Villanelle: Because Her Heart Is Tender

These are villanelles written by Michael R. Burch and other poems with refrains, such as rondels.

These are villanelles written by Michael R. Burch along with other poems with refrains, such as rondels.

Villanelle: Because Her Heart Is Tender

by Michael R. Burch

for Beth

She scrawled soft words in soap: "Never Forget,"
Dove-white on her car's window, and the wren,
because her heart is tender, might regret
it called the sun to wake her. As I slept,
she heard lost names recounted, one by one.

She wrote in sidewalk chalk: "Never Forget,"
and kept her heart's own counsel. No rain swept
away those words, no tear leaves them undone.

Because her heart is tender with regret,
bruised by razed towers' glass and steel and stone
that shatter on and on and on and on,
she stitches in wet linen: "NEVER FORGET,"
and listens to her heart's emphatic song.

The wren might tilt its head and sing along
because its heart once understood regret
when fledglings fell beyond, beyond, beyond ...
its reach, and still the boot-heeled world strode on.

She writes in adamant: "NEVER FORGET"
because her heart is tender with regret.

Published by Neovictorian/Cochlea, The Villanelle, The Eclectic Muse, Nietzsche Twilight, Nutty Stories (South Africa), Poetry Renewal Magazine, and Other Voices International. Keywords/Tags: villanelle, 911, terror, terrorism, never, forget, heart, tender, regret, New York City, twin, towers, World Trade Center, heroism, patriotism, courage, sacrifice

Villanelle: Because Her Heart is Tender (II)

by Michael R. Burch

Because her heart is tender

there is hope some God might mend her, …

some small hope Fates might relent.

Because her heart is tender

mighty Angels, come defend her! 

Even the Devil might repent.

Because her heart is tender

Jacob's Ladder should descend here, 

the heavens open, saints assent.

Because her heart is tender

why does the cruel world rend her? 

Fix the world, or let it end here! 

Villanelle: The Divide

by Michael R. Burch

The sea was not salt the first tide ...
was man born to sorrow that first day,
with the moon―a pale beacon across the Divide,

the brighter for longing, an object denied―
the tug at his heart's pink, bourgeoning clay?

The sea was not salt the first tide ...
but grew bitter, bitter―man's torrents supplied.

The bride of their longing―forever astray,

her shield a cold beacon across the Divide,
flashing pale signals: Decide. Decide.
Choose me, or His Brightness, I will not stay.

The sea was not salt the first tide ...
imploring her, ebbing: Abide, abide.

The silver fish flash there, the manatees gray.

The moon, a pale beacon across the Divide,
has taught us to seek Love's concealed side:
the dark face of longing, the poets say.

The sea was not salt the first tide ...
the moon a pale beacon across the Divide.

"The Divide" is essentially a formal villanelle despite the non-formal line breaks.

Remembering Not to Call

by Michael R. Burch

a villanelle permitting mourning, for my mother, Christine Ena Burch

The hardest thing of all,

after telling her everything,

is remembering not to call.

Now the phone hanging on the wall

will never announce her ring:

the hardest thing of all

for children, however tall.

And the hardest thing this spring

will be remembering not to call

the one who was everything.

That the songbirds will nevermore sing

is the hardest thing of all

for those who once listened, in thrall,

and welcomed the message they bring,

since they won’t remember to call.

And the hardest thing this fall

will be a number with no one to ring.

No, the hardest thing of all

is remembering not to call.

Villanelle: Ordinary Love
by Michael R. Burch

Indescribable―our love―and still we say

with eyes averted, turning out the light,
"I love you," in the ordinary way

and tug the coverlet where once we lay,
all suntanned limbs entangled, shivering, white ...
indescribably in love. Or so we say.

Your hair's blonde thicket now is tangle-gray;
you turn your back; you murmur to the night,
"I love you," in the ordinary way.

Beneath the sheets our hands and feet would stray
to warm ourselves. We do not touch despite
a love so indescribable. We say

we're older now, that "love" has had its day.
But that which Love once countenanced, delight,
still makes you indescribable. I say,
"I love you," in the ordinary way.

"Ordinary Love" was the winner of the 2001 Algernon Charles Swinburne poetry contest. It was originally published by Romantics Quarterly and nominated by the journal for the Pushcart Prize. It is missing a tercet but seemed complete enough without it.―MRB

Double Trouble
by Michael R. Burch

The villanelle is trouble:
it’s like you’re on the bubble
of beginning to see double.

It’s like you’re on the Hubble
when the lens begins to wobble:
the villanelle is trouble.

