens to her heart's emphatic song.

The wren might tilt its head and sing along
because its heart once understood regret
when fledglings fell beyond, beyond, beyond ...
its reach, and still the boot-heeled world strode on.

She writes in adamant: "NEVER FORGET"
because her heart is tender with regret.

Because Her Heart is Tender (II)
by Michael R. Burch

Because her heart is tender
there is hope some God might mend her,
some small hope Fates might relent.

Because her heart is tender
mighty Angels, come defend her!
Even the Devil might repent.

Because her heart is tender
Jacob’s Ladder should descend here,
the heavens open, saints assent.

Because her heart is tender
why does the cruel world rend her?
Fix the world, or let it end here!

She Always Grew Roses
by Michael R. Burch

for my grandmother, Lillian Lee

Tell us, heart, what the season discloses.
“Too little loved by the ego in its poses,
she always grew roses.”

What the heart would embrace, the ego opposes,
fritters away, and sometimes bulldozes.
Tell us, heart, what the season discloses.

“Too little loved by the ego in its poses,
she loved nonetheless, as her legacy discloses—
she always grew roses.”

How does one repent when regret discomposes?
When the shadow of guilt, at last, interposes?
Tell us, heart, what the season discloses.

“Too little loved by the ego in its poses,
she continued to love, as her handiwork shows us,
and she always grew roses.”

Too little, too late, the grieved heart imposes
its too-patient will as the opened book recloses.
Tell us, heart, what the season discloses.
“She always grew roses.”

The opened-then-closed book is a picture album. The season is late fall because it was in my autumn years that I realized I had written poems for everyone in my family except Grandma Lee. Hopefully it is never too late to repent and correct an old wrong.

Little Sparrow
by Michael R. Burch

for my petite grandmother, Christine Ena Hurt, who couldn’t carry a note, but sang her heart out with great joy, accompanied, I have no doubt, by angels

“In praise of Love and Life we bring
this sacramental offering.”
Little sparrow of a woman, sing!

What did she have? Hardly a thing.
A roof, plain food, and a tiny gold ring.
Yet, “In praise of Love and Life we bring

this sacramental offering.”
“Hosanna!” angelic choirs ring.
Little sparrow of a woman, sing!

Whence comes this praise, as angels sing
to her tuneless voice? What of Death’s sting?
Yet, “In praise of Love and Life we bring

this sacramental offering.”
Let others have their stoles and bling.
Little sparrow of a woman, sing!

“In praise of Love and Life we bring
this sacramental offering
as the harps of beaming angels ring.
Little sparrow of a woman, sing!”

Villanelle of an Opportunist
by Michael R. Burch

I’m not looking for someone to save.
A gal has to do what a gal has to do:
I’m looking for a man with one foot in the grave.

How many highways to hell must I pave
with intentions imagined, not true?
I’m not looking for someone to save.

Fools praise compassion while weaklings rave,
but a gal has to do what a gal has to do.
I’m looking for a man with one foot in the grave.

Some praise the Lord but the Devil’s my fave
because he has led me to you!
I’m not looking for someone to save.

In the land of the free and the home of the brave,
a gal has to do what a gal has to do.
I’m looking for a man with one foot in the grave.

Every day without meds becomes a close shave
and the razor keeps tempting me too.
I’m not looking for someone to save:
I’m looking for a man with one foot in the grave.

Ars Brevis
by Michael R. Burch

Better not to live, than live too long:
this is my theme, my purpose and desire.
The world prefers a brief three-minute song.

My will to live was never all that strong.
Eternal life? Find some poor fool to hire!
Better not to live, than live too long.

Granny panties or a flosslike thong?
The latter rock, the former feed the fire.
The world prefers a brief three-minute song.

Let briefs be brief: the short can do no wrong,
since David slew Goliath, who stood higher.
Better not to live, than live too long.

A long recital gets a sudden gong.
Quick death’s preferred to drowning in the mire.
The world prefers a brief three-minute song.

