Bullets, tens of thousands of them

As I mentioned previously, I've joined a local poetry club. However, as you may have guessed... poetry is hard. Two weeks, and not a single idea. So, I thought that maybe if I narrowed down the format a bit, it would be easier to figure out the framework. Sort of like how few people create magic squares for fun, but everyone loves sudoku.

So, I entered a few answers into a "what type of poem are you" personality quiz on the internet, and I was told:

I'm like a Terzanelle. That's not good, I thought. Maybe I'll start off with something easier, like a villanelle. Then a friend suggested, "A villanelle? Why don't you start off with something easier, like a sestina?"

A sestina? Those look even harder than terzanelles! At this point, my notebook was starting to look like three thesauruses playing rock-paper-scissors, so I decided to pick one and run with it: a villanelle it was, then!

And that brought me to my next problem: Finding something I could write a villanelle about. It's not like I've had my heart broken lately, or sat upon a hillside watching the sunset... and I'm not sure I can wring 19 lines of drama from my chipped windshield.

Finally, inspiration struck...

Have any of you ever heard of Surrealist Obituaries? It's basically a sketchbook pandemonium of the bizarre, which I find pretty funny. But the masterpiece of the site is this very important message.

(Note: The author fears to call the jungle cats by their true name, lest he invoke their wrath. Kind of like how I don't mention trending topics on Twitter, if I don't want them to be trending topics, e.g. J*stin B*eber.)

And so, without further ado, may I present... my first villanelle.

Le*pards are waiting in the trees,
Deadlier than any cat;
They will kill hundreds with their teeth.

You must believe their evil schemes -
Their plots, their plans, the dreams they've had;
Le*pards are waiting in the trees.

Their coat can let them hide with ease,
Their muscles show no trace of fat,
They will kill hundreds with their teeth.

Look on, but you will never see
their face, until you breathe your last
Le*pards are waiting in the trees.

Put down that can of gasoline,
The flames will only make them mad;
They will kill hundreds with their teeth.

The only thing to do is flee,
Run to where the land is flat.
Le*pards are waiting in the trees,
They will kill hundreds with their teeth.

1 comment:

Cara said...

I really enjoyed that poem. I read it to the offspring.

I don't normally enjoy poems unless they have the word "Nantucket".

About The Author

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Canadian explorer. Chemist by training, biologist by nature. Long-time supporter and participant in National Novel Writing Month. Known as "Aquadeo" in most Internet circles. Also known as "that guy with the pants" to people who have seen me in certain pants.