Villanelle

(a villanelle is a nineteen line poem composed of 5 tercets and 1 quatrain, with two repeating end rhymes and two refrains).

`

Bob Dylan

they call you Judas 

as your new words ring out

the times are changing                                              

from protest to country pie

and tangled blue thunder, still

they call you Judas

chameleon vagabond prince,

shy harmonica poet drawls 

the times are changing

positive forthright street seer 

reckless evangelist clown hark

they call you Judas

with fractured tambourine

and ne’er a second thought

the times are changing

on this new morning

minstrel becomes messiah

they call you Judas, still

the times are changing

*

~

D H Lawrence

words spew freely, colouring the page

others see rainbows in monotone  

blood for passion, black for the dead                                              

coal flames burn in a miners’ hearts

cinders drawn into sexual verse as

words spew freely, colouring the page

sons’ lovers bear lovers’ sons

delivered harshly on rich dark earth

blood for passion, black for the dead

latin themes and voices cloud the air,

richly plumed exotic reptiles watch

words spew freely, colouring the page

two men wrestle naked as women sleep

scant impressions of love writ deep

blood for passion, black for the dead

feebly repressed angst-ridden genius

banished banned and burn out, still 

words spew freely colouring the page

blood for passion, black for the dead

*

~

John Arlott

smooth gravel sifts through broken glass

none elude that earnest constant stare

that brittle voice, those knowing eyes                                             

two worlds spin, pitch perfect words          

sacred hymn or poet’s lines

smooth gravel sifts through broken glass

gladiators white, in padded armour clad                

battle brave, thumbs up or down, before

that brittle voice, those knowing eyes

no boundaries held his ever-seeing eye

nor faults unpunished, unspoken, unrecorded

smooth gravel sifts through broken glass

his words beautiful, coarsely put    

condensed and sculpted for our tender ears          

that brittle voice, those knowing eyes

Aujas Beaujolais with cricket teas, this

nature’s man, declared on seventy-seven  

smooth gravel sifts through broken glass

that brittle voice, those knowing eyes