Villanelles

 The Waking

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.

I learn by going where I have to go.

We think by feeling. What is there to know?

I hear my being dance from ear to ear.

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

Of those so close beside me, which are you?

God bless the Ground! I shall walk softly there, 

And learn by going where I have to go.

Light takes the Tree; but who can tell us how?

The lowly worm climbs up a winding stair;

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

Great Nature has another thing to do

To you and me; so take the lively air,

And, lovely, learn by going where to go.

This shaking keeps me steady.  I should know.

What falls away is always.  And is near.

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

I learn by going where I have to go.

                                          Theodore Roethke

Voice Mail Villanelle

We're grateful that you called today

And sorry that we're occupied.

We will be with you right away.

Press one if you would like to stay,

Press two if you cannot decide.

We're grateful that you called today.

Press three to end this brief delay,

Press four if you believe we've lied.

We will be with you right away.

Press five to hear some music play,

Press six to speak with someone snide.

We're grateful that you called today.

Press seven if your hair's turned gray,
Press eight if you've already died.

We will be with you right away.

Press nine to hear recordings say

That service is our greatest pride.

We're grateful that you called today.

We will be with you right away.

                                          Dan Skwire

Song

words & sounds that build bridges towards a

        new tongue

within the vortex of cadences, magic weaves there

a mystery, syncopating music rising from breath of

       the young,

the syllables spraying forward like some cloud or 

     mist hung

around the day, evening, under streetlamps, yeasting

     air, where

words & sounds that build bridges towards a

     new tongue

gather, lace the language like fireflies stitching the

     night's lungs,

rhythms of new speech reinventing themselves with

     a flair,

a mystery, syncopating music, rising from breath of

     the young,

where the need for invention at the tongue's edge,

     high-strung 

at the edge of the cliff, becomes a risk-taking poet

     who shares

words & sounds that build bridges towards a

     new tongue

full of wind & sun, breath feeds poetry from art's

     acqualungs,

under a blue sea that is sky, language threatds itself

     through air

a mystery, syncopating music, rising from breath of

     the young.

is a solo snatched from the throat of pure utterance,

     sung,

or wordsmiths blues-ing cadences, weaving lines

     into prayers,

words & wounds that build bridges towards a

    new tongue --

a mystery, syncopating music rising from breath of 

    the young

                              Quincy Troupe

 

              Selections from Villanelles, edited by Annie Finch and Marie-Elizabeth Mali, 

              Everyman's Library Pocket Poets, 2012.