Write 1 form poem (villanelle, sestina, ghazal, pantoum) inspired by week 3 readings of closed forms, on any theme of choice, and post here. If you’re in need of some thematic direction, focus on the body.
9 thoughts on “Form Poems”
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Ghazal About my all time favorite place: Napatree Point, Westerly RI
No beach is more beautiful than Napatree
Water, sand and sky: all heavenly at Napatree
Been goin there since before I can remember
Days to weeks, weeks to years at Napatree
I was younger I would always wonder
Why we spent all our time at Napatree
My dad looked at me and simply said with glee
There is no better place to be than Napatree
He’d been coming there since he was all but four
He has always been in love with Napatree
And never has ever desired to do more
Than spend each summer at Napatree
I could not fathom his love for the beach
when I was a small child at Napatree
I have grown to love this special place
This beach is family; sacred Napatree
Morning (Ghazal) love, longing, metaphysical
Weary and tired of such humdrum days,
Awaken early – slip in the day’s haze.
The blaring tone on deaf ears at seven,
Out of covers and drop into the maze:
One foot, then two, bare toes on a cold floor,
Don’t look at the phone, swallow the malaise.
Eyes blurring over the face staring back,
Bags beg the pillow, comfort from the craze.
But I must saunter on, the light beckons,
Drop down from bed five floors – face the haze.
Water Ghazal
What would we do and how would we live, without water?
Pour it in our cups, can’t get enough of the water
Whenever we eat something, we’ve gotta have a taste
The pleasure and hydration that we get from water
In the cup, it’s crystal clear and that is a-okay,
Just so great that I cannot put it away. Water.
Sure you can just have your fair share of juice or soda
But why would you hurt your organs? Just have some water
Give it a few seconds to go down in your belly
It will have its effect, just have some of that water
Every evening, my walk home
Presents me with little puffs of breath
Visible in the cold air.
Small clouds billow, soft and white,
Fogging my glasses. The heat
A brief respite in scarf and on my face –
Poor stinging face,
Far from native home
Without humidity. Dry heat,
No heavy liquid breath
To crystallize in puffs of white,
Scattered to the air.
I love the sharp Vermont air,
Stinging me across the face –
The silent heavy white
Of snow on night walks home,
Just me and my breath.
Inside at last, a welcome blast of heat,
Comforting heat,
Smell of something cooking in the air
That I, greedy, take in with every breath
As I shed layers and turn to face
The happy kitchen of home.
Soft snow falling, white
Blanket over the ground, white
Sifting down like flour on a kitchen table, heat
From an oven signaling: Finally home.
There’s something in this air,
Air that reddens my face
And makes visible my breath,
Sharp, stinging breath,
That brings joy in clouds of white,
And a chapped face.
The sleepy return to heat
From bitter winter air
Reminds me. Home
Is warm hands from the heat of a mug of tea, steam curling white,
Fogging glasses, tickling my face. A chance to take a breath,
Happy in my little shared home, the beauty of winter floating outside in the air.
Visible in Her Gait: (Villanelle)
By Michael McFarlane
God, I can’t see her in this state,
Final blow to my wretched face,
Sadness, visible in her gait,
Quite wrong was I, and far too late,
And yet, she still carries with grace,
God, I can’t see her in this state,
‘Tis loneliness, must be my fate,
Could disappear without a trace,
Sadness, visible in her gait,
This pit I feel, it is so great
Although it’s there, does not replace,
God, I can’t see her in this state,
On top of you, though too much weight,
Not you, but I the true disgrace,
Sadness, visible in her gait,
Love, love, love: deteriorate,
Oh how I wish I could retrace,
God, I can’t see her in this state,
Sadness, visible in her gait.
Villanelle Response to “One Art” by Elizabeth Bishop
The art of losing always begins as small;
Time is lost each second, do not be content.
New beginnings prefer to come in the fall.
Mastering this art is a task not too tall
But blind acceptance equals time not well spent.
The art of losing always begins as small
As life goes on, loss is a growing snowball
Contributing to blocks hard to circumvent
We must take risks, and trust in courageous fall.
Loss is a cycle, a continuous crawl
With grit and greed, possible to prevent
The art of losing always begins as small
The time has now come to tear down this great wall
You live only once, there’s no room for regret
Best ally is you, don’t stay down when you fall
Decisions are here, loss attempting to stall,
Preparation, now at one hundred percent.
The art of losing always begins as small
Success is a process, have faith in the fall.
The Ride
The fresh cold air
As you pedal along
The breeze hitting your face
Everything is forgotten
Happiness encompasses you
As you take in the scenery
Children pass by on there way to school
Adults commuting to work
There is nothing like the environment
Separated from the cars
But in a lane of your own
Speeding up to make the next light
Approaching the city center
Brought back to reality
Start preparing for the school day
There is nothing like biking in Copenhagen
Maple
I sat in front of a tree
for the twelve weeks of fall
semester, watching its leaves yellow
and brown and fall to the ground
until it was naked tracings
of blackened skeletons against
olive sky above my head against
concrete, watching tree
branches creak, morphing molten tracings
of cotton balls into fall
shapes—ground
littered with rust and citrus zest and yellow
breath, clouding my sight sunflower yellow,
rises in my chest, swells against
my ribcage, and I float from the ground
as the buds of the bloody tree
hastily flutter, glowing crimson—fall,
clinging to the tracings
of relief, I sigh, and tracings
of words foaming yellow
in my mouth then fall
against
tree
and ground
with ears pressed to the ground,
we listen for tracings
of trembles—the roots of a tree
slithering in the earth, yellow
pebbles rolling against
cracks in the crumbly fall
decay comes all at once, fall
claiming the ground
with its cast paper, its bricks faded and stained against
moldy green grout, its pencil yellow
tracings
of a maple tree
suddenly bare against paling sky, I fall
into the trunk of the tree and to the ground
and scatter into my tracings of breathing yellow.
Faster than Love: Heartbreak
How far will you go?
With my heart in your hand
Don’t you know
With You, life isn’t bland.
My love for you is eternal.
For your love has made me stubborn.
This darkness is nocturnal.
The kingdom of my mind you govern.
You marry him, yet loved me
Made me glad to be born
Now death is my only plea
Knowing me, not a single soul would mourn.
Engraved on this bullet: your name
I can feel you with ease
I sigh and aim
Alas, I have found it. You, me my eternal peace.