It’s like you’re Barney Rubble
scratching itchy beer-stained stubble
because you’re seeing double.

Then your lines begin to gobble
up the good rhymes, and you hobble.
The villanelle is trouble,

just like getting sloshed in the pub’ll
begin to make you babble
because you’re seeing double.

Because the form is flubbable
and is really not that loveable,
the villanelle is trouble:
it’s like you’re seeing double.

Villanelle: She Always Grew Roses

by Michael R. Burch

for my grandmother, Lillian Lee

Tell us, heart, what the season discloses.

“Too little loved by the ego in its poses,

she always grew roses.”

What the heart would embrace, the ego opposes,

fritters away, and sometimes bulldozes.

Tell us, heart, what the season discloses.

“Too little loved by the ego in its poses,

she loved nonetheless, as her legacy discloses:

she always grew roses.”

How does one repent when regret discomposes?

When the shadow of guilt, at last, interposes?

Tell us, heart, what the season discloses.

“Too little loved by the ego in its poses,

she continued to love, as her handiwork shows us,

and she always grew roses.”

Too little, too late, the grieved heart imposes

its too-patient will as the opened book recloses.

Tell us, heart, what the season discloses.

“She always grew roses.”

The opened-then-closed book is a picture album. The season is late fall because it was in my autumn years that I realized I had written poems for everyone in my family except Grandma Lee. Hopefully it is never too late to repent and correct an old wrong.

Villanelle: Little Sparrow

by Michael R. Burch

for my petite grandmother, Christine Ena Hurt, who couldn’t carry a note, but sang her heart out with great joy, accompanied, I have no doubt, by angels

“In praise of Love and Life we bring

this sacramental offering.”

Little sparrow of a woman, sing!

What did she have? Hardly a thing.

A roof, plain food, and a tiny gold ring.

Yet, “In praise of Love and Life we bring

this sacramental offering.”

“Hosanna!” angel choirs ring.

Little sparrow of a woman, sing!

Whence comes this praise, as angels sing

to her tuneless voice? What of Death’s sting?

Yet, “In praise of Love and Life we bring

this sacramental offering.”

Let others have their stoles and bling.

Little sparrow of a woman, sing!

“In praise of Love and Life we bring

this sacramental offering

as the harps of beaming angels ring.

Little sparrow of a woman, sing!”

Villanelle of an Opportunist

by Michael R. Burch

I’m not looking for someone to save.

A gal has to do what a gal has to do:

I’m looking for a man with one foot in the grave. 

How many highways to hell must I pave 

with intentions imagined, not true?

I’m not looking for someone to save.

Fools praise compassion while weaklings rave,

but a gal has to do what a gal has to do. 

I’m looking for a man with one foot in the grave. 

Some praise the Lord but the Devil’s my fave

because he has led me to you!

I’m not looking for someone to save.

In the land of the free and the home of the brave,

a gal has to do what a gal has to do. 

I’m looking for a man with one foot in the grave. 

Every day without meds becomes a close shave

and the razor keeps tempting me too. 

I’m not looking for someone to save:

I’m looking for a man with one foot in the grave. 

Villanelle: Hangovers
by Michael R. Burch

We forget that, before we were born,
our parents had “lives” of their own,
ran drunk in the streets, or half-stoned.

Yes, our parents had lives of their own
until we were born; then, undone,
they were buying their parents gravestones

and finding gray hairs of their own
(because we were born lacking some
of their curious habits, but soon

would certainly get them). Half-stoned,
we watched them dig graves of their own.
Their lives would be over too soon

for their curious habits to bloom
in us (though our children were born
nine months from that night on the town

when, punch-drunk in the streets or half-stoned,
we first proved we had lives of our own).

Villanelle Sequence: Clandestine But Gentle
by Michael R. Burch

Variations on the villanelle. A play in four acts. The heroine wears a trench coat and her every action drips nonchalance. The “hero” is pallid, nerdish and nervous. But more than anything, he is palpably desperate with longing. Props are optional, but a streetlamp, a glowing cigarette and lots of eerie shadows should suffice.

I.

Clandestine but gentle, wrapped in night,
she eavesdropped on morose codes of my heart.
She was the secret agent of delight.

The blue spurt of her match, our signal light,
announced her presence in the shadowed court:
clandestine but gentle, cloaked in night.

Her cigarette was waved, a casual sleight,
to bid me “Come!” or tell me to depart.
She was the secret agent of delight,

like Ingrid Bergman in a trench coat, white
as death, and yet more fair and pale (but short
with me, whenever I grew wan with fright!).

