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What is a Hybridanelle?

The hybridanelle (hi ‘brid an ,nell) is a 38 line poetic form that is a combination of the Italian villanelle and Lewis Turco’s terzanelle. It is created by interlacing the villanelle and terzanelle stanzaic structures together, kind of like shuffling cards, where the stanzas of each form are the individual cards. This means the villanelle and terzanelle refrains and end-line schemes leapfrog one another in the hybridanelle.

Instead of the end-line rhyme used by the villanelle and terzanelle forms, the hybridanelle’s end-line scheme may use other types of parallelism, phonemic or associative. As such, in the hybridanelle, the end-line scheme is exactly that, an “end-line scheme”, not a “rhyme scheme”. I have posted an article, “Some Alternatives to Rhyme“, that discusses and exemplifies many phonological alternatives to rhyme. I intend for the hybridanelle to be very approachable as an English poetic form rather than being yet another hand-me-down from another language that does not share the linguistic characteristics of English. Rhyme is one of the most limiting strictures imposed upon English poetry from languages such as Latin, Greek, and French.

There are two varieties of hybridanelle, Type A and Type B. The Type A hybridanelle begins with the villanelle’s opening tercet and ends with the terzanelle’s closing quatrain; the Type B hybridanelle, the inverse of the Type A, begins with the terzanelle’s opening tercet and ends with the villanelle’s closing quatrain.

The most useful way I have found to clarify all the points of a poetic form is to enumerate them.

First there are three points general to both the Type A and B hybridanelles:

The hybridanelle is comprised of ten tercets and two closing quatrains, totaling twelve stanzas.

Lines may be of any length or meter within reason.

Hybridanelles may be written on any subject.

The remaining points are different depending on whether you’re writing a Type A or a Type B hybridanelle.

First, Type A:

The first line from the opening tercet is used again as the third line of the third and seventh tercets and the penultimate quatrain. The third line from the opening tercet is used again as the third line of the fifth and ninth tercets and as the fourth line of the penultimate quatrain.

The first line of the opening tercet begins the a end-line scheme, used by the first line of every odd numbered tercet along with the penultimate quatrain. The second line of the opening tercet begins the b end-line scheme, used by the second line of each odd numbered tercet along with the penultimate quatrain.

The first and third lines of the second tercet are used again as the second and fourth lines of the closing quatrain, and they use the C end-line scheme between them.

The even numbered tercets, starting with the fourth tercet, each refrains the second line from the preceding even numbered tercet as its third line. The first line of each of these tercets uses an end-line parallelism with its refrained line.

The third line of the closing quatrain refrains the second line of the last tercet and uses an end-line parallelism between its first line and that refrain.

A shorthand notation can be used to clarify the above points. Like letters indicate the end-line scheme, and uppercase letters followed by a superscript numeric notation indicate the refrains: A1bA2, C1D1C2, abA1, dE1D1, abA2, eF1E1, abA1, fG1F1 abA2, gH1G1, abA1A2, hC1H1C2.

Now, for Type B:

The first and third lines of the opening tercet are used again as the second and fourth lines of the penultimate quatrain and use the A end-line scheme between them.

The odd numbered tercets, starting with the third tercet, each refrains the second line of the preceding odd numbered tercet as its third line. The first line of each of these tercets uses an end-line parallelism with its refrained line.

The third line of the penultimate quatrain refrains the second line from the ninth tercet and uses an end-line parallelism between its first line and that refrain.

The first line from the second tercet is used again as the third line of the fourth and eight tercets and the closing quatrain. The third line from the second tercet is used again as the third line of the sixth and tenth tercets and as the fourth line of the closing quatrain.

The first line of the second tercet begins the c end-line scheme, used by the first line of every even numbered tercet along with the closing quatrain. The second line of the second tercet begins the d end-line scheme, used by the second line of each even numbered tercet along with the closing quatrain.

The shorthand notation for the above points is as follows: A1B1A2, C1dC2, bE1B1, cdC1, eF1E1, cdC2, fG1F1, cdC1, gH1G1, cdC2, hA1H1A2, cdC1C2.

This information may be difficult to visualize without examples, so both the Type A and Type B hybridanelles are exemplified below with the shorthand notation for each type expanded out across the lines.

