Villanelle : The Smell of Woman the Whiff of Chaste Nutmeg Cinnamon
The smell of woman the whiff of chaste nutmeg cinnamon
The lone mythic bird gone to sing in other dulcet climes
She bathes in cloistered mountain streams tingling pearls diamond
Her lips velvet unbuzzed petals dewy beds chrysanthemum
Deep lost hidden chasms the taste of feminine rhymes
The smell of woman the whiff of chaste nutmeg cinnamon
Her looks demure proud eyes shy shades distant firmament
Meadow cheeks where swath of lily and lilac swaying chimes
She bathes in cloistered mountain streams tingling pearls diamond
Her crown of caressing curls churning deep musk-scented ocean
Virgin forests semi-quaver ragas titillate mimes
The smell of woman the whiff of chaste nutmeg cinnamon
Her tapering fingers arching rainbows fun gifts from sun
The mother's milk embrace that never curdles trust with crimes
She bathes in cloistered mountain streams tingling pearls diamond
No wind breeds from sewers nor loose limbs to quell chaste woman
Nor nasty tongues lash the holy citadel in grimes
The smell of woman the whiff of chaste nutmeg cinnamon
She bathes in cloistered mountain streams tingling pearls diamond
Bonjour John Michael from Paris! You couldn't be more right: "All the more to dream it true!" Here's a hand out to shake. Still, the villanelle is a paean to womanhood at the outset: to all women be she mother, sister or wife in particular! Yet the "species" is a rare phenomenon, you must admit, thanks to the Existentialists, the French kind. No, it's not about any one I know or have known. Yet, there have been such women in existence, in great epics and in unsung cloistered lives. Hope I'm not casting aspersions on the millions, nay, trillions who have embodied such an ideal. Thanks ever so much. Every good wish.
P.S. The second line and the penultimate two in the last stanza attest to the indifferent, impersonal nature of the poem. TW.
The only thing that could better the sensuous words about this mysterious mountain stream bathing beauty would be to add vanilla to the nutmeg cinnamon. Makes my mouth water at the thought of my mother baking cinnamon rolls in the morning when I was a wee child.
I can taste and smell the nutmeg and cinnamon.
I can feel and visualize the woman in this dream.
Perhaps it's not a dream?
All the more to dream it true!
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P.S. The second line and the penultimate two in the last stanza attest to the indifferent, impersonal nature of the poem. TW.
The only thing that could better the sensuous words about this mysterious mountain stream bathing beauty would be to add vanilla to the nutmeg cinnamon. Makes my mouth water at the thought of my mother baking cinnamon rolls in the morning when I was a wee child.
Ron
I can feel and visualize the woman in this dream.
Perhaps it's not a dream?
All the more to dream it true!
Well done! John Michael