Villanelle (minimalist): One Drunken Night

Villanelle (minimalist): One Drunken Night

I think
she'll pour
my drink.

I wink
at more,
I think,

than minx
who pours
my drink.

I sink
to floor,
and think

she stinks!
I roar,
"My drink,

you fink!"
I snore,
and think
I drink.

---Peter Schaeffer

A Fit of Form Against Form

I would rather suffer seven hells
devised by someone stranger than Dante,
than spend a weekend writing villanelles.

The teduim involved — it quickly quells
the Muse. (Already she has gone away.)
I would rather suffer seven hells,

and punishments designed for infidels –
the things that wreck a pleasant Saturday –
than spend a weekend writing villanelles.

And if I worked until I fried Intel’s
486, who’d read it anyway?
I would rather suffer seven hells

than use a form that — face it — never sells;
than write a verse with zippo chance of pay;
than spend a weekend writing villanelles.

My mercenary soul, bit-time, rebels
against non-paying work. Therefore I say,
“I would rather suffer seven hells
than spend a weekend writing villanelles.”