My First Villanelle

I have to write a villanelle -
a dumb old form that has to rhyme.
Oh please God, save me from this hell.

I dread the ringing of the bell
announcing that it's school time;
I have to write a villanelle.

I said I wasn't feeling well -
stupid nurse said I was fine.
Oh please God, save me from this hell.

The teacher says that she can tell
my little poem will be sublime;
I have to write a villanelle.

I hate coercing words to gel;
I'd rather swallow turpentine.
Oh please God, save me from this hell.

I bid my sanity farewell
and flounder for each wretched line.
I have to write a villanelle;
oh please God, save me from this hell.

Guest Poet: Sylvia Plath

I came across this poem while researching villanelles (I have to write one for my poetry class). I thought this was absolutely beautiful and wanted to share it with all of my faithful readers (heh).

Mad Girl's Love Song

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go watzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in;
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

A Blessing

Here, a fly raises his hands
and scrubs them together in praise.
They taught us that flies taste with their feet
but could not describe the dance of licking.

If an ant should pass a fallen brother,
he will stop his search for crumbs,
lift the bent body toward the sky
and carry it slowly home.

I have no use for hands that harm
or do not pause to clasp in thanks.
But I will bless the fly to dance on my plate,
and the ant who returns for his friend.

Cleaning House

It is odd to live
in a mind that is quiet.
I was accustomed to noise - a mumble of voices
that tumbled over and onto itself,
banging around inside of my skull
and bashing against the walls.

I used to dream they would
squeeze themselves out through my ears;
voices birthing organs, growing skin.
I dreamt of closed mouths. I dreamt of teeth
that could not wrench apart.

Now they are gagged,
smashed tight into cracks in the ceiling
and plastered over.
They bump and scratch with sharp fingers;
thrash like frantic eels.
Underneath, I am the only lump
in a white, white room.

I never thought I could miss
insults, howls, limbless chairs,
noises stacked to the ceiling
in broken stained-glass piles.
But this place has been emptied, and I
am muffled; deaf. It is better to be hated
than alone.

Why I Won't Go

...You tell me not to love you,
...that you will only hurt me,
...but not to love hurts more.

...You choke on kisses,
...flee my hands. I can learn
...to love without touching.

...Though neither of us are
...who we wish to be, I know
...we are two halves of one happiness.

Because you're full of cracks, and I
am a man who fixes things.

Ludwig

They mocked
the crude scruff of your hair,
your teeth made for biting, your
barbaric gnarl. You should have been
a grizzly, perhaps, happiest
with fish impaled upon claws.

You kept your den dirty and damp,
strewn with scraps of rotted food,
and when you played your music
it growled and stamped
like a wild thing
lurching toward a startled goat.

Oh, Sir,
how I have wished to see
one of your savageries,
chords screaming through
a mind trapped in silence, piano strings
snapping like piscine spines.

Abandon

Sometimes she hears angels.
They sing across the playground, whisper
as her swing climbs higher. Jump.
Ribboned jeans and raw knees witness
to the perils of the ground;
she has always wanted wings.
Let go and fly.
Chains gnaw at her hands
and the sun crushes her. The voices
sound like teacups,
like silver spoons and chandeliers,
cool in the back of her skull.
Go. She goes.

Those who saw it say
she flew like a fledging swan
until wings snapped on asphalt.