This first poem exemplifies the Type A hybridanelle:

Stormlight

by Zahhar

A1
Frantic flashes illustrate my view,
b
Random moments shot into the light;
A2
Thunder crushes every hope anew.
 
 
C1
I pass the night in a frail abandoned home,
D1
A weary vagrant teen deprived of will
C2
Awaiting the dawn within its quaking hold.
 
 
a
Visions strobe throughout the empty room,
b
Shadows briefly singed by every bolt;
A1
Frantic flashes illustrate my view.
 
 
d
I curl within my bag against the wall;
E1
There’s nothing left for the winds to rip from me,
D1
A weary vagrant teen deprived of will.
 
 
a
Etched amid the suffocating gloom,
b
Monster clouds roll black against the night;
A2
Thunder crushes every hope anew.
 
 
e
I’ve struggled to grasp what life could ever mean
F1
As memory and mind are stripped away;
E1
There’s nothing left for the winds to rip from me.
 
 
a
Leafless limbs are drawn in sepia hues;
b
Stark against the darkness of my thought,
A1
Frantic flashes illustrate my view.
 
 
f
I watch and listen, numb and half-aware,
G1
My slumber but vivid streaks of fitful dream,
F1
As memory and mind are stripped away.
 
 
a
Anxious waiting constantly resumes;
b
Shocked repeatedly from fugue to doubt,
A2
Thunder crushes every hope anew.
 
 
g
I try to manage what rest I can redeem,
H1
Protected from the storm by shifting frames,
G1
My slumber but vivid streaks of fitful dream.
 
 
a
Desolation roars the whole night through;
b
Forces seem to tear the world apart;
A1
Frantic flashes illustrate my view;
A2
Thunder crushes every hope anew.
 
 
h
Uncertain shadows pose in countless forms;
C1
I pass the night in a frail abandoned home,
H1
Protected from the storm by shifting frames,
C1
Awaiting the dawn within its quaking hold.

In this poem the end-line parallelisms used for the a and b schemes are assonance and consonance, respectively. The end-line parallelisms used for the remaining end-line schemes alternate between reverse rhyme (some of which is partial reverse rhyme) and frame rhyme.

Although a fixed meter is not a requirement of this form, a consistent meter or set of meters contributes greatly to the way the hybridanelle flows. This is a form of poetry that is not very forgiving of clumsy phraseologies or word flow. In this poem, the villanelle “weave” uses catalectic trochaic pentameters while the terzanelle weave uses a combination of iambic and iambic-anapestic pentameters.

This next poem exemplifies the Type B hybridanelle:

Inhumation

by Zahhar

A1
locked wards cower in the distant gloom;
B1
grated windows pattern all my dreams;
A2
heavy haze distorts my heavy mood.
 
 
C1
my eyes are weary of watching faded lights;
d
i wait throughout the dismal night to hear
C2
the call of a rooster just beyond my sight.
 
 
b
silence is an ever-present drone;
E1
tempered springs betray my slightest move;
B1
grated windows pattern all my dreams.
 
 
c
these cinderblocks enfold my spirit in lime;
d
interred in tomblike walls of concrete halls,
C1
my eyes are weary of watching faded lights.
 
 
e
thoughts amid this broken darkness brood;
F1
restless motions lurk within the shade;
E1
tempered springs betray my slightest move.
 
 
c
this is the crypt where my rotting soul is set,
d
thus laid to rest beyond that twilight hail,
C2
the call of a rooster just beyond my sight.
 
 
f
time is fractured into mental shards,
G1
strewn against the darkness of my view;
F1
restless motions lurk within the shade.
 
 
c
and the images betray my heart with lies
d
that flash against my mind as crumbled hopes;
C1
my eyes are weary of watching faded lights.
 
 
g
here i watch them phase in empty hues,
H1
omens of a future laid in brick
G1
strewn against the darkness of my view.
 
 
c
this lucid static is comfort of a sort
d
that’s lost with every sunrise when i hear
C2
the call of a rooster just beyond my sight.
 
 
h
black within the slowly rising brume,
A1
locked wards cower in the distant gloom,
H1
omens of a future laid in brick;
A2
heavy haze distorts my heavy mood.
 
 
c
i dread the sound that will end another night,
d
a sound that seals my fate within this hell—
C1
my eyes are weary of watching faded lights—
C2
the call of a rooster just beyond my sight.

