Eight Poems In Traditional Forms : Sonnets, Villanelle, Pantoum, Tanka, Sestina
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Batik Gardenia a sonnet by Gwen L. Williams A batik canary––bittersweet sage–– graces my home. With the razamatazz of a saxophone riff, she bursts from waves of illustrious sapphire and topaz in a peerless sense of swing. Her golden necklace is a poignant ballad on her skin. Her silk sequin dress is a ribbon of melody, a range of lavender that reverberates pizzazz rich as cream, smooth as beeswax. Gardenia, waterfall of the beautiful with ebony eyes and silk hair, is a mahogany lady with ruby lips poised for a tender and coarse evanescence of all of me.
Copyright 1999 by Gwen Williams. First published by New Delta Review, 1999.
Sonnet to Billie Holiday by Gwen L. Williams As a ripe desire pools in the small of my back, a plump gardenia in the guise of a solitary note drifts floats then flies under my skin. Lone keyboard strikes a tall obsidian c-sharp, makes me recall the rhythm of the blues deftly disguised in velvet high heels and sassy fishnet thighs that could pin a lover’s back to the wall. Brass horn blows a blue fire-engine red: an improv from the knees begging to soar. A voice poised between razors and satin sheets wraps around my body as my head falls back against this wall, slides to the floor: long hot night alone with Billie again.
Copyright 2002 by Gwen Williams. First published by Karamu, 2002.
Neglect a villanelle by Gwen L. Williams While Marvin Gaye sings of sexual healing, she silently constructs a household plan: it’s time to fix the crack in the ceiling and scrape the sills where the paint is peeling. She wonders how it got so out of hand. While Marvin Gaye sings of sexual healing the whirling blades almost send her reeling: she blinks, hones in on each blade of the fan. It’s time to fix the crack in the ceiling, the spinning wicker fan hisses. Feeling timeworn, queasy, she clutches the nightstand while Marvin Gaye sings. Of sexual healing: the silent man between her legs (kneeling) knocks the wall with the headboard of rattan. It’s time to fix the crack in the ceiling, sounds the bed, the wall, and the fan. Stealing a glance at her face, the negligent man (while Marvin Gaye sings of sexual healing) thinks: it’s time to fix the crack in the ceiling.
Copyright 1998 by Gwen Williams. First published by Plainsongs, 1998.
A Fortunate Woman a pantoum by Gwen L. Williams She unwraps her fortune, savoring and cracking the yellow crescent moon. You can have your cake and eat it too, the curled paper reads. Cracking the yellow crescent moon, she smiles at the thought of her lovers watching her disrobe. The curled paper reads of delightful mornings, afternoons, and nights. She smiles. At the thought of her lovers watching her disrobe, she taps her fingers against her slightly parted lips. Of delightful mornings, afternoons, and nights she sighs and sighs in exquisite pleasure. She taps her fingers. Against her slightly parted lips she could taste the sweetness of this one, that one, or the other: she sighs and sighs. In exquisite pleasure her teeth bite down: someone crumbles with incredible ease. She could taste the sweetness of this one, that one, or the other (you can have your cake and eat it too). Her teeth bite. Down someone crumbles. With incredible ease she unwraps her fortune, savoring it.
Copyright 1999 by Gwen Williams. First published by Plainsongs, 1999. Received a Plainsongs Award.
You Are Good with a Filet Knife a sonnet by Gwen L. Williams Your filet knife slits the walleye’s belly open along the mud-brown stripe that runs from head to tail bone. “She gave me a son and started sleeping around town,” you tell me as you pull blue-veined guts and yellow fat from the fish. Your knife moves under young pink flesh as you carve a filet (and done quite well, expert that you are). “I won’t dwell on her anymore,” you promise as you flip the dead walleye over by its torn gills. You tell me, “I’ve landed you in my life: my best catch yet.” Your whitened knuckles drip blood as you plunge and approach my heart, still clenching distrust in your fist like a knife.
Copyright 1998 Gwen Williams. First published by Sport Literate, 1998.
Blue Batik a sonnet by Gwen L. Williams The batik above her sofa reveals her study in blues. A school of fish dart between green seaweeds like a paisley scarf rippling in folds of sapphire and teal. Chartreuse turtles swim toward cerulean, trailing azure bubbles into the dark lake bottom where small creatures (as if sharks) discard hollowed remains of crustaceans in mud and rock. A turquoise frog with peach spots hides behind a white femur. She drifts in blue to his parting words, his last bluff, Would you be so kind, for once, kind enough to drown me and toss my floating bones with nonchalance to the catfish and leeches?
