Villanelle
- Roger Murphy
- Feb 21
- 1 min read
I find I do not like the villanelle
Its tercet chording seems to go astray
It’s English verse’s entrance to a hell.
Its rhythms seem to cast a broken spell
Its metres do not seem to dance or play
I find I do not like the villanelle.
Strange sounds echo as in a well
Something within its bloodstream seems to say
It’s English verse’s entrance to a hell.
It needs a rhythmic change, a living bell
A change of pattern that will change the lay
I find I do not like the villanelle.
Caught up within its own mephitic smell
It cloys like tilth packed into foetid clay
It’s English verse’s entrance to a hell.
Say, can you find a useful way to dwell
Within its sick arrhythmia, I pray.
I find I do not like the villanelle
It’s English verse’s entrance to a hell