In this poem the end-line parallelisms used for the c and d schemes, which is the villanelle weave, is a pattern of partial rhyme, reverse rhyme, and frame rhyme. The end-line parallelisms used for the remaining end-line schemes, which is the terzanelle weave, alternate between assonance and alliteration.

These two hybridanelle examples use phonological parallelism for their end-line schemes. For an example of a hybridanelle that uses associative parallelism for its end-line scheme, see the poem “Legacy“, which was composed after this article was originally written. With associative parallelism, words relate to one another through meaning. In “Legacy”, the parallelisms are synonymic (alike in meaning) and metonymic (related through attributes).

What makes this form fascinating is the way its refrains and end-line schemes can be used to create sound and word patterns—moods—that are perhaps unprecedented, at the very least uncommon, in English poetry.

Because the villanelle and terzanelle refrains weave through alternating stanzas in the hybridanelle, there is more distance between the refrains in the hybridanelle than in the villanelle or terzanelle. This makes it much easier to setup new contexts for the refrained lines, which can give those lines a fresh feel every time they are repeated—I have had some people read my hybridanelles without even realizing there were refraining lines—Yet the power of the refrains is not at all lost. If anything their power is intensified because they do not overwhelm the reader.

Although the hybridanelle is inspired by the established villanelle and terzanelle forms, the fact that the hybridanelle uses an open end-line scheme, rather than the fixed end-line rhyme scheme used by its predecessors, makes it an entirely new form with an whole spectrum of new possibilities.

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The Survivor

It is common for those who survive disasters—especially lone survivors—to feel a sense of guilt about it. Maybe this comes from feeling like someone among those who died in the disaster would have been more deserving of that second chance. Maybe this exacerbates a sense of worthlessness that already lurked within. Whatever the case, not all disasters are created equal, though the guilt of having survived is just as poignant.

The Survivor

It was not a train wreck. The car
didn’t screech, slow, tilt and roll,
passengers sent flying throughout
the cabin with their tablets,
purses and cell phones. There
was no shattered glass, no screams,
no sudden eerie silence amid
cracked skulls, broken bones
and twisted frames of steel—
                                 But I survived.
                 I don’t know how.

It was not a plane crash.
There was no sudden sensation
of lost momentum, no jarring
thrusts up, down and sideways.
The captain never broke over
the intercom in strained, measured
tones, “Brace for impact.”
I never tucked my head
between cramped knees
and waited for that last, terrible jolt—
                                 But I survived.
                 I don’t know why.

It was not a shipwreck. A massive
rogue wave never folded out
from the wake, snapping untold
fathoms against the wide, blue-gray
hull—covered orange lifeboat ripped
away. Steel plates never buckled
abeam at the blow, seams splitting
abreast open seas. Water never
flooded the holds, one by one,
as gunwales leaned in slow motion
down to drink in the surf.
                                 But I survived.
                 I don’t understand.
 

It was the snap of his belt, the back
of his hand, holes gaping jagged
rage from the walls, a relentless
unpredictable fury that sent my soul
crashing around in the tumbling
train car of never-ending terror.
                                 Yet I persisted,
       and learned to curb his rage.

It was the bullwhip crack of her
tongue, the icy black slash of her
words, the voracious canine rip
of her blame, an ever present hair-
raising resentment that plunged all
self-esteem headlong into sorrow.
                                 Yet I endured,
       and learned to quell her malice.

It was an ocean of apathy where just
beneath the steady rise and fall
of visceral uncertainty lurked
sudden swells of violence that rose
and smashed through the wide hull
of sanity, sinking always again what
dim hope there was into darkness.
                                 Yet I emerged,
       and learned to calm my unrest.

The final three stanzas treat on the three parents of my childhood. First, my father, physically and psychologically abusive, who committed suicide when I was 10. Next, my mother, a venomous, vindictive, emotionally damaging woman with a form of Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy that involved psychiatrists instead of medical doctors. The last was the Los Angeles County Juvenile Courts, who took custody of me at the age of 12, placing me in one abusive environment after another until I ran away and stayed away at age 15.

