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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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Convergence

Once I finished “Light” in March, my queue was finally empty. So I found myself looking in a folder I long ago named “Backburner” to see what was there. This is the folder where I put files for poems that I started working on, but eventually abandoned for one reason or other. Upon reviewing its contents, I decided the folder didn’t contain anything of interest to me. Inside that folder is another one named “Altogether Abandoned.” In there I found a few old ideas sitting in digital limbo. One was titled “hybridanelle—original marriage commemoration attempt.” I only vaguely recalled what that might have looked like, so I opened it.

The first 13 lines of this hybridanelle were already written. I tried to think of why I abandoned the poem, and then I remembered. It didn’t really feel like the marriage I was entering into. So I scrapped it and composed “Matrimony” instead, in large part inspired by hurricane Katrina. Much more fitting for my first marriage. The first 13 mystically abstract lines of this unfinished poem were actually more fitting for my current marriage. However, there’s just no way I could re-commemorate it to my second marriage. My wife deserves completely original poems, such as “Wild Cherry,” written a couple years—and not that many poems—ago.

So why bring this out of the mothballs? Well, I liked the language of these first 13 lines. I didn’t actually think I could make it work as a full hybridanelle poem, but I thought of this concept of life as a stream and streams converging into one another as they move through the fields of existence, and I decided I’d like to give it a try. So, no longer a marriage commemoration poem—just a poem inspired by the notion of convergent lives, hence the title.

    Convergence

       Consciousness emerged in swirls of color.
          The pliant void composed a shifting stream,
      an ever-changing song of rippling texture.
   Awareness rose and surged in subtle shades of light,
     searching through confusion for companionship and trust
         eventually to join another stream for life.
           Two channels merged to share a mutual course,
          brought to flow as one by karmic forces.
       The pliant void composed a shifting stream,
     singing like a river that curves throughout the night,
    swelled with faint reflections of a darkness steeped in stars.
       Awareness rose and surged in subtle shades of light,
            sent before the hidden crush of pressures
         en route to mingle matters of the soul.
     Brought to flow as one by karmic forces,
       each turbid swell of dream converged and realized
           harmony beyond the scope of individual strains.
              Eventually to join another stream for life,
             each flood progressed with all its sense of self
          through wooded solitudes and desert places
      en route to mingle matters of the soul.
 Condensed from engrammatic vapors, recondite,
     elements of being coalesced until in streams
         awareness rose and surged in subtle shades of light
             amid the grassy sprawl of open spaces
          beneath the floating glow of moonlit clouds
     through wooded solitudes and desert places
  down long cascades past deep brown pools—where lithe
      recollection’s slender shadow below the surface stirs—
            eventually to join another stream for life.
                Like soft white rays refracted through high mists,
           consciousness emerged in swirls of color
        beneath the floating glow of moonlit clouds,
    an ever-changing song of rippling texture
that shimmered down from realms of dream, so faint and slight,
    time held no form and had no bearing until from out this trance
      awareness rose and surged in subtle shades of light,
           eventually to join another stream for life.

This, my 22nd hybridanelle, was a bear to compose. As I suspected, the refrains used in the first 13 lines were not easily remolded into fresh expressions. It also took me a good while to figure out what I was doing with the meter and end-line schemes. There’s one scheme that doesn’t use end-line prosody all, but related concepts, such as “color” and “texture,” “course” and “stream,” “pressures” and “forces,” and a few more. Pretty interesting.

The meters, it turns out, switch between pentameters, hexameters and heptameters. Being a bit out of practice, I actually found it difficult to wrap my brain around this complexity, and I kept forgetting to double-check and make sure I’m following the correct pattern. This gave me some insights into why poetry took a 135 degree turn toward gushy chopped prose a couple centuries ago. It can be bloody difficult, and a lot of times the end result is just not what you were hoping for.

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Emancipation

I am feeling pretty good about life. It’s odd. I guess once you get the knife twisted up in your guts a few times too many it begins to dawn on you that maybe it’s better not to give people knives, or your guts. This realization can be very freeing.

Emancipation

I guess I’ve gotten tired of sickles knives and daggers,
chucked about with nearly careless ease,
with all the wily wounds that women have to offer
to any fool who offers up his heart,
trusting like a lemming the old disproven notion
that every man must have a missing half.