II.

Clandestine but gentle, veiled in night,
she was the secret agent of delight;
she coaxed the tumblers in some cryptic rite

to make me spill my spirit.
Lovely tart!
Clandestine but gentle, veiled in night

―she waited till my tongue, untied, sang bright
but damning strange confessions in the dark . . .

III.

She was the secret agent of delight;
so I became her paramour. Tonight
I await her in my exile, worlds apart . . .

IV.

For clandestine but gentle, wrapped in night,
she is the secret agent of delight.

Villanelle: Hang Together, or Separately
by Michael R. Burch

“The first shall be last, and the last first.”

Be careful whom you don’t befriend
When hyenas mark their prey:
The odds will get even in the end.

Some “deplorables” may yet ascend
And since all dogs must have their day,
Be careful whom you don’t befriend.

When pallid elitists condescend
What does the Good Book say?
The odds will get even in the end.

Since the LORD advised us to attend
To each other along the way,
Be careful whom you don’t befriend.

But He was deserted. Friends, comprehend!
Though revilers mock and flay,
The odds will get even in the end.

Now infidels have loot to spend:
As bloody as Judas’s that day.
Be careful whom you don’t befriend:
The odds will get even in the end.

NOTE: This poem portrays a certain worldview. The poet does not share it and suspects from reading the gospels that the “real” Jesus would have sided with the infidel refugees, not Trump and his ilk.

Villanelle: The Sad Refrain
by Michael R. Burch

O, let us not repeat the sad refrain
that Christ is cruel because some innocent dies.
No, pain is good, for character comes from pain!

There’d be no growth without the hammering rain
that tests each petal’s worth. Omnipotent skies
peal, “Let us not repeat the sad refrain,

but separate burnt chaff from bountiful grain.
According to God’s plan, the weakling dies
and pain is good, for character comes from pain!

A God who’s perfect cannot bear the blame
of flawed creations, just because one dies!
So let us not repeat the sad refrain

or think to shame or stain His awesome name!
Let lightning strike the devious source of lies
that pain is bad, for character comes from pain!
Oh, let us not repeat the sad refrain!

NOTE: An eternal hell cannot be justified. Nothing can be learned from eternal suffering except that the creation of life was the ultimate act of evil. The creator of an eternal hell would be infinitely cruel and should never have created any creature that might possibly end up there. That so many Christians do not understand this suggests they lack the knowledge of good and evil and were rooked by their "god" in the Garden of Eden or have been bamboozled by heartless and mindless theologians.

Ars Brevis

by Michael R. Burch

Better not to live, than live too long:

this is my theme, my purpose and desire.

The world prefers a brief three-minute song.

My will to live was never all that strong.

Eternal life? Find some poor fool to hire!

Better not to live, than live too long.

Granny panties or a flosslike thong?

The latter rock, the former feed the fire.

The world prefers a brief three-minute song.

Let briefs be brief: the short can do no wrong,

since David slew Goliath, who stood higher.

Better not to live, than live too long.

A long recital gets a sudden gong.

Quick death’s preferred to drowning in the mire.

The world prefers a brief three-minute song.

A wee bikini or a long sarong?

French Riviera or some dull old Shire?

Better not to live, than live too long:

The world prefers a brief three-minute song.

The vanilla-nelle

by Michael R. Burch

The vanilla-nelle is rather dark to write

In a chocolate world where purity is slight,

When every rhyming word must rhyme with white!

As sure as night is day and day is night,

And walruses write songs, such is my plight:

The vanilla-nelle is rather dark to write.

I’m running out of rhymes and it’s a fright

because the end’s not nearly (yet) in sight,

When every rhyming word must rhyme with white!

It’s tougher when the poet’s not too bright

And strains his brain, which only turns up “blight.”

Yes, the vanilla-nelle is rather dark to write.

I strive to seem aloof and recondite

while avoiding ancient words like “knyghte” and “flyte”

But every rhyming word must rhyme with white!

I think I’ve failed: I’m down to “zinnwaldite.”

I fear my Muse is torturing me, for spite!

For the vanilla-nelle is rather dark to write

When every rhyming word must rhyme with white!

I may have accidentally invented a new poetic form, the “trinelle” or “triplenelle.”

Why I Left the Right

by Michael R. Burch

I was a Reagan Republican in my youth but quickly “left” the GOP when I grokked its inherent racism, intolerance and retreat into the Dark Ages.

I fell in with the troops, but it didn’t last long:

I’m not one to march to a klanging gong.

