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The Distant Self

Lately I have been pondering the nature of death, what it really is. Is it closing your eyes one last time never to wake up? Or is it something more subtle, more unnerving—something much closer to home? When I look back through time to the teenager I once was, that person is not here. He is dead, and he has been dead for a very long time. But because I am still strong and somewhat clear of mind, I can forget that death and focus on the present life as if it now unfolds. But the reality is, there are moments, days, circumstances that I would hold onto for eons if it were possible—but they have long since passed and are dead.

The Distant Self

This poem has been published in my book an inkling hope: select poems, available in Kindle and paperback formats. Out of consideration for those who have purchased a copy, I have removed it from this post and online viewing in general.

Perhaps the movement between carnal death and birth is much the same. Even after that point of presence jumps from our last breath to some unfathomable new context, there is a recognition somewhere in our newly manifest being that something has been lost—a past and fully developed identity. Perhaps this death occurs on a lesser scale over and over throughout the experience of living. And those who see this most clearly are those who still live after everything else has been lost, and all they have left is to struggle for moments of clarity while wasting away in a nursing home.

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What is a Ghazal?

The Rumi and Hafez. Though many such translations are interesting and enjoyable to read, it is not possible for them to retain much of the complex ghazal structure itself. This is because the ghazal’s native languages are extremely rich in rhyme and polysemy, which are heavily relied upon when writing them, while English offers relatively few rhyming options and only a handful of polysemous words and phonemes. Translations to English must be adapted to English grammar and syntax, which necessarily forces the loss of not only most—if not all—of the original ghazal’s structure, but its polysemy as well. What we see in the English translations is almost always just one from a series of several possible translations.

It is relatively recently that poets have taken on writing original ghazals in English. Because of the scarcity of rhyme and polysemy in English, poets often adapt the form to their personal interpretations and preferences. Many such adaptations are so extreme that it is often not easy to recognize them as ghazals at all.

It was only after consulting a number of sources that I began to see what the English ghazal would look like. And I could see that they would be difficult to write. In fact, very few true to form English ghazals have even been written, which is understandable given the restrictive nature of the form.

There seem to be ten solid points that can be used to define the ghazal as an English art form:

The ghazal is comprised of couplets called sher. Supposedly, each couplet should stand alone as a complete poem, the idea being to make the ghazal like a pearl necklace. The necklace (ghazal) as a whole is striking, but each pearl (couplet/sher) may stand alone in its own beauty and completion of expression. So, by some interpretations, the ghazal is not a poem in itself, but a collection of poems in the form of sher.

Poets tend to interpret this idea in very personal ways. However, to provide a sensible context, it is safe to say that however a couplet reads, it should probably end in a definitive fashion, as if a concluding period could occur at the close of the second line. It is the established understanding that there should be a discontinuity of focus and/or topic between the sher, but I have learned from scholars native to Arabic and Farsi that this is a misunderstanding of English poets and readers. The couplets can have great continuity, as demonstrated in my ghazal “Acorn“, or they can have extreme discontinuity, as demonstrated in my ghazal “Transfigurations“. This is really up to the poet and her present mood.

While the first and second lines of each couplet together often complete a thought, they are themselves each thoughts with some degree of independence. Hence a natural, brief pause should occur at the end of the first line in completion of the first half of the thought.

In Arabic, Farsi, or Hindi this is probably very easy. But I would imagine that this breather could occur somewhere near the end of the first line or the beginning of the second in order to grant more freedom when writing ghazals in English.

There are between 5 and 15 couplets. This is not an exact number, but perhaps the usual number, or maybe simply more of a guideline. I have heard that in Arabic there are ghazals that go on for several dozen lines.

The second line of every couplet closes with a refrain, called radif. “Refrain” is really just the closest English equivalent to radif, as the meanings are different. But, for the purpose of this article, adapt your use of “refrain” to meaning radif, those words or phonemes that are the same at the end of every couplet.

In the opening couplet, both the first and second lines close with the refrain.

