Tuesday, February 22, 2011

Villanelle Poem Definition


At our February 22, 2011 meeting, there was discussion of some different poetry forms. One was the villanelle.

The villanelle has 19 lines, 5 stanzas of three lines and 1 stanza of four lines with two rhymes and two refrains. The 1st, then the 3rd lines alternate as the last lines of stanzas 2,3,and 4, and then stanza 5 (the end) as a couplet. The second lines of each stanza rhyme. The structure is:

line 1 - a – 1st refrain
line 2 - b
line 3 - a - 2nd refrain
line 4 - a
line 5 - b
line 6 - a – 1st refrain (same as line 1)
line 7 - a
line 8 - b
line 9 - a - 2nd refrain (same as line 2)
line 10 - a
line 11 - b
line 12 - a - 1st refrain (same as line 1)
line 13 - a
line 14 - b
line 15 - a - 2nd refrain (same as line 2)
line 16 - a
line 17 - b
line 18 - a - 1st refrain (same as line 1)
line 19 - a - 2nd refrain (same as line 2)

Here is an example of the form.

Stay With Me

Hold me close and hold me tight
Run your fingers through my hair
Stay with me all through the night
It feels so good, it feels so right
Say you love me if you dare
Hold me close and hold me tight
Tell me it will be alright
If only we could be a pair
Stay with me all through the night
We can share in great delight
Let me love you, let me care
Hold me close and hold me tight
I pray you will, I pray you might
Be the answer to my prayer
Stay with me all through the night
Be there in the morning light
Please do not go anywhere
Hold me close and hold me tight
Stay with me all through the night

Friday, February 18, 2011

Poem: Mast Year


Mast Year

After long drought,
the white oak
drops its acorns,
double, triple
a rainy year.

Under its broad limbs,
the three-legged doe
stumps along, her right
front leg sheared off
below her knee,
victim of a car,
stump hole,
black rocks in
the shallow creek
behind my house
she crosses to get here.

Who knows. I see her at
the crack of dawn
or pith of day, flanked
by last year’s twins
and this year’s singleton,
its spots faded by
November, its coat
like hers turned gray.

He butts her udder,
ramming hard. She
accepts that, eyes
trained on the woods.

A hunter in camouflage
sees a damaged doe.
Cull the herd, he thinks,
draws a bead, shoots.

By Judith Stanton
From The Deer Diaries
2/18/11




Thursday, February 17, 2011

Poem: A Conspicuous Visitor


A Conspicuous Visitor



He came unannounced,

quite uninvited; a thread

splitting a shiny Sunday suit,

he kissed the ground—moving

like a cobra, half coiled, sliding

sideways over the porch to ring

my bell; he paused for a moment

in the blinding summer sun to bathe,

looked to see who was hosting the

party, then silently moved over and

up the Wax Myrtle; his thirsty

tongue sucked the air.


By: Patricia Cole
2/17/11

Monday, February 14, 2011

Poem: 168: A poem about the day the Oklahoma City bomber was executed.


168

A poem about the day the Oklahoma City
bomber was executed.

Hordes of reporters milling around,
Interviewing each other.
Desperately searching for an illusive scoop.
They can't interview the 168.

National media provides blitz coverage,
Hourly, then by the minute.
Everything you don't want to know.
What about the 168?

What did he say, what was he wearing,
What does he think?
As if this was important.
What about the 168?

Constant repetition almost makes him a folk hero,
A man admired for his stoicism.
He's the hot news today.
What about the 168?

National media giving advice to the survivors,
telling them how they are supposed to feel, to act, to think.
As if these national hotshots knew anything.
What about the 168?

Second by second, we hear how he died,
Eye-witness accounts are the holy grail.
Much ado about the demise of a killer.
What about the 168?

True justice might have been better served,
Had no one bothered to attend.
He would have been exterminated, unnoticed.
And that would honor the 168.

By:  Al Manning                    
2/14/11                              

Saturday, February 12, 2011

Poem: Flash


Flash



Times flash, intermittently; wimpling waves,

speed through space – faces forgotten


slip in and out of my consciousness,

living in sepia,


snapshots in albums – an alchemy of lives,

details stirring memories;


some exit from love, others indifference;

still others linger, living between

musings and dreams.

