Villanelle

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