“Right is wrong” became my song.

I’m not one to march to a klanging gong

with parrots all singing the same strange song.

I fell in with the bloops, but it didn’t last long.

These parrots all singing the same strange song

with no discernment at all between right and wrong?

“Right is wrong” became my song.

With no discernment between right and wrong,

the klan marched on in a white-robed throng.

I fell in with the rubes, but it didn’t last long.

The klan marched on in a white-robed throng,

enraged by the sight of boys in sarongs.

“Right is wrong” became my song.

Enraged by the sight of boys in sarongs

and girls with butch hairdos, the clan klanged its gongs.

I fell in with the dupes, but it didn’t last long.

“Right is wrong” became my song.

What happened to the songs of yesterdays?

by Michael R. Burch

Is poetry mere turning of a phrase?

Has prose become its height and depth and sum?

What happened to the songs of yesterdays?

Does prose leave all nine Muses vexed and glum,

with fingers stuck in ears, till hearing’s numbed?

Is poetry mere turning of a phrase?

Should we cut loose, drink, guzzle jugs of rum,

write prose nonstop, till Hell or Kingdom Come?

What happened to the songs of yesterdays?

Are there no beats to which tense thumbs might thrum?

Did we outsmart ourselves and end up dumb?

Is poetry mere turning of a phrase?

How did a feast become this measly crumb,

such noble princess end up in a slum?

What happened to the songs of yesterdays?

I’m running out of rhymes! Please be a chum

and tell me if some Muse might spank my bum

for choosing rhyme above the painted phrase?

What happened to the songs of yesterdays?

Trump’s Retribution Resolution

by Michael R. Burch

My New Year’s resolution?

I require your money and votes,

for you are my retribution.

May I offer you dark-skinned scapegoats

and bigger and deeper moats

as part of my sweet resolution?

Please consider a YUGE contribution,

a mountain of lovely C-notes,

for you are my retribution.

Revenge is our only solution,

since my critics are weasels and stoats.

Come, second my sweet resolution!

The New Year’s no time for dilution

of the anger of victimized GOATs,

when you are my retribution.

Forget the damned Constitution!

To dictators “ideals” are footnotes.

My New Year’s resolution?

You are my retribution.

Villanelle of an Opportunist
by Michael R. Burch

I'm not looking for someone to save.
A gal has to do what a gal has to do:
I'm looking for a man with one foot in the grave.

How many highways to hell must I pave
with intentions imagined, not true?
I'm not looking for someone to save.

Fools praise compassion while weaklings rave,
but a gal has to do what a gal has to do.
I'm looking for a man with one foot in the grave.

Some praise the Lord but the Devil's my fave
because he has led me to you!
I'm not looking for someone to save.

In the land of the free and the home of the brave,
a gal has to do what a gal has to do.
I'm looking for a man with one foot in the grave.

Every day without meds becomes a close shave
and the razor keeps tempting me too.
I'm not looking for someone to save:
I'm looking for a man with one foot in the grave.




Villanelle: An Ode to the Divine Plan
by Michael R. Burch

This is how the Universe works:
The rich must have their perks.
This is how the Good Lord rolls.

Did T-Rexes have souls?
The poor must live on doles.
This is how the Universe works.

The rich must have their dirks
to poke serfs full of holes.
This is how the Good Lord rolls.

The despot laughs and lurks
while the Tyger slaughters foals.
This is how the Universe works.

What are the despots' goals?
The poor must mind, not shirk.
This is how the Good Lord rolls.

Trump and Putin praise the kirks
while the cowed mind ancient scrolls.
This is how the Universe works.
This is how the Good Lord rolls.

If
by Michael R. Burch

If I regret
fire in the sunset
exploding on the horizon,
then let me regret loving you.

If I forget
even for a moment
that you are the only one,
then let me forget that the sky is blue.

If I should yearn
in a season of discontentment
for the vagabond light of a companionless moon,
let dawn remind me that you are my sun.

If I should burn―one moment less brightly,
one instant less true―
then with wild scorching kisses,
inflame me, inflame me, inflame me anew.

Originally published by The HyperTexts

Recursion
by Michael R. Burch

In a dream I saw boys lying
under banners gaily flying
and I heard their mothers sighing
from some dark distant shore.

For I saw their sons essaying
into fields―gleeful, braying―
their bright armaments displaying;
such manly oaths they swore!

From their playfields, boys returning
full of honor’s white-hot burning
and desire’s restless yearning
sired new kids for the corps.