A wee bikini or a long sarong?
French Riviera or some dull old Shire?
Better not to live, than live too long:
The world prefers a brief three-minute song.

The vanilla-nelle
by Michael R. Burch

The vanilla-nelle is rather dark to write
In a chocolate world where purity is slight,
When every rhyming word must rhyme with white!

As sure as night is day and day is night,
And walruses write songs, such is my plight:
The vanilla-nelle is rather dark to write.

I’m running out of rhymes and it’s a fright
because the end’s not nearly (yet) in sight,
When every rhyming word must rhyme with white!

It’s tougher when the poet’s not too bright
And strains his brain, which only turns up “blight.”
Yes, the vanilla-nelle is rather dark to write.

I strive to seem aloof and recondite
while avoiding ancient words like “knyghte” and “flyte”
But every rhyming word must rhyme with white!

I think I’ve failed: I’m down to “zinnwaldite.”
I fear my Muse is torturing me, for spite!
For the vanilla-nelle is rather dark to write
When every rhyming word must rhyme with white!

My Life Story, in a Nutshell
by Michael R. Burch

a trinelle and sequel to my ars poetica “Poetry”

He flew under their radar,
a talented evader,
until he became Darth Vader.

Born at his Muse’s nadir
and fated to be her Fakir,
he flew under their radar.

They insisted he'd never go far,
this Genie they crammed in a jar,
until he became Darth Vader.

His Muse? They continued to raid Her,
to blade, shade, dissuade and upbraid Her,
as he flew under their radar.

Through the long friendless nights he’d spar
by the light of a vagabond Star,
until he became Darth Vader.

At last the final daytrader
fell to his dazzling sabre.
He flew under their radar,
until he became Darth Vader.

Are poets allowed to engage in exaggeration? I hope so! But metaphorically there is some truth to this poem, as I have been repeatedly blackballed by poetry publishers – I call them the poetry professors – for not playing by their absurd, petty, counterproductive rules.

Daredevil (II)
by Michael R. Burch

You hid yourself amid the midday clouds,
camouflaged, the whitest dove, as pale ...
until they darkened into ominous shrouds.

Such a splendid flier, yet so dangerously frail,
you thought to flee the earth and still prevail!

You hid yourself amid the midday clouds,
flew high into the fierce December gale’s
diaphanous veils, an angel by earth’s scale ...
until they darkened into ominous shrouds.

You flew beyond the shivery sleet and hail
until you disappeared. How could you fail?

You hid yourself amid the midday clouds,
so high above earth’s lackluster jail,
we thought the clouds themselves became your bail ...
until they darkened into ominous shrouds.

But who am I to rave and rant and rail
at gods who all agree: frail things must fail.
You hid yourself amid the midday clouds
until they darkened into ominous shrouds.

Villanelle Hell
by Michael R. Burch

for all Repetitive Poets

I awoke this morning in villanelle hell
to a Raven who shrieked “Nevermore! Nevermore!”
surrounded by imps half baked on the shell.

The Raven insisted refrains are a bore
and begged me, “Refrain from refraining, therefore!”
when I awoke this morning in villanelle hell.

“You put me to sleep and refrains never sell,”
and thus I must shriek ‘Nevermore!’ (evermore)
surrounded by imps half baked on the shell!”

It was clear, oh my dear, that I hadn’t done well,
for the Raven preferred Poe’s “Lenore”
when I awoke this morning in villanelle hell.

Now all I have left is this sad tale to tell:
of this bore of a chore and the Raven’s foul smell,
surrounded by imps half baked on the shell.

Ravens never are wrong, with their message so fell:
dark angels predicting our profits won’t swell.
I awoke this morning in villanelle hell
surrounded by imps half baked on the shell.

