Of those several who gather nightly at this Moonlight Campfire, the less somnolent will have noticed that nothing much happened last night. In fact the campfire was cold and dark.
I'm afraid that lurgi which affects me every now and then decided to creep upon me yesterday, causing me brief unpleasantness.
Thankfully, things are less awry tonight and, buoyed even further by the result of a certain tense game soccer, I am back in charge of matches and red wine, and the decision to gift you four special poems. So, gather round and read these Villanelles. (It was VERY difficult to stop at four. There are so many great ones around.)
Unusual, complex, difficult to write well, the Villanelle has recently become more popular, at least among the Australian poetry community. Here is a small selection by Australian poets. Read them carefully, slowly and aloud, paying particular attention to the rhyme, the punctuation, the run-on lines, the way the poem moves back and forth, turning and twisting. It is a wonderfully musical form, but one that plays cleverly with the progress and time and the way our memory can move past to present.
Im Sommerwind by Stephen Edgar
On a hot listless Sunday afternoon
I’m sprawling on the porch by the front door
My mother’s brought a chair out to maroon
The screen door wants to let the house commune
With languid airs that stray in to explore,
While someone’s radio murmurs a tune
That never seems to end or change, a croon
I can't attend to and don't quite ignore.
Across the faded park figures are strewn,
Nothing can happen here, nothing impugn
The hour. It will be now for evermore
While someone’s radio murmurs a tune.
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My Darling Turns to Poetry at Night by Anthony Lawrence
My darling turns to poetry at night.
What began as flirtation, an aside
Between abstract expression and first light
Now finds form as a silent, startled flight
Of commas on her face — a breath, a word ...
My darling turns to poetry at night.
When rain inspires the night birds to create
Rhyme and formal verse, stanzas can be made
Between abstract expression and first light.
Her heartbeat is a metaphor, a late
Bloom of red flowers that refuse to fade.
My darling turns to poetry at night.
I watch her turn. I do not sleep. I wait
For symbols, for a sign that fear has died
Between abstract expression and first light.
Her dreams have night vision, and in her sight
Our bodies leave ghostprints on the bed.
My darling turns to poetry at night
Between abstract expression and first light.
My Darling Turns to Poetry at Night by Anthony Lawrence
My darling turns to poetry at night.
What began as flirtation, an aside
Between abstract expression and first light
Now finds form as a silent, startled flight
Of commas on her face — a breath, a word ...
My darling turns to poetry at night.
When rain inspires the night birds to create
Rhyme and formal verse, stanzas can be made
Between abstract expression and first light.
Her heartbeat is a metaphor, a late
Bloom of red flowers that refuse to fade.
My darling turns to poetry at night.
I watch her turn. I do not sleep. I wait
For symbols, for a sign that fear has died
Between abstract expression and first light.
Her dreams have night vision, and in her sight
Our bodies leave ghostprints on the bed.
My darling turns to poetry at night
Between abstract expression and first light.
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Villanelle…
…sa petite puce by Stephen Knight
Whole days now pass when I don’t think of you.
Though there’s an ease not thinking offers me,
nights send me to the land that we came through.
At this distance, time obscures the view.
Perspectives blur, I cannot see to see.
Whole days now pass when I don’t think of you.
Then comes the moon – there’s nothing I can do!
Each silvered darkness lights a memory.
Nights send me to the land that we came through.
Years waning brings relief, forgetting too.
Deep weight of absence lessens by degree.
Whole days now pass when I don’t think of you.
But dreams return me to those days I knew
a while – we two, outside reality.
Nights send me to the land that we came through.
Though senses cool and good sense must accrue
I’m told, and I move forward finally,
and whole days pass when I don’t think of you –
nights leave me in the land that we came through.
Villanelle…
…sa petite puce by Stephen Knight
Whole days now pass when I don’t think of you.
Though there’s an ease not thinking offers me,
nights send me to the land that we came through.
At this distance, time obscures the view.
Perspectives blur, I cannot see to see.
Whole days now pass when I don’t think of you.
Then comes the moon – there’s nothing I can do!
Each silvered darkness lights a memory.
Nights send me to the land that we came through.
Years waning brings relief, forgetting too.
Deep weight of absence lessens by degree.
Whole days now pass when I don’t think of you.
But dreams return me to those days I knew
a while – we two, outside reality.
Nights send me to the land that we came through.
Though senses cool and good sense must accrue
I’m told, and I move forward finally,
and whole days pass when I don’t think of you –
nights leave me in the land that we came through.
[Acknowledging: Brennan, Dickinson]
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After Drought by Suzanne Edgar
How sweet it is, the sound of falling rain
after years of unrelenting dry,
I thought I’d never hear the sound again.
after years of unrelenting dry,
I thought I’d never hear the sound again.
The falling plays a favourite refrain
as soft as stroking, quiet as a sigh.
How sweet it is, the sound of falling rain
that soaks the bark and leaves a greenish stain
as if it had been treated with a dye.
I thought I’d never hear the sound again.
Deep ruts are overflowing in our lane
and clouds are spreading froth across the sky.
How sweet it is, the sound of falling rain—
new droplets form on wall and window-pane
making shapes that glitter, blend and die.
I thought I’d never hear the sound again
of steady raindrops humming in my brain
their plaintive rhyme; for no one will deny
how sweet it is, the sound of falling rain:
I thought I’d never hear the sound again.
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