Still working on the terzanelle. It's definitely harder than it looks. So here's "Mad Girl's Love Song" by Sylvia Plath, the first poet with whom I fell head over heels in love. It's a villanelle to boot, while we're on the subject of loveliness and repetition.

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

Currently working on a terzanelle, which is an awful lot of fun, but harder than it looks. I absolutely love villanelles, but this is my first time with this form. Since I'm not going to post half a poem, here's one by Lewis Turco. I suppose I'll keep doing this: if I don't have anything postable, I'll quote something. I'll leave quote-posts in italics to make it obvious that what I'm posting isn't mine.

"Terzanelle in Thunderweather"

This is the moment when shadows gather
under the elms, the cornices and eaves.
This is the center of thunderweather.

The birds are quiet among these white leaves
where wind stutters, starts, then moves steadily
under the elms, the cornices, and eaves--

these are our voices speaking guardedly
about the sky, of the sheets of lightning
where wind stutters, starts, then moves steadily

into our lungs, across our lips, tightening
our throats. Our eyes are speaking in the dark
about the sky, of the sheets of lightening

that illuminate moments. In the stark
shades we inhibit, there are no words for
our throats. Our eyes are speaking in the dark

of things we cannot say, cannot ignore.
This is the moment when shadows gather,
shades we inhibit. There are no words, for
this is the center of thunderweather.

"The two boys stood, hand in hand, at the top of the cliff. In the gloaming, the plain looked blue-grey and lonely. 'Can you do this?' the bronze one asked the silver, hesitant but trusting. The silver boy nodded. His throat was tight and his palms were sweating, one sticking hotly to the hand it held and the other turning frigid in the biting predawn wind. He opened his mouth and exhaled.

"Nothing. Of course there was nothing. Was the black speck circling against the lightening sky far off in the direction of the city a hawk or a vulture? Would each flap of its wings send fossilized feathers down to pave the road from the city to the cliff? In a land where even eagles refused to cry, how could a boy who glowed like the moon be expected to scream?

"The bronze boy, the sun-boy understood. He always understood his friend's need to shout and roar and tear at his delicate throat, although he had never felt it. Gently, he disentangled his spidery fingers from the slick confines of their intertwined hands. Then, imperceptibly at first and with increasing force, he gripped heaving, cloak-covered shoulders. 'Try again,' he urged. Head hung, breaths deep. Trying. For him, the silver one would try anything.

"Silence, one minute, two, ten, too late. The rising sun tinged the horizon dazzling white. Soon, the hazy, ethereal light of a day-long morning would begin again. Soon, the city would once again look even more fragile than it was. Soon, the grass would hiss like brushed fur and the jagged inviting edges of the glittering buildings would crumble slowly in silence. Soon, the boys would be back in the incessant musical tittering of the city. A world with room enough for everyone but no space for a scream."

Your mug of tea is sending dreamy curls of mist up from between your cupped, warming hands. The steam forms, spirals, dissipates, and forms again in a diminutive cascade of sheerest lace that will end only when the tea has grown cold. This will be long after the heat sap of your hands is gone—long after the doorbell rings.

While you watch the tea, he watches you. You don't need to meet his vivid blue gaze to know that he is analyzing you, questioning. He wants to know if you are ready. He wants to know whether a whiteness in your knuckles means that you are thinking of backing out. And you thought about it last night, hair splayed sweaty on the pillow and one hand clasped in both of his. You thought about it this morning, splashing your face and squinting to block out the harsh fluorescent bathroom light. You thought about it at lunch as you picked anxiously at your sandwich. But you've stopped thinking. You've stopped doubting. Before your tea is cool, the doorbell will ring and you will do this. You look up from your tea, past his coffee, and into his assessing eyes. When you smile, they smile back.

Still, the doorbell makes you both jump and break eye contact, only to regain it with nervous laughter a moment later. He answers the door with what you're sure is a friendly, self-assured smile, although from your position hovering behind him all you can see is unruly brown hair and muscular shoulders. But as soon as the half-shouted hellos and masculine back-clapping begin, you're drawn, as always, to the hand on his shoulder. You are mesmerized by fingers as pale and delicate as the wisps of steam still curling off your untouched tea in the kitchen, so different from the large strong hands you know so well. As always, you try to tear your gaze away—but this time, you realize, you can stare all you want. This time, you can even do more. The shiver that rushes up your back at that thought feels like the brushing of smooth, tapered fingertips.

Editors - An End Has A Start

Someone turn me 'round. Someone press your palm to my chest and give me a slow push, walk me backward away from the wall. Someone lead me out of this wet garden, this menagerie of droplets canceling each other's glitter into brushed-metal grey. Someone tell me to stop ending my sentences on a dropped-down tone, tell me to try singing for a change, tell me to wail, tell me to howl. Someone turn on a fan and let throwing-stars whip through my hair because it's too much a quiet cloud that sits on my neck and slowly smothers me. Someone grab me and slam me against a wall, shine a flashlight in my eyes and strip me naked. Someone drag me stumbling into the center of the Sun, blind me and burn me and let it all stop in high-velocity spirals. Someone make me over again, someone make me new. Someone wrap me in a cloak of stars and toss me into the sea. Someone wrap talon-fingers around my wrists and jump off the edge with me. Someone make me soar. Someone unstick my eyes and unbind my breasts. Someone fork my tongue and stab a ray of light into my belly.

Someone bring me back, I want to say. But back isn't where I want to go. I want to pitch heartrendingly forward and find myself suddenly in the sky.

Someone stop me. Someone make me stay. Someone tell me that if only I remain collecting dew with my palms upturned, the hazy morning light will come and slowly fill me with rainbows.

What do you do when your fingers have gone numb? It makes no sense to have to feel with cheeks and tongue, elbows and toes. It makes no sense to pick a pot up from the stove as if heat had never touched it. It's a long day when you have to flutter your eyelashes at something to sense it, create a breeze that bounces back to you like a bat-screech. What if you close your eyes and reach out? You might as well be in a void. Even if you reach out and touch someone, nothing will happen. There will be no warm, smooth skin, no caressing of wrist and neck. Unless you are willing to reach out with your lips, open, ready to run into someone and knock yourself over, you must wait. You must wait until someone reaches out and touches you, and the waiting is hard. Waiting can make you bitter. Waiting can make you lost. Waiting can make you open your eyes and break into laughing shards the experiment in trust.