Envoy

O what does it mean, strange fiend, ne’er-do-well,
     dark imp gloating over my pale corpse, to tell—
     that I shall be penned here
     and all my dreams end here
     with no one to send beer
     nor peanuts to vend here
     and no one to lend sheer
     tissues to fend tears?
     But only to bend here,
     as cruel corvids leer,
     and made to amend here
     my verses so queer,
like a steer in this drear, pen-like villanelle hell?

The People Loved What They Had Loved Before
by Michael R. Burch

We did not worship at the shrine of tears;
we knew not to believe, not to confess.
And so, ahemming victors, to false cheers,
we wrote off love, we gave a stern address
to bards whose methods irked us, greats of yore.
And the people loved what they had loved before.

We did not build stone monuments to stand
six hundred years and grow more strong and arch
like bridges from the people to the Land
beyond their reach. Instead, we played a march,
pale Neros, sparking flames from door to door.
And the people loved what they had loved before.

We could not pipe of cheer, or even woe.
We played a minor air of Ire (in E).
The sheep chose to ignore us, even though,
long destitute, we plied our songs for free.
We wrote, rewrote and warbled one same score.
And the people loved what they had loved before.

At last outlandish wailing, we confess,
ensued, because no listeners were left.
We built a shrine to tears: our goddess less
divine than man, and, like us, long bereft.
We stooped to love too late, too Learned to whore.
And the people loved what they had loved before.

Rondel: Merciles Beaute ("Merciless Beauty")
by Geoffrey Chaucer
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Your eyes slay me suddenly;
their beauty I cannot sustain,
they wound me so, through my heart keen.

Unless your words heal me hastily,
my heart's wound will remain green;
for your eyes slay me suddenly;
their beauty I cannot sustain.

By all truth, I tell you faithfully
that you are of life and death my queen;
for at my death this truth shall be seen:
your eyes slay me suddenly;
their beauty I cannot sustain,
they wound me so, through my heart keen.

Rondel: Your Smiling Mouth
by Charles d'Orleans (c. 1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch

Your smiling mouth and laughing eyes, bright gray,
Your ample breasts and slender arms’ twin chains,
Your hands so smooth, each finger straight and plain,
Your little feet—please, what more can I say?

It is my fetish when you’re far away
To muse on these and thus to soothe my pain—
Your smiling mouth and laughing eyes, bright gray,
Your ample breasts and slender arms’ twin chains.

So would I beg you, if I only may,
To see such sights as I before have seen,
Because my fetish pleases me. Obscene?
I’ll be obsessed until my dying day
By your sweet smiling mouth and eyes, bright gray,
Your ample breasts and slender arms’ twin chains!

The original text of the poem above can be found here.

Oft in My Thought
by Charles d'Orleans (c. 1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch

So often in my busy mind I sought,
    Around the advent of the fledgling year,
For something pretty that I really ought
    To give my lady dear;
    But that sweet thought's been wrested from me, clear,
        Since death, alas, has sealed her under clay
    And robbed the world of all that's precious here―
         God keep her soul, I can no better say.

For me to keep my manner and my thought
    Acceptable, as suits my age's hour?
While proving that I never once forgot
    Her worth? It tests my power!
    I serve her now with masses and with prayer;
        For it would be a shame for me to stray
    Far from my faith, when my time's drawing near—
         God keep her soul, I can no better say.

Now earthly profits fail, since all is lost
    And the cost of everything became so dear;
Therefore, O Lord, who rules the higher host,
    Take my good deeds, as many as there are,
    And crown her, Lord, above in your bright sphere,
        As heaven's truest maid! And may I say:
    Most good, most fair, most likely to bring cheer—
         God keep her soul, I can no better say.

When I praise her, or hear her praises raised,
I recall how recently she brought me pleasure;
    Then my heart floods like an overflowing bay
And makes me wish to dress for my own bier—
    God keep her soul, I can no better say.

The original text of the poem above can be found here.

Rondel: Rejection
by Geoffrey Chaucer
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Your beauty from your heart has so erased
Pity, that it’s useless to complain;
For Pride now holds your mercy by a chain.

