The Villanelle is a bit akin to a Sudoku, or a Cryptic Crossword: everything has to fit or it falls apart. It's a form, and a quite specific one at that. There are five stanzas of three lines each, and the sixth stanza has an extra line.

This wonderful poem by Elizabeth Bishop is also a Villanelle, though by running over the second line in some cases she takes slight liberties with the form. The poem becomes increasingly moving as it goes on; the last line is exceptionally so.
One Art
|
|
The art of losing isn't hard to
master;
so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster, Lose something every day. Accept the fluster of lost door keys, the hour badly spent. The art of losing isn't hard to master. Then practice losing farther, losing faster: places, and names, and where it was you meant to travel. None of these will bring disaster. I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or next-to-last, of three beloved houses went. The art of losing isn't hard to master. I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster, some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent. I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster. -- Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident the art of losing's not too hard to master though it may look like (Write it!) a disaster. |
From Bishop’s last
book of poems, Geography III
I've just had a play with the form, and produced the following bit of nonsense....which I'm sure can be improved. It's a start, however! I also play a little with the second repeat line; using rhymes that are similar in sound may not be the wisest move, although it was interesting to do.
Perhaps it’s not the prime of every poet’s dream,
Though I myself am fairly keen
To aspire to a villanellic scheme.
So I won’t wait for the Muse’s beam
But try somehow the rhymes to glean;
Perhaps it’s not the prime of every poet’s dream.
I thought at first that I might seem
To be a Villanelle machine;
As I aspired to a villanelley scheme.
I’d vie with the Cream of the Poetic Team,
Sharpen my tools to the finest sheen;
Perhaps it’s not the prime of every poet’s dream.
Of Villanelles I’d write a ream,
Of Villanelles become the Dean -
Still aspiring to a villanelleful scheme.
While fame and fortune wildly gleam
Villanellistically I’m still green;
Perhaps it’s not the prime of every poet’s dream,
Aspiring to a villanellistic scheme.
Mike Crowl Nov 2011