I have always felt like someone who has survived a catastrophic event on the order of at least a plane crash or shipwreck. Or maybe on the order of an major earthquake or tsunami. Or perhaps on the order of something even more catastrophic. For this was not a single event that occurred only once; it was ongoing and systemic abuse across the entire span of my childhood. And though running away at 15 freed me from the clutches of the abusers, there is never really freedom from the effects of the abuse itself. That must be dealt with and addressed every day for the rest of ones life.

The survivor of childhood abuse must learn to survive all over again every single day. In some cases, the survivor may even begin to show signs of thriving in spite of it all.

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Just call it cancer

If there is one thing cancer is good at, it’s sucking up the energy and brain space for creative pursuits. Over the past several months I’ve tried again and again to start or work on poems focused on this or that subject, but in the end I’m just not feeling it. Cancer, however, is another story entirely.

Just call it cancer

It’s okay, really. Just say it,
                                       “Cancer.”

You won’t be saying something
we don’t already know. In fact,
it could even be cathartic
to hear that quaver in your voice
as the dreaded word tears up
from clear, clean lungs through
unobstructed airways past vibrant
vocal chords, an articulate tongue
and pink, nonmalignant gums
that bite bitterly down at the end,
                                       “Cancer.”

It won’t add weight to the struggle
to hear it said plainly, clearly.
After stainless steel biopsies;
penetrating scans; reports and cross-
sections reviewed with surgeons
and oncologists; second opinions
sought from beyond the horizon;
radiation burns seared deep
into the soul; gut-wrenching poisons;
time lost to anesthesia; and the slow,
steady crawl of recovery—we won’t
buckle at the knees and collapse
utterly to hear that singular word,
                                       “Cancer.”

It won’t summon some ancient
terror from the void—It’s already
here, lurking in warm red darkness,
bending all of life toward the hazy
event horizon of uncertainty.
It changes nothing to call it
“the big C” or even “the struggle.”
Just go ahead and call this black
hole of mutinous selfhood by name,
                                       “Cancer.”

This is largely inspired by the tendency of people to go well out of their way to avoid saying the word “cancer” even as they ask about or otherwise discuss it. While I get that this represents an attempt to be sensitive, it can also be frustrating because it’s hard not to feel like you’re being coddled.

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Dislodged

Last year I bought a journaling application for my PC that I planned to use for drumming up ideas for poems and for logging lines and fragments that could later be expanded upon. The seed lines for this poem were among the last entries made in the journal prior to my finding out in November that my wife has cancer.

Dislodged

Your raucous call is the sound
    of an old friend knocking
        at the door. One not seen
                    in many years.

    I look up and my lungs fill
        with long sighs of affection
as your broad black wings
    flurry lightly north and west.

        Where you go each day
    the moment daylight pulls
your roosts from shadow,
                    I do not know.

    I cannot follow your omens
over street signs and power lines,
        over the tired old grid
    of run-down homes and businesses,

over the brick, wood, and chain-link
    fences that partition every block.
        Yet I swear my heart lifts from its
                    white cage and chases after,

    leaving me just a little empty.
        Sometimes I think you carry
my spirit to me. Sometimes
    it seems you carry it away.

        We are bound, and I know
    you know. Karma is a twisted thing,
involuted with the daily
                    struggle to survive,

    the ancient force of past being
that somehow led to now, and every
        hidden longing that forever
    tugs at my soul.

Sometimes a feather drifts down
    and settles by the curb. Maybe
        I am that feather.
                    Maybe long ago

    I was dislodged from the body
        of my flock and left behind
to settle into the sod. Maybe I am
    fallen feather become man,

        forever grounded, looking on
    as black wings call with stern regard
from beyond the constricting ache
                    of warehouse walls.

I work the night shift at a group home for at-risk teens. This home is in a renovated warehouse in a neighborhood that is zoned for both businesses and residences. Before waking the kids in the morning, I’ll gather my things and take them out to my car, which I park in a gated courtyard. During those times of the year when this coincides with nautical dawn, a massive storytelling of ravens will fly directly overhead.