Copyright 1999 by Gwen Williams. First published by The Wolf Head Quarterly, 1999.
Untitled a tanka by Gwen L. Williams the scarf slaps and flails as if it is his arm and that man checking the lines for walleye pike is drowning in all that blue blue
Copyright 2000 by Gwen Williams. First published by American Tanka, 2000.
The Rainy Day Song a sestina by Gwen L. Williams Free of knotted blankets, the stuffed turtle’s legstumps brush into door frames, end table corners, bookshelves. Its neck scrunched in an elbow stranglehold, the bright neon shell bumps the rump when you dash toward the couch, leap, and curly-cue through the air. The two of you soar in tandem—headfirst into the couch. Cushions speckled with pheasants nestle the fall. Six legs, two arms, two tails squirm, settle as nest-mates. Captain Kangaroo politely tells you to brush your teeth and so you and the turtle spring up and head to the bathroom. The turtle lands on the tile, its neck so wobbly, its eyes click against the sand floor. You curl a foot like a fishhook to lift its head. Popcorn shells get pried loose from molars: you spit the tiny gold shells into the sink. How can this turtle see its own nest? How can it breath with its nose in the sand, its neck curled like that? you wonder as you rearrange the toothbrush holder. Behind the wicker hamper, you find the necklace you lost last Tuesday. You slip it over your head and gallivant to the kitchen, the turtle’s lime head bouncing against your ankles. The lost-and-found seashell necklace swings and clatters loudly: Mama turns her neck away from the rolled dough. You fiddle with the nesting cups and cookie cutters. A flour-dusted hand brushes your chin. You wait for the rainy day song—leg curling a chair—about the little girl with the curl falling right smack dab in the middle of her forehead, but instead Mama remarks that your hair needs brushing. Your leg lets go of the chair, you monkey with the shells strung to your belly, your hand becomes a tiny nest for the lone purple seashell on this stupid necklace Mama made last summer. You think about how your neck snaps with every brushstroke because natural curls are such a curse—a snarl of tangles—a rat’s nest— a clump of clumps springing frizzy crazy from the head. You muffle-hum the melody on the turtle’s shell as a hint, then leave the kitchen quickly. Hairbrushing: Hell No, you think, propping the stuffed head—Steady the neck— on a stack of old books with curled pages. Its shell: a pillow-nest. Its duty: keep watch for hairbrushes. Copyright 2000 Gwen Williams.
Copyright 1999 by Gwen Williams. First published by New Delta Review, 1999.
Sonnet to Billie Holiday by Gwen L. Williams As a ripe desire pools in the small of my back, a plump gardenia in the guise of a solitary note drifts floats then flies under my skin. Lone keyboard strikes a tall obsidian c-sharp, makes me recall the rhythm of the blues deftly disguised in velvet high heels and sassy fishnet thighs that could pin a lover’s back to the wall. Brass horn blows a blue fire-engine red: an improv from the knees begging to soar. A voice poised between razors and satin sheets wraps around my body as my head falls back against this wall, slides to the floor: long hot night alone with Billie again.
Copyright 2002 by Gwen Williams. First published by Karamu, 2002.
Neglect a villanelle by Gwen L. Williams While Marvin Gaye sings of sexual healing, she silently constructs a household plan: it’s time to fix the crack in the ceiling and scrape the sills where the paint is peeling. She wonders how it got so out of hand. While Marvin Gaye sings of sexual healing the whirling blades almost send her reeling: she blinks, hones in on each blade of the fan. It’s time to fix the crack in the ceiling, the spinning wicker fan hisses. Feeling timeworn, queasy, she clutches the nightstand while Marvin Gaye sings. Of sexual healing: the silent man between her legs (kneeling) knocks the wall with the headboard of rattan. It’s time to fix the crack in the ceiling, sounds the bed, the wall, and the fan. Stealing a glance at her face, the negligent man (while Marvin Gaye sings of sexual healing) thinks: it’s time to fix the crack in the ceiling.
Copyright 1998 by Gwen Williams. First published by Plainsongs, 1998.