The refrain is a word or brief phrase. When a phrase is used, it contains no more than three words. This also is not writ in stone. I understand that historically some poets have used fairly long refrains, which probably look quite natural in one of the ghazal’s native languages. But in English, no more than three words is probably a solid guideline to prevent an extreme overabundance of repetition of content.

A mono-rhyme, or qaafiyaa, is used throughout the couplets. This rhyme terminates at the syllable before each refrain. So, the rhyme is used twice in the first couplet and once on the second line of every couplet ensuing. If there are 15 couplets, the mono-rhyme is used 16 times. This can get interesting.

Similar to what we encountered above between “refrain” and radif, “rhyme” and qaafiyaa do not mean exactly the same thing. It would seem that qaafiyaa indicates a very specific type of rhyme–one that occurs between sher and just preceding radif. But, again, “rhyme” is the closest word available in English to this concept. So, for the purpose of this article, expand your understanding of “rhyme” to include this particular species designated by qaafiyaa.

Because of the general unavailability of rhyming words in English relative to the native languages of the ghazal, it should be considered acceptable to deviate from exact rhyme to the use of other types of parallelisms, both phonetic and semantic. For instance, in my ghazal “stardrift” I use disyllabic consonance instead of rhyme, and in my ghazal “moods” I use an associative parallelism where each word is hyponymous with the color brown. Such variation allows for a great deal more freedom within the form than does rhyme alone.

Except for the fact that each couplet uses a refrain, there is no end rhyme. However, end rhyme may be introduced as a compliment to the form. If end rhyme is used in any manner, it is used in conjunction with the mono-rhyme, not in place of it.

Each line throughout the poem uses the same meter.

Here it is worth noting that traditional ghazals use one of 19 specific meters. But, so far, I have not figured out a way to make an English ghazal adhere to any of them. I believe the variation of English accents makes this more or less impossible, so it seems my only choice for now are the metric structures found in English prosody. It is very important to poets of the languages native to the ghazal that the lines be completely isometric. For some reason, however, isometry in English poetry is now widely frowned upon. And it is difficult to accomplish in any case without bringing a robotic feel to the lines. But, when isometry is successfully employed in such a way that the words read and are spoken in a very natural way, this can bring a vibrancy to the ghazal form that is otherwise just not possible.

The poet uses his or her penname in the final couplet. This reference can be made on the first or second line. This is sometimes called the “signature couplet”. Traditional poets writing ghazals have often used this as a means of opening a sort of dialogue with themselves.

In my ghazals, the penname used is Zahhar. Since June of 2003, however, I no longer use the penname directly, but some reference to one of its meanings.

In reading many loose adaptations of the ghazal, I have found that the only points above used with some consistency are 1, 3 and 8.

Ghazals translated into English seem to also use points 2 and 10. Where translations are concerned, this makes perfect sense because words that rhyme in Eastern languages will not rhyme in English and rarely–if ever–will Eastern phraseologies used with a refrain translate directly into English. The translations themselves are not “ghazals,” but they certainly are “ghazal translations.”

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What is a Terzanelle?

The terzanelle, invented by Lewis Turco in 1965, is a poetic form that combines the terza rima’s end-line rhyme scheme with the villanelle’s refrain—hence “terzanelle”, from terza rima and villanelle. In fact, “Terzanelle” was the title of Turco’s first terzanelle poem—the first ever written—which was published in the summer edition of The Michigan Quarterly Review that same year. He has since written and published three more terzanelle poems over the years, “Terzanelle in Thunderweather” (The Book of Forms: University Press of New England, 2000), “The Room” (Poetry Miscellany, 1978), and “Terzanelle of the Spider’s Web” (The Southern Review, 1990).

Over the years Turco’s invention has become well known and popular. Hundreds of terzanelle poems may be found on the web by as many authors. Although Turco’s “Terzanelle in Thunderweather” is often quoted as an example of the poem’s structure, as I also do below, it is seldom—if ever—mentioned that Turco is in fact the inventor of this form.

Here are the rules by which a terzanelle poem may be written:

The terzanelle is comprised of at least two tercets and a closing quatrain. Item 4 below expands upon this general rule with commentary.