By:  Patrica Cole
2/12/11

Monday, February 7, 2011

Poem: Taxes



Taxes

(My apologies to Edgar Allan Poe)
Once upon a midnight dreary as I struggled, weak and weary,
over a changed Form 1040 I had never seen before.
Back and forth I did the sums, looking for deduction crumbs,
hoping, ever hoping that I’d find a way to score.
But, alas, twas not my lot to escape an awful blot
upon my worldly fortune, Uncle Sam keeps wanting more.
My mind grows dim with sorrow; the due date is tomorrow,
and I must find the answer else I’ll end up very poor.
Can I claim those gambling debts resulting from my stupid bets?
Should I try to itemize my bar bill from the club?
What about my one contribution, will that not bring absolution?
Surely I can claim deduction for the new pants that I tore.
Alas tis midnight past, and the time is flying fast, and I must find an answer
to the question: How much more?
You may think my answer funny: I’ll just send them all my money,
and request that they return to me all that not spent before.
It is now six months gone by, and as yet there’s no reply,
Could it be that Uncle Sam will give me no succor?
Then the Raven came rapping, rapping
the Raven came rapping, tapping at my window door.
Oh to be so doubly blessed, a messenger from the IRS!
Surely he has come to tell me that my problems are no more.
And I said “Oh bird austere, do you bring me news of cheer?
If you brought to me a refund, then together we will soar.
I am down to bread and beans, for I do not have the means
To buy a decent meal. Tell me, Raven
am I affluent, as I was in days of yore?
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore!”

By:  Al Manning
2/7/11

Saturday, February 5, 2011

Back Home

Mike Sepelak






Never, ever, Ever
return South
and smugly suggest
that you're tired of snow

The Cosmos listens

Friday, February 4, 2011

Poem: Back Home Finally

Back Home Finally


Back Home
Finally
Been North too long
Love seeing the Family, but

Tired of driving. Tired of snow
Tired of driving in snow
Tired of asking "What day is it?"
Tired of having it matter

Sleep in
My bed
Shower in My shower
Walk the dog in My woods

Put the damn suitcases away
Fill and light the woodstove
Feed the birds. Read
Be normal. My normal

My couch
Warm down quilt
Hot chocolate with a shot of shine
Quiet time with My Mary

New tying vice
Comfy bench chair
Fly rods in the closet
Within reach. Ready

Back Home
Finally
Been North too long

By: Mike Sepelak             
2/4/11                            

Thursday, February 3, 2011

Poem: For B.



For B.

Yes, I know
anguish (yours?), despair (yours?)
as reflected in the funhouse mirror
of my mind, the rollercoaster
of emotions, the (oh god)
the freak show—
the fat and bearded lady the dog-faced girl
the Siamese twins (sick fascination)
the geek
the brownian motion of the
crowds crowds crowds
the ballyhoopla carny of the
midway of my mind.
Step right up, folks. See the
anguish and despair.
Oh please oh please
Hold on.
Hang on. No need to cross
my palm with silver.
This I tell you. I promise
yes, this will end / is ending.
the time will come / is coming
of the mad (ssh!) carnival’s
reluctant departure.
Look into my crystal ball.
Look deep into my eyes.
(You are growing very sleepy.)
The level dusty area
now a little worn,
a little frayed and tattered.
Not the same.
Yes, you can see where it stood (held sway).
But now
it
is
gone.
Gone.
Over.
Yes.
I know.
I went and looked there.

By: Elizabeth Molin                               
2/3/11                                                   

Wednesday, February 2, 2011

Poem: My grandson Alex



My grandson Alex

How do I describe my grandson Alex?
He is jumping and leaping
Crawling and creeping
Bounding and wriggling
Bouncing and jiggling
Skipping and hopping
Jumping and bopping.
Smiling and winking and dancing around
Grinning and twisting, both feet off the ground.
Laughing and giggling and yelling and more
Climbing and falling kerbang to the floor.
Rolling and turning and punching and kicking
Throwing and catching and dropping and picking.
Stepping and stomping and running and racing
All of the neighborhood pets he is chasing.
Pushing, pinching, bending, bucking, always on the go
Calling, singing, shouting, cheering, joy from head to toe.
My Grandson Alex is living proof for all the world to see
Perpetual motion does exist, especially when you are three.

By: Al Manning                                         
2/2/11                                                    

Tuesday, February 1, 2011

Poem: Dusk


DUSK

Dusk walks up the cloudy stair
Drawing Dark behind
And she has magic in her hair
With dreams and stars entwined

By:  Elizabeth Molin                 
2/2/11