A contoured villanelle using “For Her Villain” by Grace Bauer
Unused lines. Failed drafts. Writing can be hell—
like a heartbeat shivered to a stop in winter cold—
until I see the sweet repetition in a successful villanelle.
Tidy tercets twist over and under each other, and all is well,
building to the end with a quatrain finishing the mold.
Repeated lines. Rhythmic drafts. Writing my way out of hell.
Obsession. Love. Lust. Heartbreak—so much to tell,
and none of it feels real until my pen deems it told.
I crave the sweet catharsis of a successful villanelle.
We find ways to bail ourselves out of our holding cell.
Freedom is a finished draft that I can hold
up to sunlight. Out toward birdsong. Beyond the hell
of my own insecurity and diving into the deep well
of failed lines, awkward readings, and books unsold.
I’m centered after seeing the repetition in a villanelle.
Soothing duplication like a church’s evening knell.
A sonnet— ugh!—a 14-line poem leaves me cold.
A show-off sestina can nag and nag itself straight to hell
I love the sweet repetition in a damn good villanelle.
