Another villanelle (or, in which I give in and express frustration with the form)

I’m glad all poems are not villanelles
With their confounded limits on the rhyme:
Mine jangle like a ring of untuned bells.

Now, longing for the moment when it gels,
I find each time I’m melting in quicklime.
I’m glad all poems are not villanelles,

My poor imagination quakes and quells
As each tercet is forced towards the line:
Mine jangle like a ring of untuned bells.

Oh, some make it look easy. Not the hells,
For Wilde, of limping metre and half-rhyme.
I’m glad all poems are not villanelles

A sonnet, free verse, that’s the stuff that sells,
Freed from repeats that sound more tired each time
(Mine jangle like a ring of untuned bells).

Why then go on? Well, though the form repels
Me now, with practice, maybe, it will chime.
(I’m glad all poems are not villanelles –
Mine jangle like a ring of untuned bells.)

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