I'm guiltless, yet my sentence has been cast.
I tell you truly, needless now to feign,—
Your beauty from your heart has so erased
Pity, that it’s useless to complain.

Alas, that Nature in your face compassed
Such beauty, that no man may hope attain
To mercy, though he perish from the pain;
Your beauty from your heart has so erased
Pity, that it’s useless to complain;
For Pride now holds your mercy by a chain.

Rondel: Escape
by Geoffrey Chaucer
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Since I’m escaped from Love and yet still fat,
I never plan to be in his prison lean;
Since I am free, I count it not a bean.

He may question me and counter this and that;
I care not: I will answer just as I mean.
Since I’m escaped from Love and yet still fat,
I never plan to be in his prison lean.

Love strikes me from his roster, short and flat,
And he is struck from my books, just as clean,
Forevermore; there is no other mean.
Since I’m escaped from Love and yet still fat,
I never plan to be in his prison lean;
Since I am free, I count it not a bean.

Villanelle: Hangovers
by Michael R. Burch

We forget that, before we were born,
our parents had “lives” of their own,
ran drunk in the streets, or half-stoned.

Yes, our parents had lives of their own
until we were born; then, undone,
they were buying their parents gravestones

and finding gray hairs of their own
(because we were born lacking some
of their curious habits, but soon

would certainly get them). Half-stoned,
we watched them dig graves of their own.
Their lives would be over too soon

for their curious habits to bloom
in us (though our children were born
nine months from that night on the town

when, punch-drunk in the streets or half-stoned,
we first proved we had lives of our own).

Clandestine But Gentle
by Michael R. Burch

Variations on the villanelle. A play in four acts. The heroine wears a trench coat and her every action drips nonchalance. The “hero” is pallid, nerdish and nervous. But more than anything, he is palpably desperate with longing. Props are optional, but a streetlamp, a glowing cigarette and lots of eerie shadows should suffice.

I.
Clandestine but gentle, wrapped in night,
she eavesdropped on morose codes of my heart.
She was the secret agent of delight.

The blue spurt of her match, our signal light,
announced her presence in the shadowed court:
clandestine but gentle, cloaked in night.

Her cigarette was waved, a casual sleight,
to bid me “Come!” or tell me to depart.
She was the secret agent of delight,

like Ingrid Bergman in a trench coat, white
as death, and yet more fair and pale (but short
with me, whenever I grew wan with fright!).

II.
Clandestine but gentle, veiled in night,
she was the secret agent of delight;
she coaxed the tumblers in some cryptic rite
to make me spill my spirit.
Lovely tart!
Clandestine but gentle, veiled in night
—she waited till my tongue, untied, sang bright
but damning strange confessions in the dark . . .

III.
She was the secret agent of delight;
so I became her paramour. Tonight
I await her in my exile, worlds apart . . .

IV.
For clandestine but gentle, wrapped in night,
she is the secret agent of delight.

Villanelle: An Ode to the Divine Plan
by Michael R. Burch

This is how the Universe works:
The rich must have their perks.
This is how the Good Lord rolls.

Did T-Rexes have souls?
The poor must live on doles.
This is how the Universe works.

The rich must have their dirks
to poke serfs full of holes.
This is how the Good Lord rolls.

The despot laughs and lurks
while the Tyger slaughters foals.
This is how the Universe works.

What are the despots’ goals?
The poor must mind, not shirk.
This is how the Good Lord rolls.

Trump and Putin praise the kirks
while the cowed mind ancient scrolls.
This is how the Universe works.
This is how the Good Lord rolls.

Hang Together, or Separately
by Michael R. Burch

“The first shall be last, and the last first.”

Be careful whom you don’t befriend
When hyenas mark their prey:
The odds will get even in the end.

Some “deplorables” may yet ascend
And since all dogs must have their day,
Be careful whom you don’t befriend.

When pallid elitists condescend
What does the Good Book say?
The odds will get even in the end.