I think I’ll just delight in moonlit walks and sunsets,
the playing of the wind in bamboo reeds.
I guess I’ve gotten tired of sickles knives and daggers,
the momentary love, the counterfeit devotion
that lures a man into a sense of calm,
trusting like a lemming the old disproven notion.

I suppose I’ll just enjoy my own good company
instead of putting up with all the grief,
with all the wily wounds that women have to offer
with every promise planted with a kiss,
with every tender touch and every supple motion
that lures a man into a sense of calm.

I find I much prefer my solitary freedom
to walking over eggshells field by field.
I guess I’ve gotten tired of sickles knives and daggers
and all the broad assortment, weapons of emotion
balanced on the fingertips of love
with every tender touch and every supple motion.

I imagine days are smoother without the crazy weather
that comes with intimate affinity,
with all the wily wounds that women have to offer
the sorry sap who seeks a loyal lover,
deluded by the dream of a lifelong soul connection
balanced on the fingertips of love.

I reckon now it’s time to meditate on vapors
rising from the stream of life, and breathe.
I guess I’ve gotten tired of sickles knives and daggers,
with all the wily wounds that women have to offer
as lightly as they offer their affection
to any fool who offers up his heart,
deluded by the dream of a lifelong soul connection,
that every man must have a missing half.

This will be the last hybridanelle, villanelle, or terzanelle I write for this project. I’ll be closing the project with a handful of terza rimas, probably more experimental than traditional. Then I can dive into my next project, which I’ve already been phasing into with the trisects.

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Elegy

My first marriage lasted just about a year. We were together for all of about two years. She was a walking dichotomy. Loving, kind, supportive on the one hand—evil, spiteful, and treacherous on the other. The emotional roller-coaster ride came to an end when she added drunken extramarital affairs to her treacheries.

I was in love with her, for some reason. Deeply so. I suppose this is why her compulsive treacheries were so poignantly painful. I understood that she was a borderline, and so I endured as far as I could. But, enough was enough. After all, her first husband had already committed suicide. So, I left her to her insanity before I found myself buried next to him.

It was another year and a half or so before I finally began to really accept that it was over, and thus was born my 22nd hybridanelle.

Elegy

I’ll not forget your kindness, nor the pain
staked between my ribs to rip my vital center.
I’ll not forget your laughter, nor the tears
I cursed in vain against the all unseeing skies
or whimpered like a mongrel clamped in iron jaws,
bleeding broken lamentation to the stars.

I’ll not forget your whispers, nor the poison words
you coated on the rusty spike of truth,
staked between my ribs to rip my vital center,
healed only by the seal of deep unfeeling scars
that still can never hide the searing touch of rage
I cursed in vain against the all unseeing skies.

I’ll not forget your comfort, nor the angst
inspired by deception, the shameless treachery
you coated on the rusty spike of truth,
the weeks of turbid panic that thundered like a storm
until my thoughts were beached on barren shores of death,
bleeding broken lamentation to the stars.

I’ll not forget your promise, nor the tragedy
that left me in a state of desolation
inspired by deception, the shameless treachery
that marred my sense of trust with green infected scabs
until, half crazed by torment, in uttermost defeat,
I cursed in vain against the all unseeing skies.

I’ll not forget your presence, nor the absence,
the swollen scarcity of faith and understanding
that left me in a state of desolation,
clutching onto dirt-clods, scraping over stones,
choking clots of dust, and in the hollow night
bleeding broken lamentation to the stars.

Though I may one day drink from streams of inner peace,
I’ll not forget your kindness, nor the pain,
the swollen scarcity of faith and understanding.
I’ll not forget your laughter, nor the tears
that welled from acid springs to melt away my skin
as, trembling at the edge of self annihilation,
I cursed in vain against the all unseeing skies,
bleeding broken lamentation to the stars.

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Song of the Animist

Although I have in the past been an avid member of various Christian denominations, I have always viewed the world differently from those around me. Attempts to explain or describe this view have traditionally proven futile and would elicit responses ranging from curiosity to open disdain. This is perhaps due to a lack of common ground.