A Fortunate Woman a pantoum by Gwen L. Williams She unwraps her fortune, savoring and cracking the yellow crescent moon. You can have your cake and eat it too, the curled paper reads. Cracking the yellow crescent moon, she smiles at the thought of her lovers watching her disrobe. The curled paper reads of delightful mornings, afternoons, and nights. She smiles. At the thought of her lovers watching her disrobe, she taps her fingers against her slightly parted lips. Of delightful mornings, afternoons, and nights she sighs and sighs in exquisite pleasure. She taps her fingers. Against her slightly parted lips she could taste the sweetness of this one, that one, or the other: she sighs and sighs. In exquisite pleasure her teeth bite down: someone crumbles with incredible ease. She could taste the sweetness of this one, that one, or the other (you can have your cake and eat it too). Her teeth bite. Down someone crumbles. With incredible ease she unwraps her fortune, savoring it.
Copyright 1999 by Gwen Williams. First published by Plainsongs, 1999. Received a Plainsongs Award.
You Are Good with a Filet Knife a sonnet by Gwen L. Williams Your filet knife slits the walleye’s belly open along the mud-brown stripe that runs from head to tail bone. “She gave me a son and started sleeping around town,” you tell me as you pull blue-veined guts and yellow fat from the fish. Your knife moves under young pink flesh as you carve a filet (and done quite well, expert that you are). “I won’t dwell on her anymore,” you promise as you flip the dead walleye over by its torn gills. You tell me, “I’ve landed you in my life: my best catch yet.” Your whitened knuckles drip blood as you plunge and approach my heart, still clenching distrust in your fist like a knife.
Copyright 1998 Gwen Williams. First published by Sport Literate, 1998.
Blue Batik a sonnet by Gwen L. Williams The batik above her sofa reveals her study in blues. A school of fish dart between green seaweeds like a paisley scarf rippling in folds of sapphire and teal. Chartreuse turtles swim toward cerulean, trailing azure bubbles into the dark lake bottom where small creatures (as if sharks) discard hollowed remains of crustaceans in mud and rock. A turquoise frog with peach spots hides behind a white femur. She drifts in blue to his parting words, his last bluff, Would you be so kind, for once, kind enough to drown me and toss my floating bones with nonchalance to the catfish and leeches?
Copyright 1999 by Gwen Williams. First published by The Wolf Head Quarterly, 1999.
Untitled a tanka by Gwen L. Williams the scarf slaps and flails as if it is his arm and that man checking the lines for walleye pike is drowning in all that blue blue
Copyright 2000 by Gwen Williams. First published by American Tanka, 2000.
The Rainy Day Song a sestina by Gwen L. Williams Free of knotted blankets, the stuffed turtle’s legstumps brush into door frames, end table corners, bookshelves. Its neck scrunched in an elbow stranglehold, the bright neon shell bumps the rump when you dash toward the couch, leap, and curly-cue through the air. The two of you soar in tandem—headfirst into the couch. Cushions speckled with pheasants nestle the fall. Six legs, two arms, two tails squirm, settle as nest-mates. Captain Kangaroo politely tells you to brush your teeth and so you and the turtle spring up and head to the bathroom. The turtle lands on the tile, its neck so wobbly, its eyes click against the sand floor. You curl a foot like a fishhook to lift its head. Popcorn shells get pried loose from molars: you spit the tiny gold shells into the sink. How can this turtle see its own nest? How can it breath with its nose in the sand, its neck curled like that? you wonder as you rearrange the toothbrush holder. Behind the wicker hamper, you find the necklace you lost last Tuesday. You slip it over your head and gallivant to the kitchen, the turtle’s lime head bouncing against your ankles. The lost-and-found seashell necklace swings and clatters loudly: Mama turns her neck away from the rolled dough. You fiddle with the nesting cups and cookie cutters. A flour-dusted hand brushes your chin. You wait for the rainy day song—leg curling a chair—about the little girl with the curl falling right smack dab in the middle of her forehead, but instead Mama remarks that your hair needs brushing. Your leg lets go of the chair, you monkey with the shells strung to your belly, your hand becomes a tiny nest for the lone purple seashell on this stupid necklace Mama made last summer. You think about how your neck snaps with every brushstroke because natural curls are such a curse—a snarl of tangles—a rat’s nest— a clump of clumps springing frizzy crazy from the head. You muffle-hum the melody on the turtle’s shell as a hint, then leave the kitchen quickly. Hairbrushing: Hell No, you think, propping the stuffed head—Steady the neck— on a stack of old books with curled pages. Its shell: a pillow-nest. Its duty: keep watch for hairbrushes. Copyright 2000 Gwen Williams.
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