Since the LORD advised us to attend
To each other along the way,
Be careful whom you don’t befriend.

But He was deserted. Friends, comprehend!
Though revilers mock and flay,
The odds will get even in the end.

Now infidels have loot to spend:
As bloody as Judas’s that day.
Be careful whom you don’t befriend:
The odds will get even in the end.

NOTE: This poem portrays a certain worldview. The poet does not share it and suspects from reading the gospels that the “real” Jesus would have sided with the infidel refugees, not Trump and his ilk.

The Sad Refrain
by Michael R. Burch

O, let us not repeat the sad refrain
that Christ is cruel because some innocent dies.
No, pain is good, for character comes from pain!

There’d be no growth without the hammering rain
that tests each petal’s worth. Omnipotent skies
peal, “Let us not repeat the sad refrain,

but separate burnt chaff from bountiful grain.
According to God’s plan, the weakling dies
and pain is good, for character comes from pain!

A God who’s perfect cannot bear the blame
of flawed creations, just because one dies!
So let us not repeat the sad refrain

or think to shame or stain His awesome name!
Let lightning strike the devious source of lies
that pain is bad, for character comes from pain!
Oh, let us not repeat the sad refrain!

NOTE: An eternal hell cannot be justified. Nothing can be learned from eternal suffering except that the creation of life was the ultimate act of evil. The creator of an eternal hell would be infinitely cruel and should never have created any creature that might possibly end up there. That so many Christians do not understand this suggests they lack the knowledge of good and evil and were rooked by their "god" in the Garden of Eden or have been bamboozled by heartless and mindless theologians.

Trump Can Kill Your Beagle
by Michael R. Burch

No “official act” is illegal.
Because he’s truly regal,
Trump can kill your beagle.

Although it seems medieval,
And the precedents quite feeble,
No “official act” is illegal.

Perhaps he thinks it’s Sméagol
And a threat to orangish people.
Trump can kill your beagle.

Perhaps it barked, too gleeful,
For our sourpuss Bugsy Siegel.
No “official act” is illegal.

Perhaps it nipped an eagle
Or some White House paralegal.
Trump can kill your beagle.

The past is never prequel
Nor dictatorships sure sequel.
No “official act” is illegal.
Trump can kill your beagle.

Envoy
by Michael R. Burch

Beagles are endangered ’cause they nip.
Trump does well to fear a canine’s snip.
Welcome to our first dictatorship.

Six “justices” have done a backwards flip.
Murder’s legal now, and Trump is hip.
Beagles are endangered ’cause they nip.

Democracy has been a bumpy trip;
Be done with it, a fleeting minor blip.
Welcome to our first dictatorship.

Dictatorships are fab, so let ours rip.
No banana peels on which our feet might slip.
Beagles are endangered ’cause they nip.

No need to worry Trump might lose his grip
On sanity, capsize our listing ship.
Welcome to our first dictatorship.

Embrace the madness, please don’t be a drip!
Hang on tight, you’ll need a steady grip.
Beagles are endangered ’cause they nip.
Welcome to our first dictatorship.

Man is the artful creature
by Michael R. Burch

Man is the artful creature:
his art’s quite the thing to behold!
But is it a bug or a feature?

Some say Mother Nature’s his teacher
with her sunsets vermillion and gold.
Thus, man is the artful creature!

But at times he’s an overreacher
(sometimes even great Masters fold).
So, is it a bug or a feature?

Sometimes he’s a goddess beseecher,
begging Muses for glories untold.
Yes, man is the artful creature.

Sometimes he’s a tone deaf screecher,
writing poems that can never be sold:
surely more of a bug than a feature.

Sometimes he’s a thief and a leecher;
more often, his works gather mold.
Yes, man is the artful creature,
but is it a bug or a feature?

Amending Walls
by Michael R. Burch

“Do as dad did, from hating queers to praying.”
Robert Frost, one fears, was undoubtedly right.
They can’t go beyond their father’s saying.