It was only relatively recently that I stumbled upon a word that more or less describes my way of seeing the world—Animism. If you look this word up in the OED, you’ll find three distinct definitions, all of which can apply to my way of seeing the world. Basically, the animist sees the material world as manifest and inseparable from a spirit world. This statement is crude, at best. The dictionary definitions are themselves inadequate, but they at least point in the right direction.

Either way, animism is a substrate, not a religion. It is a basic way of seeing things, not a way of living, and certainly not a doctrine. The English word “spirit” derives from the Latin “spiritus”, which translates as “breath”. So, my 21st hybridanelle.

Song of the Animist

The rocks are breathing. Rivers also breathe,
clear up the canyons to the glaciered peaks,
caressed on either side by whispering leaves.
From molten ores to flashing thunderheads
to fields of glowing gasses joined with dust,
all the universe is fused with breath.

From lakeside pebbles ground through centuries
to mesas looming black against the dusk,
the rocks are breathing. Rivers also breathe,
inhaling rains into their liquid lungs,
exhaling mists that turn within the light
to fields of glowing gasses joined with dust.

The sands are breathing. Branches also breathe
amid the play of feathers claws and beaks,
caressed on either side by whispering leaves
that tremble twist and sway against the sky
like dancers twirling over sheets of ice,
exhaling mists that turn within the light.

Jutting from the depths of plains and seas,
or crumbling to the steady boom of breakers,
the rocks are breathing. Rivers also breathe
in moonlit meditation through the night,
slight reflections wimpling in the dark
like dancers twirling over sheets of ice.

Our dreams are breathing. Stillness also breathes
in quiet contemplation like an oak
caressed on either side by whispering leaves
as moments dissipate beyond the stars
to visions shining from the distant past,
slight reflections wimpling in the dark.

Throughout the crust where granite forces seethe
and drips of water ripple cavern lakes,
the rocks are breathing. Rivers also breathe,
caressed on either side by whispering leaves
across the living contours of the land.
From molten ores to flashing thunderheads
to visions shining from the distant past,
all the universe is fused with breath.

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Confounded

Before starting this poem, I spent several days reading up on various subjects that I felt pertained in some way to tensions and circumstances that not only led to the demise of my marriage, but my choice in women and the types of relationships I get into in general. Subjects included attachment theory and related disorders in adults and children, including some of the methods employed to help children and adults overcome their “attachment disorders”. Along with this I read up on human bonding, age disparity theory, and even read a little about the limbic system, amongst other things—Just things I wanted to know about.

This lead me to reflecting on the nature of play in relation to my early and mid childhood “attachment traumas” and realizing that I’ve never experienced what’s referred to in attachment theory as a healthy “secure attachment”. Secure attachment is what allows a child to feel safe exploring and playing in ways that are constructive and developmentally sound. If there’s some problem with the child’s attachment system, then play becomes more reactionary than natural due to the lack of a secure attachment base to return to. A lot of this stuff made sense to me and jives nicely with my own reflections.

Looking back, I was able to remember enough to realize that one of the first casualties of my childhood was play and playfulness. I was a very serious child, and I tended to use play to express my general state of anxiety, distrust, and ambivalence, destroying my toys and those things I would make with them—with building blocks and Lincoln logs for example—rather than letting them stand awhile, and then tearing them down for the sake of building something else. I didn’t build things for the sake of seeing and enjoying the creative fruits of my labors; I built them for the sake of their destruction.

This was a mode of expression, an enactment of my inner state—reactive play rather than constructive natural play. So, I meditated on this and then wrote my 20th hybridanelle.

Confounded

The stones that should have formed a stable base
  were shifted out beneath your primal needs;
    the wood that should have framed your living place
        splintered from the weight of bitterness and hate
            and left you wailing naked in the wind,
                  ambivalent at best and doubting every trust.

Tremors filled your soul with rolling dreads,
  so that your own creations, wrought with care,
    were shifted out beneath your primal needs,
        reduced to disarray in manifest dismay
            as wooden joists and girders in your mind
                  splintered from the weight of bitterness and hate.

And as you grew, you found yourself unsure;
  you stacked your Lincoln logs and building blocks
    so that your own creations, wrought with care,
        were never meant to last and fell to every blast
            that leveled self respect and left you stunned,
                  ambivalent at best and doubting every trust.

