- Feb 3, 2024
- LitBits
- 0
New blog post by Rachel McCarron
The Untidy Desk
In an effort to repossess the poet’s soul I sold to Reality thirty years ago, I decided to tackle a form with some constraint. Like a penance for my neglect all these years.
So, here’s a Villanelle, initially as perplexing to me as her namesake in Killing Eve.
Nineteen lines made up of five tercets with ABA rhyming and a quatrain of ABAA. The first line becomes the refrain of the second and sixth stanzas, and the third line the refrain of the third and fifth, both refrains to conclude the quatrain.
Are these enough rules to live by?
Be kind to me. I haven’t done anything like this in a very long time.
The rules of the Villanelle at first felt confining. But then, like a puzzle that suddenly makes sense, the words lock into place with a few tweaks here and there, and completes with a sense of liberation.
Maybe I’ll have a go at free verse next for the opposite effect. Will it leave me floundering for want of discipline?
What do you love about the conventions of writing? Do they help or hinder?
---
The Untidy Desk
In an effort to repossess the poet’s soul I sold to Reality thirty years ago, I decided to tackle a form with some constraint. Like a penance for my neglect all these years.
So, here’s a Villanelle, initially as perplexing to me as her namesake in Killing Eve.
Nineteen lines made up of five tercets with ABA rhyming and a quatrain of ABAA. The first line becomes the refrain of the second and sixth stanzas, and the third line the refrain of the third and fifth, both refrains to conclude the quatrain.
Are these enough rules to live by?
Be kind to me. I haven’t done anything like this in a very long time.
The mess on my desk doesn’t mean anything,
Surrounded by clutter, treasure, sound,
True like the dust that falls over everything.
Surrounded by clutter, treasure, sound,
True like the dust that falls over everything.
The record is spinning, and I can hear Neil sing,
Loving the Earth; throw hatred down.
The mess on my desk doesn’t mean anything.
Loving the Earth; throw hatred down.
The mess on my desk doesn’t mean anything.
Miniature houses I wasted my time in
Stand like the story of a fictional town,
True like the dust that falls over everything.
Stand like the story of a fictional town,
True like the dust that falls over everything.
Dust on my fingers touching an old string;
Banjo is silent, guitar seldom sounds.
The mess on my desk doesn’t mean anything.
Banjo is silent, guitar seldom sounds.
The mess on my desk doesn’t mean anything.
Staring at pictures sometimes inspiring –
Bridges, balloons and joy that we found,
True like the dust that falls over everything.
Bridges, balloons and joy that we found,
True like the dust that falls over everything.
Disturb me with pleasure only our love brings.
Everything better when you come around.
The mess on my desk doesn’t mean anything,
True like the dust that falls over everything.
Everything better when you come around.
The mess on my desk doesn’t mean anything,
True like the dust that falls over everything.
The rules of the Villanelle at first felt confining. But then, like a puzzle that suddenly makes sense, the words lock into place with a few tweaks here and there, and completes with a sense of liberation.
Maybe I’ll have a go at free verse next for the opposite effect. Will it leave me floundering for want of discipline?
What do you love about the conventions of writing? Do they help or hinder?
---
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