The first and third lines of the opening tercet are refrained as the second and fourth lines of the closing quatrain. This will be illustrated later using an actual terzanelle poem.

The terzanelle body is comprised of tercets that each refrain the second line of the preceding tercet for its third line. The first line of each of these tercets is rhymed with its refrained line. This will also be illustrated later.

There must be a minimum of one tercet for the body, but there may be as many tercets in the body as you think you can get away with. The opening tercet can be thought of as the head of the poem, the closing quatrain as the foot, and any tercets in between as the body.

I’m taking a liberty here in defining the terzanelle body. While Turco created the terzanelle as a fixed form of 19 lines (four tercets in the body), it seems clear to me that the terzanelle is stanzaic in nature. Turco’s terzanelles all follow the stanzaic structure of the villanelle, yet the terza rima may have as few or as many stanzas as desired. So, logically, since the terzanelle structure is derived from fusing the rhyme pattern of the terza rima with the opening and closing refrain structure of the villanelle, there is no real limit to the number of tercets the terzanelle poem may contain.

I myself have not written a terzanelle poem shorter than that of the 19 line form based on the villanelle, but my longest terzanelle poem, “Raven,” contains eight tercets in the body for a total of ten stanzas. I have in the past seen terzanelles that use a single tercet in the body for a total of three stanzas, but unfortunately I am now unable to remember where I saw them and who it was that wrote them. If you know of any, please comment so I can include one as an example to the shortened form.

The closing quatrain refrains the second line of the last tercet as its third line and rhymes its first line with that refrain. This as well will be illustrated in a moment.

Lines may be any length or meter within reason.

It can be especially interesting and melodic to alternate between two meters, such as octameters and hexameters, as I did with the poem “Baby Grand.”

Terzanelles may be written on any subject.

There is a pleasant shorthand notation for the first five points. For a 19 line terzanelle, this would be A1B1A2, bC1B1, cD1C1, dE1D1, eF1E1, fA1F1A2, where like letters indicate the rhyme scheme, and uppercase letters followed by a superscript numeric notation indicate the refrains. Using this, we can follow the rhyme and refrain pattern through “Terzanelle in Thunderweather”, Turco’s most well-known terzanelle poem mentioned above:

Terzanelle in Thunderweather

by Lewis Turco

A1
This is the moment when shadows gather
B1
under the elms, the cornices and eaves.
A2
This is the center of thunderweather.
 
 
b
The birds are quiet among these white leaves
C1
where wind stutters, starts, then moves steadily
B1
under the elms, the cornices, and eaves–
 
 
c
these are our voices speaking guardedly
D1
about the sky, of the sheets of lightning
C1
where wind stutters, starts, then moves steadily
 
 
d
into our lungs, across our lips, tightening
E1
our throats. Our eyes are speaking in the dark
D1
about the sky, of the sheets of lightening
 
 
e
that illuminate moments. In the stark
F1
shades we inhibit, there are no words for
E1
our throats. Our eyes are speaking in the dark
 
 
f
of things we cannot say, cannot ignore.
A1
This is the moment when shadows gather,
F1
shades we inhibit. There are no words, for
A2
this is the center of thunderweather.

As with the villanelle, one of the primary challenges with the terzanelle is finding a way to change the meaning or context of each refrain. In one way the terzanelle is a little easier than the villanelle in that there is a fresh refrain to work with for each tercet. In another way the terzanelle is much more difficult because each tercet must refrain a line from the previous tercet all the way through the poem and also because the two refrains from the opening tercet need to be woven in with a refrain from the final tercet in the closing quatrain. The latter, all on its own, has proven to be the most challenging aspect of the terzanelle for me.

A note on rhyme: To my mind, there is no reason to stick strictly to rhyme for the end-line scheme so long as some form of end-line parallelism is employed. There is much to explore, and I would encourage you to do so. I have myself used many alternative prosodic—and even semantic—devices in place of rhyme. Such devices have included consonance, assonance, alliteration, semantic associations and more. I have even combined different prosodic devices to good effect. For instance, in “Pestilence” one set of lines uses frame rhyme (alliteration and consonance with no assonance) while the other uses end-line assonance.