View Point

The form of this poem is called a villanelle, and if I recollect rightly, it's an old--as in several hundred years old--French form. 19 lines are required, as you will notice, a strictly circumscribed rhyme scheme. I don't particularly like this form of poetry because I think it's pretty hard to get one right, that is, one that doesn't sound forced, that comes across as natural. And that's not to mention how damned hard they are to write.

So here's my latest villanelle, done on assignment from my little three-person poetry group.

View Point

From way out there I am barely a mote

But stand a universe in the eye of a gnat

And how I see is a matter of rote

That we are the world is our usual note

Few would doubt or question that

But from way out there we’re barely a mote

We don self-regard like a comfy coat

In truth it’s ragged, thin, basically flat

And how we see is a matter of rote

But our vision’s cramped, and it’s no joke

Hiding the plain and simple fact

From way out there we’re barely a mote

We’d rather grasp truths that quietly float

Before our eyes like the Cheshire cat

And how we see them is a matter of rote

The alternative view of self-serving bloat

Renders us miniscule, and that is that

From way out there we’re barely a mote

But I stand a universe in the eye of a gnat.