They’re building walls, the intolerant and the straying.
They’re building walls again, to shut in night.
“Do as dad did, from hating queers to praying.”

“Stabbed in the back!” Thus cry the ones betraying,
who turn their sullen backs on the Lord of Light.
They can’t go beyond their father’s saying.

Screaming curses, froth-mouthed, vile and baying,
having no care for their frailest victim’s plight.
“Do as dad did, from hating queers to praying.”

The oddest of heroes, fraying while still braying,
embracing hatred, it seems, with great delight,
they can’t go beyond their father’s saying.

Raging at children, brutes intent on slaying.
Robert Frost, one fears, was undoubtedly right.
“Do as dad did, from hating queers to praying.”
They can’t go beyond their father’s saying.

I may have invented a new poetic form, the “trinelle” or “triplenelle.”

Why I Left the Right
by Michael R. Burch

I was a Reagan Republican in my youth but quickly “left” the GOP when I grokked its inherent racism, intolerance and retreat into the Dark Ages.

I fell in with the troops, but it didn’t last long:
I’m not one to march to a klanging gong.
“Right is wrong” became my song.

I’m not one to march to a klanging gong
with parrots all singing the same strange song.
I fell in with the bloops, but it didn’t last long.

These parrots all singing the same strange song,
with no discernment between right and wrong?
“Right is wrong” became my song.

With no discernment between right and wrong,
the klan marched on in a white-robed throng.
I fell in with the rubes, but it didn’t last long.

The klan marched on in a white-robed throng,
enraged by the sight of boys in sarongs.
“Right is wrong” became my song.

Enraged by the sight of boys in sarongs
and girls with butch hairdos, the clan klanged its gongs.
I fell in with the dupes, but it didn’t last long.
“Right is wrong” became my song.

This is a "trinelle" or "triplenelle" about one of my favorite basketball players:

The Ballad of Dalton "Connect" Knecht
by Michael R. Burch

The basket's bent, the nets are charred.
It's hard to kill his will, as well.
Dalton Knecht is hard to guard.

To all defenders, it's "en garde!"
It's hard to kill his will, as well.
The basket's bent, the nets are charred.

There's no defense, all exits 're barred.
It's hard to kill his will, as well.
Dalton Knecht is hard to guard.

All hope is lost, not even a shard.
It's hard to kill his will, as well.
The basket's bent, the nets are charred.

The opposing coach's faith is jarred.
It's hard to kill his will, as well.
Dalton Knecht is hard to guard.

The defense's pride is maimed and scarred.
It's hard to kill his will, as well.
The basket's bent, the nets are charred.
Dalton Knecht is hard to guard.

What happened to the songs of yesterdays?
by Michael R. Burch

Is poetry mere turning of a phrase?
Has prose become its height and depth and sum?
What happened to the songs of yesterdays?

Does prose leave all nine Muses vexed and glum,
with fingers stuck in ears, till hearing’s numbed?
Is poetry mere turning of a phrase?

Should we cut loose, drink, guzzle jugs of rum,
write prose nonstop, till Hell or Kingdom Come?
What happened to the songs of yesterdays?

Are there no beats to which tense thumbs might thrum?
Did we outsmart ourselves and end up dumb?
Is poetry mere turning of a phrase?

How did a feast become this measly crumb,
such noble princess end up in a slum?
What happened to the songs of yesterdays?

I’m running out of rhymes! Please be a chum
and tell me if some Muse might spank my bum
for choosing rhyme above the painted phrase?
What happened to the songs of yesterdays?

Trump’s Retribution Resolution
by Michael R. Burch

My New Year’s resolution?
I require your money and votes,
for you are my retribution.

May I offer you dark-skinned scapegoats
and bigger and deeper moats
as part of my sweet resolution?

Please consider a YUGE contribution,
a mountain of lovely C-notes,
for you are my retribution.