I’ll hang out and watch until the last straggler flies by, then I’ll go inside. A lot of them will tilt their heads sideways as they pass, making direct eye contact. Once in a while one or two will land on the top of the building, perching at the edge to watch and sometimes interact with me before continuing on. No matter my mood, I’m always in better spirits after spending a few moments with these creatures.

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What is a Villanelle?

Information about the villanelle is abundant. Two good sources are The New Princeton Encyclopedia of Poetry and Poetics (3rd ed.), published by Princeton University Press in 1993, and The Making of a Poem: A Norton Anthology of Poetic Forms, published by W. W. Norton & Company in 2001. In the first, an article on the villanelle provides detailed information about the form’s development and mentions the most prominent European and American poets to publish villanelles since the 16th century. In the latter, a brief history of the form is explored as relates to the first known author—French poet Jean Passerat—to publish the common 19 line variety of the villanelle. 14 villanelles are also reproduced as anthologized examples. Of course, a search on the internet will yield much information about the form and lead to scores of examples.

Since ample information about the villanelle’s history and origins is already available, I will focus on a discussion of its structure and offer some insights I’ve gained after having taken the time to write a couple dozen such poems.

There are ten points to consider when writing a villanelle poem:

The villanelle is comprised of at least three tercets and a closing quatrain.

The first and third lines of the opening tercet begin the A1 and A2 refrains, respectively. These lines rhyme, establishing the a rhyme used in all subsequent stanzas.

The second line of the opening tercet establishes the b rhyme used in all subsequent stanzas.

The villanelle’s body is comprised of tercets appearing in pairs. So you can think of the opening tercet as the head of the poem, all tercet pairs together as the body of the poem, and the closing quatrain as the foot.

The third line of the first tercet of each pair uses the A1 refrain, and the third line of the second tercet of each pair uses the A2 refrain.

The first and second lines of each tercet in the body use the a and b rhyme, respectively.

There must be a minimum of one tercet pair for the body, so as to make even use of the A1 and the A2 refrains, but there may be as many tercet pairs as you think you can get away with.

In the closing quatrain, the third and fourth lines repeat the A1 and A2 refrains, respectively. The first and second lines once again use the a and b rhyme.

As an English art form, there are no restrictions pertaining to meter. So, lines may be any length in any meter—within reason. To my thinking, however, villanelles do seem to read and flow best when a consistent meter or pattern of meters is employed.

Villanelles may be written on any subject in any voice or style.

These points may seem overly detailed, but presenting the rules in this manner allows for absolute clarity. A pleasant shorthand notation for the first eight points is A1bA2, abA1, abA2, …, abA1A2, where like letters indicate the rhyme scheme, uppercase letters followed by a numeric notation indicate refrains, and the ellipsis indicates additional tercet pairs of the body. Using this, we can follow the rhyme and refrain pattern through Dylan Thomas’ well-known villanelle, titled after its first line:

Do not go gentle into that good night

by Dylan Thomas

A1
Do not go gentle into that good night,
b
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
A2
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
 
 
a
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
b
Because their words had forked no lightning they
A1
Do not go gentle into that good night.
 
 
a
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
b
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
A2
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
 
 
a
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
b
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
A1
Do not go gentle into that good night.
 
 
a
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
b
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
A2
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
 
 
a
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
b
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
A1
Do not go gentle into that good night.
A2
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

This villanelle uses the 19 line model most commonly adhered to (two tercet pairs in the body). Referencing the two sources of information mentioned in the opening paragraph above, you will find that Jean Passerat is likely responsible for establishing this rigid model. However, throughout time many poets have treated the villanelle as a stanzaic form of poetry that may be expanded or contracted so long as the rhyme and refrain are not compromised.

This means the villanelle can be 13 lines at its shortest, consisting of the opening tercet (3 lines), one tercet pair in the body (3 lines each), and the closing quatrain (4 lines). This will use each refrain three times. Consider that this is only one line shy of a sonnet in length, making it a viable option for those who like to explore and write short-form poems.

The standard 19 line model uses each refrain four times, so it is useful to come up with refrains that are versatile enough to take on changes in meaning and context, or they can overpower the poem causing it to have a predictable and robotic feel. If at all possible, there should be something dynamic and full of energy in the refrains. For instance, Dylan Thomas’ A2 refrain from the example above, “Rage, rage against the dying of the light”, represents a special and inspired sort of luck on this front. With a refrain like that, Dylan could have written gibberish in the remaining lines and still ended up with a strong piece of poetry.

