Those Ever-Loving Windmills

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Canadian poet, Elaine Stirling, medieval French fixed verse, social media, villanelle

~~a villanelle~~

Tilting windmills on a sunny day
with rusty swords till something breaks
seems to me a waste of play.

The cranky knight must have his way
to soothe, I suppose, his chronic aches,
tilting windmills on a sunny day.

I’m trying hard to look away,
ignore the hissy fits and fakes.
Seems to me a waste of play

to criticize. I will not sway
them anyway, for heaven’s sake!
Tilting windmills on a sunny day

reduces me, turns skies to gray.
Contempt is such a bitter cake,
seems to me a waste of play,

though who am I to judge you? Hey,
your years of practice, perfect makes!
Tilting windmills on a sunny day
seems to me a waste of play.

Thank you, Miguel de Cervantes, for the analogy that never grows old.

© Elaine Stirling, 2017

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Boldly

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an epitaph I could live with, Canadian poet, Elaine Stirling, French medieval fixed verse, villanelle

~~a villanelle~~

I’ve always only ever been
as friends and kin will testify
the type to boldly wander in

to my delight and their chagrin
my motto is, explore or die!
I’ve always only ever been

indifferent to the public whim
of politics and what to buy.
The type to boldly wander in,

it fits me like a second skin.
The over-cautious bleed me dry.
I’ve always only ever been

attracted to the fiery rim.
It won’t be your fault if I fry.
The type to boldly wander in

knows, yes, that one day she’ll begin—
and boom! Living kills you, then you die.
I’ve always only ever been
the type to boldly wander in.

~~~

The only way, sometimes, to get rid of an annoying earworm such as “always only ever” is to quadruple it into a villanelle. Off you go, little worm…

© Elaine Stirling, 2017

Pot Belly Stove

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Canadian poet, Elaine Stirling, narrative poetry, villanelle

~~a villanelle~~

In the center of my kitchen sits a pot belly stove
made for cooking and for heating, just like every other.
My appliance has no cause to think and nothing to prove.

I gather wood from an apple grove,
buy yesterday’s news from a friend’s big brother.
In the center of my kitchen sits a pot belly stove.

Last night, a troubled neighbour drove
into the lake to get even with his mother.
My appliance has no cause to think and nothing to prove,

so I shall not comment on their familial love
or lack thereof. Too much of anything will smother.
In the center of my kitchen sits a pot belly stove.

Earlier this morning, an acquaintance shot a dove;
its peace, apparently, disturbed him. He could use a lover.
My appliance has no cause to think and nothing to prove.

Peddlers of corrosive fuel and cheap vitriol move
daily through our village. They are of small bother.
In the center of my kitchen sits a pot belly stove.
My appliance has no cause to think and nothing to prove.

~~~

© Elaine Stirling, 2016

Basic Training for the Oracle of Delphi

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Canadian poet, Elaine Stirling, French medieval fixed verse, oracle of Delphi, the evil eye, villanelle

~~a villanelle~~

Do you recall the lessons of Delphi
when they trained us to sit as oracle?
Ignore the stink, the side, and gimlet eye,

the ageless priestess warned. The more you try
to please, the less the vapours will supply.
Do you recall the lessons of Delphi?

To know yourself as selves, to multiply,
slip free and clear from every manacle,
ignore the stink, the side, and gimlet eye.

Who shame, exclude, clamour against, or cry
to gods, cannot perceive the miracle.
Do you recall the lessons of Delphi,

trusting all that lives has a time set by,
free and whole, without pain or debacle?
Ignore the stink, the side, and gimlet eye

so Apollo, through you, can prophecy
and reflect anew the historical.
Do you recall the lessons of Delphi?
Ignore the stink, the side, and gimlet eye.

~~~

I’d been thinking about the phrase “gimlet eye” recently but never really knew the meaning of gimlet, apart from a drink made of lime juice and gin. Turns out, it’s also a tool with a cross handle, grooved shank, and screw point. The gimlet eye bores holes through its object of attention, a variation on the age-old evil eye. Given the skill of ancient Greek sculptors, I have no reason to disbelieve they had their own version of gimlets.

© Elaine Stirling, 2016

Tree on the Beach

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Canadian poet, contemporary form poetry, Elaine Stirling, terza rima, terzanelle, villanelle

Writing the terzanelle a few days ago was so much fun, I thought I’d do it again. The climbing rhyme of the terza and the looping repetition of the villanelle function like a tiny drill bit in a tight space, a sort of poetic trepanning.

~~~

Standing as tall as a tree on the beach
in the cold with no hope of surviving
is mostly a matter of ease and reach.

A dash of aplomb with eyes toward thriving
beats being bummed by low expectation
in the cold with no hope of surviving.

Assigning the world your navigation
of feelings and hopes, it’s a mad trap that
beats being bummed by low expectation

until you’re so mired in all that is bad
your vigour is breached. The mutineering
of feelings and hopes—it’s a mad trap, that!