Revenge is our only solution,
since my critics are weasels and stoats.
Come, second my sweet resolution!

The New Year’s no time for dilution
of the anger of victimized GOATs,
when you are my retribution.

Forget the damned Constitution!
To dictators “ideals” are footnotes.
My New Year’s resolution?
You are my retribution.

A Brief Timeline of the Villanelle and Poems, Songs and Speeches with Refrains

All dates are AD; some are educated guesses.—MRB

  658: Caedmon's Hymn, the oldest dateable English poem, marks the beginning of what came to be known as English poetry (although it was Anglo-Saxon and thus heavily Germanic).
  990: Wulf and Eadwacer may be the first English poem with a refrain; it may have been written by a female Anglo-Saxon scop.
1260: Sumer is icumen in is an early rhyming poem with a refrain; it may be the oldest extant English song with a musical score, in Latin!
1380: Merciles Beaute is an early poem with a double refrain, a rondel attributed to the first major English poet, Geoffrey Chaucer.
1394: The birth of Charles D'Orleans, a master of the ballade, chanson, rondeau and rondel; he wrote poetry in French and English.
1430: I Have a Yong Suster is an anonymous Medieval English riddle-poem/song with repeating lines.
1503: The birth of Thomas Wyatt; he and Henry Howard would introduce the sonnet, iambic pentameter and blank verse to England, beginning the English Renaissance.
1504: Corpus Christi Carol has a haunting double refrain: "Lully, lullay, lully, lullay! The falcon has borne my mak [mate] away."
1532: The birth of Edmund Spenser, a major English poet who employed refrains in some of his best-known poems.
1534: The birth of Jean Passerat, who would write the first fixed-form villanelle (see the entry for 1574).
1564: The birth of William Shakespeare, who would employ villanelle-like double refrains in songs like "When that I was and a little tiny boy" from Twelfth Night.
1574: The fixed-form villanelle, with 19 lines and a dual refrain, derives from Jean Passerat's poem "Villanelle (J'ay perdu ma Tourterelle)." [*]
1844: Wilhelm Ténint "mistakenly claimed that the unique, nonce structure of Jean Passerat's 1574 "Villanelle" was an old French form akin to terza rima." [**]
1845: Théodore de Banville, an associate of Ténint, with his "Villanelle de Buloz" began resurrecting the villanelle from the single poem by Passerat, 270 years later!
1846: Théodore de Banville's "Villanelle à Mademoiselle."
1851: Sojourner Truth, the famous abolitionist and women's rights advocate, employs a refrain in her famous speech "Ain't I a Woman?"
1858: Théodore de Banville's "Villanelle des pauvres housseurs."
1867: Philoxène Boyer's "La Marquise Aurore."
1872: Théodore de Banville praises the villanelle to the skies in his Petit Traité de la Poésie Française. [***]
1874: Edmund Gosse and Austin Dobson begin their long friendship with a mutual enthusiasm for de Banville's Petit Traité de la Poésie Française.
1877: Edmund Gosse praises the villanelle in his essay "A Plea for Certain Exotic Forms of Verse."
1878: Austin Dobson's essay "A Note on Some Foreign Forms of Verse."
1887: Gleeson White's Ballades and Rondeaus, Chants Royal, Sestinas, Villanelles, &c. Selected has 32 English villanelles composed by 19 poets.
1894: Edwin Arlington Robinson's villanelle "The House on the Hill" is published by The Globe; Ernest Dowson writes the first iambic pentameter villanelle.
1913: The poem "September 1913" by William Butler Yeats has a refrain; Ezra Pound writes "Villanelle: The Psychological Hour" around this time.
1914: James Joyce has his alter-ego Stephen Dedalus write a villanelle in his 1914 novel A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.
1915: Ezra Pound mentions the villanelles of Ernest Dowson in a preface to the work of Lionel Johnson.
1922: Oscar Wilde's "Pan–A Villanelle."
1928: William Empson publishes his first villanelle in the Cambridge Review as an undergraduate.
1930: William Empson publishes an important book of literary criticism, Seven Types of Ambiguity, which inspires what became known as "New Criticism."
1950: Elizabeth Bishop's "Verdigris."
1951: Dylan Thomas writes his famous villanelle for his dying father, "Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night."
1953: Theodore Roethke's villanelle "The Waking" is published; Sylvia Plath publishes her villanelle "Mad Girl's Love Song" in Mademoiselle.
1956: Allen Ginsberg employs refrains in his most famous poem, "Howl."
1959: Denise Levertov's "Obsessions" is published.
1961: The Beatles' first single, "My Bonnie," has a refrain, as do early hits like "Love Me Do" and "She Loves You."
1963: Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. employs refrains in his famous "I Have a Dream" speech.
1970: The Norton Anthology of Poetry contains only one villanelle.
1973: Richard Hugo's "The Freaks at Spurgin Road Field."
1975: The Norton Anthology of Poetry doubles the number of villanelles, to two.
1976: Elizabeth Bishop's rightly-acclaimed and much-anthologized villanelle "One Art" is published.
1981: Tom Disch's "The Rapist's Villanelle."
1988: The Norton Anthology of Poetry now contains nine villanelles (a nine-fold increase in just eighteen years).
1996: Seamus Heaney's "Villanelle for an Anniversary."