If you go a step further to longer form villanelles, then the refrains repeat even more, and the versatility and potency of the refrains become even more important. For instance, each refrain will repeat five times in the 25 line villanelle (three tercet pairs), and six times in the 31 line form (four tercet pairs), and so on. Although I’ve written 23 villanelles in all, at the time this posting, I’ve never felt a desire to go beyond the 19 line structure. For nearly every purpose, it’s more than adequate. In fact, I’ve not yet even seen a longer form villanelle. If you know of one, leave a comment indicating where I may find and possibly link to it.

What may be more challenging than the reuse of entire lines multiple times throughout the poem is the extended use of rhyme. The a rhyme is used seven times in the standard villanelle form—Twice in the opening tercet and once in each stanza that follows. The b rhyme is used six times—On the second line of each stanza throughout. English is not what you could call a rhyme-rich language. In fact, probably any combination of rhymes you could possibly come up with has at some point already been used. So, though the villanelle form uses an end-line rhyme as part of its structure, I don’t think anyone should be afraid to use other phonemic or semantic end-line parallelisms instead.

For instance, my poem “Culture” uses end-line consonance for the a scheme and end-line assonance for the b scheme. In fact I’ve experimented quite a lot with alternatives to rhyme, with varying degrees of success. More examples of alternative approaches to the end-line scheme include: “Pilgrim”, which uses primary (the accented syllable) end-line consonance for the a scheme and secondary (the unaccented syllable) consonance for the b scheme; “Night Walk”, which uses end-line assonance for the a scheme and end-line consonance with partial assonance (also called “slant” rhyme) for the b scheme; and “sunyata”, which uses end-line alliteration with the refrains of each tercet for the a scheme and partial frame-rhyme (alliteration and consonance without assonance) for the b scheme. In other poems I have experimented with using purely semantic parallelisms in place of the end-line rhyme, such as in “sea dog”, which experiments with end-line devices such as synonymy and antithesis.

When you encounter a form like the villanelle, I think it best to think of the form’s rules as a basic framework from which you may expand, so long as you stay within the general structure. And there is no reason why such expansions can’t also be called villanelles. To my mind, if you follow the villanelle structure for 31 lines (four tercet pairs) and use end-line alliteration instead of rhyme, it really is still a villanelle. If you do experiment, and you find your contemporaries pedantically naysaying your hard work telling you it’s not a villanelle because it’s not 19 lines or because there is no rhyme, you may have to educate them. You can always send them here.

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New Tomorrows

I have recently reconnected with a friend from many years ago through Facebook. He and I were both residents of the Job Corps program in Clearfield, Utah back in the winter of ’88 and spring of ’89. We’ve really hit it off as we started talking again as middle aged men. As is my way, I’ve sent him a copy of my book, an inkling hope. Every copy I give away has a personal dedication. Sometimes it takes me several weeks to decide what that will be. In this case, it was a poem.

New Tomorrows

for Veldon Black Tail Deer

We are creatures of the dreaming
poured forth from the stars
into every shape that roams
beneath these ever changing skies.

Long ages before our ancestors
fought on open fields of battle,
they were brothers who danced
stepping circles beneath the moon.

We are creatures of the drumming,
our spirits joined in a rhythm
that forever intertwines our histories
into the memory of new tomorrows.

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Talking with Angels

I wrote this a few years ago as a prose comment to a Facebook post. I recently stumbled across it again when Facebook showed me the old post as a “memory.” Part of the dialog that inspired this response involved a discussion wherein I was asked to explain what I think angels are. I responded saying, “Any life affirming entity. Today I talked with a number of them,” and then the poem.

Talking with Angels

Today I talked to the angels.
                       A lot of them.

They thrust into the air
         and took the horizon.

They gathered above peaks
               in lenticular folds.

They congregated whispers
        along rocky slopes and
     they clustered long sips
            from canyon creeks.

Their stony gaze bouldered
      from mountainsides and
   they rose in meditation
              from valley floors.

Today I talked with the angels,
        and they sang me songs
                 I have not heard
    in very a long time.