Giving less weight to mud, more to cheering
might be worth trying on days you’re down and
your vigour is breached. The mutineering

of grimness for joy is at our command,
a landlubber’s choice of loam, clay or sand.
Standing as tall as a tree on the beach
is mostly a matter of ease and reach.

~~~

© Elaine Stirling, 2016

Where Silence Roars: A Villanelle

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Elaine Stirling, French medieval fixed verse, poetry, villanelle

there is a tunnel in the cavern in the rolling of a wave
where silence roars and idle curiosity abates
where nothing goes unsaid, no time or room to save

what’s past expels, it’s swallowed by the grave
while all the joy that’s yet to come pre-celebrates
there is a tunnel in the cavern in the rolling of a wave

the light of foot, the nimble fleet of heart are brave
they send what used to be to foaming sea in crates
where nothing goes unsaid, no time or room to save

within this hallowed, hollow space I crave
and fast receive, no need to pray or contemplate
there is a tunnel in the cavern in the rolling of a wave

where I outrun the clogged, the memories of all I gave
to those who taught me fear, set free the cage of ingrates
where nothing goes unsaid, no time or room to save

no hangers-on can drown, discourage or deprave
what I know now, am sure, it constantly recalibrates
there is a tunnel in the cavern in the rolling of a wave
where nothing goes unsaid, no time or room to save

~~~

© Elaine Stirling ,2015

Mobilized

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Elaine Stirling, French medieval fixed verse, poetry, villanelle

~~a villanelle~~

I have a corner mobilized
where heads of state in secret meet
to imagine life beyond the fear and lies.

A place where all may fraternize,
take no offense, put up their feet.
I have a corner mobilized

for quick deployment of surprise
to learn how effortless the beat
to imagine life beyond the fear and lies.

Seeing through each other’s eyes
the clearest route to universal Easy Street,
I have a corner mobilized

where all of us may visualize
the best, dance gamely over grim defeat.
To imagine life beyond the fear and lies

brings hope to everything I’ve victimized.
From hope to knowing’s a short leap.
I have a corner mobilized
to imagine life beyond the fear and lies.

© Elaine Stirling, 2015

Who Knew the Maiden?

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Elaine Stirling, French medieval fixed verse, poems to honour family, poetry, villanelle

~~a villanelle ~~

who knew the maiden say she moved with grace
although she doesn’t live here anymore
the house is draped in silver lace

with modesty she fixed all secrets to their place
and turned away fine suitors by the score
who knew the maiden say she moved with grace

they did not see that sadness etched her face
nor hear by night fear pounding at her door
the house is draped in silver lace

in honour of a passion frozen interlaced
with love of God and distant family she adored
who knew the maiden say she moved with grace

although I wish she might have danced a pace
or two before the years took cruel score
the house is draped in silver lace

her intellect at season’s end is carving space
to greet, I’d like to think, her one and grand amour
who knew the maiden say she moved with grace
the house is draped in silver lace

~~~

Dedicated to KK

© Elaine Stirling, 2015
Photo by R. Kelley, 2015

I Do Myself a Petty Crime

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Elaine Stirling, form poetry, French medieval fixed verse, villanelle

A Villanelle

If I should find myself relying on the line
I have no time, pushing you and everyone away
in self defense, I do myself a petty crime.

An act of theft, a small deceit for which time
has little tolerance accumulates throughout the day.
If I should find myself relying on the line

instead of seeing easily and clearly that I’m
closing doors to something more. By fearing play
in self defense, I do myself a petty crime.

I’ve stored too much inside this cluttered mind
so lacking space, my spirit yearns to stray.
If I should find myself relying on the line

I have no time, I could instead admit that I am
dreading some great boot to squash me into clay
in self defense, I do myself a petty crime

for greater opportunity surrounds me all the time
I wed the truth of this to everything I think and say;
if I should find myself relying on the line
in self defense, I do myself a petty crime.

~~~

© Elaine Stirling, 2015
Image of grandfather clock face comes from Widimedia Commons

The Village in my Mother’s Head

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Elaine Stirling, Fernando Pessoa, heteronyms, medieval French fixed verse, poetry, villanelle

A Villanelle

The village in my mother’s head
controlled her heartstrings and her purse,
withheld approval, dispensed dread.

Anyone who looked ahead
risked their wrath and learned to curse
the village in my mother’s head.

Mannequins of silk and lead,
obsessed with piety, perverse,
withheld approval, dispensed dread.

God rest her soul, my mother’s dead.
With all her errors now reversed,
the village in my mother’s head

sees her loved ones clothed and fed,
inspires every joyful, silly, complex verse.
Withheld approval, dispensed dread,

kaput! Edicts from a clearer head
encourage me, “Be plural like the universe!”*
The village in my mother’s head
withheld approval, dispensed dread.

*The quotation, “Be plural like the universe,” comes from one of my favourite poets, Fernando Pessoa, who wrote under dozens of heteronyms, which are pseudonyms with their own lives and identities. Whitman declared himself to contain multitudes. Buoyed by their audacity, I pulled Alain C. Dexter from my own village to be a protagonist and author.

~~~

© Elaine Stirling, 2014
Photograph by author