I still get all wiggly when he starts spouting off with Tom 'O Bedlam or some such.
Anywho, I bring this up because I have, as of late, fallen back into form poetry. Specifically the villanelle. I've posted a round or two on yea olde FaceBooke, and though folks seem to like them, I am getting quite a few emails asking what in the hell is a villanelle?
So here we are. The villanelle.
Here is what yea olde wikki has to say about it:
"A villanelle is a poetic form that entered English-language poetry in the 19th century from the imitation of French models.The word derives from the Italian villanella from Latin villanus (rustic). A villanelle has only two rhyme sounds. The first and third lines of the first stanza are rhyming refrains that alternate as the third line in each successive stanza and form a couplet at the close. A villanelle is nineteen lines long, consisting of five tercets and one concluding quatrain."
If that confused you, allow me to give you a visual aid. They key to the villanelle is the repetition of words and rhyme. There are only two rhymes, A and B. And the refrains are repeated throughout. Like so:
Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wow. Heavy stuff there. I could only hope to reach that level of awesomeness one day. I've tried my hand at it many, many times. Some were acceptable and a few I am quite proud of.
Here was my first attempt from years ago:
Constant
Yes life is like a ship at sea.
And from the moment we depart
For death we sail eternally.
Some let the wind blow naturally
Then follow their drifting heart
Yes life is like a ship at sea.
Most place their rig at jeopardy
And realize this from the start
For death we sail eternally
Some guide their vessel carefully
As though it is a treasured art
Yes life is like a ship at sea.
Most view this as a fallacy
As no matter how well we chart
For death we sail eternally
Each, a separate Odyssey,
Towards that final goal we dart.
Yes life is like a ship at sea.
For death we sail eternally.
Not too shabby. But then again, meh. I was criticized on more than one forum for 'using to direct of a metaphor' where instead I should have 'hinted and insinuated at the point.' I wrote a few in between, most of which I've misplaced or deleted on purpose! Flash forward to now, here we are years later and I've tried out the form again. I am very pleased with the results.
A Handful of Flesh
Darkness reveals what light denies
Upon the canvas of the bed
The hands see different from the eyes
For in the gloom we lose our guise
And sense our sights instead
Darkness reveals what light denies
You trace her curves, her lows, her highs
Her thickened thighs she’ll spread
The hands see different from the eyes
So blindly touch, feast on her sighs
While hunger swells your head
Darkness reveals what light denies
Drink full the mystery of your prize
For touch can’t be misled
The hands see different from the eyes
A sensation second but to her cries
As through the shadows you tread
Darkness reveals what light denies
The hands see different from the eyes.
I reckon I like the villanelle because its form almost begs for you to attempt to construct a narrative, but it's nearly impossible. I love that challenge. And one day, I will master it!
I leave you now with a man who has definitely mastered the form. But then again, is there a kind of poem he can't write? I think not.
Later taters,
Tonia