In a dream I saw boys dying
under banners gaily lying
and I heard their mothers crying
from some dark distant shore.

I AM!
by Michael R. Burch

I am not one of ten billion―I―

sunblackened Icarus, chary fly, 
staring at God with a quizzical eye.

I am not one of ten billion, I.

I am not one life has left unsquashed―
scarred as Ulysses, goddess-debauched, 
pale glowworm agleam with a tale of panache.

I am not one life has left unsquashed.

I am not one without spots of disease, 
laugh lines and tan lines and thick-callused knees
from begging and praying and girls sighing "Please!"

I am not one without spots of disease.

I am not one of ten billion―I―

scion of Daedalus, blackwinged fly
staring at God with a sedulous eye.

I am not one of ten billion, I
AM!

Rondels, Roundels and Rondeaux

These are poetic forms similar to the villanelle, with refrains (repeated lines) and sometimes double refrains.

Rondel: Merciles Beaute ("Merciless Beauty")

by Geoffrey Chaucer
loose translation/interpretation Michael R. Burch

Your eyes slay me suddenly;
their beauty I cannot sustain,
they wound me so, through my heart keen.

Unless your words heal me hastily,
my heart's wound will remain green;
for your eyes slay me suddenly;
their beauty I cannot sustain.

By all truth, I tell you faithfully
that you are of life and death my queen;
for at my death this truth shall be seen:
your eyes slay me suddenly;
their beauty I cannot sustain,
they wound me so, through my heart keen.

Rondel: Rejection
by Geoffrey Chaucer
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Your beauty from your heart has so erased
Pity, that it’s useless to complain;
For Pride now holds your mercy by a chain.

I'm guiltless, yet my sentence has been cast.
I tell you truly, needless now to feign,―
Your beauty from your heart has so erased
Pity, that it’s useless to complain.

Alas, that Nature in your face compassed
Such beauty, that no man may hope attain
To mercy, though he perish from the pain;
Your beauty from your heart has so erased
Pity, that it’s useless to complain;
For Pride now holds your mercy by a chain.

Rondel: Escape
by Geoffrey Chaucer
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Since I’m escaped from Love and yet still fat,
I never plan to be in his prison lean;
Since I am free, I count it not a bean.

He may question me and counter this and that;
I care not: I will answer just as I mean.
Since I’m escaped from Love and yet still fat,
I never plan to be in his prison lean.

Love strikes me from his roster, short and flat,
And he is struck from my books, just as clean,
Forevermore; there is no other mean.
Since I’m escaped from Love and yet still fat,
I never plan to be in his prison lean;
Since I am free, I count it not a bean.

Rondel: Your Smiling Mouth
by Charles d'Orleans (c. 1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation/modernization Michael R. Burch

Your smiling mouth and laughing eyes, bright gray,
Your ample breasts and slender arms’ twin chains,
Your hands so smooth, each finger straight and plain,
Your little feet―please, what more can I say?

It is my fetish when you’re far away
To muse on these and thus to soothe my pain―
Your smiling mouth and laughing eyes, bright gray,
Your ample breasts and slender arms’ twin chains.

So would I beg you, if I only may,
To see such sights as I before have seen,
Because my fetish pleases me. Obscene?
I’ll be obsessed until my dying day
By your sweet smiling mouth and eyes, bright gray,
Your ample breasts and slender arms’ twin chains!

Oft in My Thought
by Charles d'Orleans (c. 1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation/modernization Michael R. Burch

So often in my busy mind I sought,
Around the advent of the fledgling year,
For something pretty that I really ought
To give my lady dear;
But that sweet thought's been wrested from me, clear,
Since death, alas, has sealed her under clay
And robbed the world of all that's precious here―
God keep her soul, I can no better say.

For me to keep my manner and my thought
Acceptable, as suits my age's hour?
While proving that I never once forgot
Her worth? It tests my power!
I serve her now with masses and with prayer;
For it would be a shame for me to stray
Far from my faith, when my time's drawing near―
God keep her soul, I can no better say.

Now earthly profits fail, since all is lost
And the cost of everything became so dear;
Therefore, O Lord, who rules the higher host,
Take my good deeds, as many as there are,
And crown her, Lord, above in your bright sphere,
As heaven's truest maid! And may I say:
Most good, most fair, most likely to bring cheer―
God keep her soul, I can no better say.

When I praise her, or hear her praises raised,
I recall how recently she brought me pleasure;
Then my heart floods like an overflowing bay
And makes me wish to dress for my own bier―
God keep her soul, I can no better say.