Related Pages: Medieval Poetry Translations

[*] "Scholars now agree that only one true villanelle [per the exacting modern definition] was written during the Renaissance: a poem by the same title, penned by Frenchman Jean Passerat." Before Passerat created his nonce form, there was no poetic "villanelle" form to speak of, and villanelles were performed at choral dances (think of dancers calling out lines to music at a hoe-down).

[**] Wilhelm Ténint appears to be the source of the idea that the more exacting form was older and more common than it really was.

[***] "As for the villanelle, M. De Banville declares that it is the fairest jewel in the casket of the muse Erato!" However, it seems the form was not really ancient, but relatively new and one-of-a-kind.

But all's well that ends well, and we have some marvelous poems as a result of all the confusion!

Related pages: The Best Sonnets, The Best Villanelles, The Best Ballads, The Best Sestinas, The Best Rondels and Roundels, The Best Kyrielles, The Best Couplets, The Best Quatrains, The Best Haiku, The Best Limericks, The Best Nonsense Verse, The Best Poems for Kids, The Best Light Verse, The Best Poem of All Time, The Best Poems Ever Written, The Best Poets, The Best of the Masters, The Most Popular Poems of All Time, The Best American Poetry, The Best Poetry Translations, The Best Ancient Greek Epigrams and Epitaphs, The Best Anglo-Saxon Riddles and Kennings, The Best Old English Poetry, The Best Lyric Poetry, The Best Free Verse, The Best Story Poems, The Best Narrative Poems, The Best Epic Poems, The Best Epigrams, The Most Beautiful Poems in the English Language, The Most Beautiful Lines in the English Language, The Most Beautiful Sonnets in the English Language, The Best Elegies, Dirges & Laments, The Best Poems about Death and Loss, The Best Holocaust Poetry, The Best Hiroshima Poetry, The Best Anti-War Poetry, The Best Religious Poetry, The Best Spiritual Poetry, The Best Heretical Poetry, The Best Thanksgiving Poems, The Best Autumnal Poems, The Best Fall/Autumn Poetry, The Best Dark Poetry, The Best Halloween Poetry, The Best Supernatural Poetry, The Best Dark Christmas Poems, The Best Vampire Poetry, The Best Love Poems, The Best Urdu Love Poetry, The Best Erotic Poems, The Best Romantic Poetry, The Best Love Songs, The Ten Greatest Poems Ever Written, The Greatest Movies of All Time, England's Greatest Artists, Visions of Beauty, What is Poetry?, The Best Abstract Poetry, The Best Antinatalist Poems and Prose, Early Poems: The Best Juvenilia

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