Mundanities

A villanelle for the times in life when nothing happens

Photo by Lucas Calloch on Unsplash

I generally write free-verse poetry. It allows my mind to wander and to get at the heart of the things bumbling around in my brain. But sometimes, I enjoy the challenge of stricter forms. They require a different kind of creativity than free verse, and what emerges would not exist without that specific structure. Anyway, here’s a villanelle about life’s more mundane moments.

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MUNDANITIES

The mundane illustrates what’s true.
Those subtle pauses whisper grand—
these quiet moments are life, too.

All the morning and by night blue 
the words flow and my mind expands.
The mundane illustrates what’s true.

In ritual, I leave tea to brew,
anticipating honeyed warmth in hand.
These quiet moments are life, too.

Sun on my skin and the sky in view
offer certain peace at nature’s command.
The mundane illustrates what’s true.

Oh, to be lost in a book while my cat mews
and nightjars call over a darkened land.
These quiet moments are life, too.

When the world overwhelms and pain accrues,
I search for stillness and discard plans.
The mundane illustrates what’s true.
These quiet moments are life, too.

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WEEKEND POTPOURRI:

• Currently on repeat:

• Everything’s coming up Fog Chaser this month. Matt released a new desert song and composed a score for Chloe Hope’s latest Death & Birds essay.

• A(nother) poem (one of the most famous villanelles):

DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT

By Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.