You strove to transfer fundamental shocks
  throughout your play; depicting fell effects,
    you stacked your Lincoln logs and building blocks
        and with profound expression smashed at your discretion,
            every symbol housing hope destroyed,
                  splintered from the weight of bitterness and hate.

Those first potentials of your intellect
  were swept away by rage and disregard;
    throughout your play, depicting fell effects,
        your structures each collapsed as inspiration lapsed
            until you grieved the wreckage of your hand,
                  ambivalent at best and doubting every trust.

And now you limp through life disabled, scarred;
  the stones that should have formed a stable base
    were swept away by rage and disregard;
      the wood that should have framed your living place
          rotted from neglect and left you derelict,
              dwelling in the ruins left behind—
                  splintered from the weight of bitterness and hate—
                        ambivalent at best and doubting every trust.

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Rain

This poem, my 19th hybridanelle, is inspired by a series of storms that passed through Southern California when I was in my early teens, probably ten or eleven years old. There were a series hurricanes blowing over Hawaii at the time, and they were so big that they spun off storm after storm into Southern California—And I remember them as waves of storms.

Rain

Come, lend your rolling cover; shade this dry cracked ground,
conceal the tragedy of broken years,
and dim the raging colors that siege a weary mind;
ease the pressure from the pressing blue,
dull the stainless cobalt’s razor hues
which vivisect perception like a blade.

Subdue the cubist concrete, the painted slats of wood,
the swaying glass and steel that mock the day;
come lend your rolling cover; shade this dry cracked ground
with a half-light suited best for ravaged hopes
and gray the glaring cruelty of the sun;
dull the stainless cobalt’s razor hues.

Gather up your mass and spill your shadows down
across the crawl of long distempered hours
and dim the raging colors that siege a weary mind,
dissevered from the rush of tragic signs;
raise from out the waves your phasing layers
and gray the glaring cruelty of the sun.

Immerse this arid air in contemplative mood
until the asphalt mirrors every minute;
come lend your rolling cover; shade this dry cracked ground
where seeds have rarely sprouted into life;
grant a brief reprieve from endless drought;
raise from out the waves your phasing layers.

Fill the world with stillness; play that quiet sound
which puddles every lane with rippled moments
and dim the raging colors that siege a weary mind,
electric bright beneath cerulean drapes,
the overwhelming crush of open skies;
grant a brief reprieve from endless drought.

Break this barren view with drifts of coiled wind,
and let your blistered vapors calm each instant;
come lend your rolling cover; shade this dry cracked ground
and dim the raging colors that siege a weary mind,
trapped within a frozen summer-scape;
ease the pressure from the pressing blue,
the overwhelming crush of open skies
which vivisect perception like a blade.

My childhood was dry and barren in many ways. Barren of education. Dry of hope and potential. I watched it slip away for lack of resources. And then my brain cracked from all the drugs I was forced to take since I was eight, and I ended up institutionalized as a ward of the court from twelve until I ran away at fifteen.

They don’t prepare you for life in these places. What they prepare you for is a life of utter dependency upon the system. If you break free from this in any small way, then this is a degree of freedom, escape, success. I pretty much had to chew off a leg to escape the steel-jawed bear trap of the system—so in a sense I’ve been twice crippled during the process of getting free. Needless to say, as a result, it’s not so easy for me to fit in and be a good little cog in the societal machine. But I’m told this is part of what makes me “unique”, as if this were a good thing.

Rain was my balm during these years, even as a runaway. Knowing full well my sleeping bag wasn’t waterproof, I’d welcome the rain when it came, with something like a sense of joy, or perhaps it was a kind of serenity. I usually found a way to shield myself enough to stay relatively dry, and thereby warm. Sometimes I didn’t and I became a shivering wet sponge by morning. Yet it was my balm, always my balm. Everything seemed so stark and rigid in the full light of day, overbearingly clear. So clear it scrambled my thoughts into confusion. In the half-light of the rain I’d find myself, even as an eleven year old, just at peace.

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Surrender

This poem, my 18th hybridanelle, began to manifest in mind about three weeks ago as I walked through the Montgomery Woods near Ukiah with a friend, utterly panic-stricken and overwhelmed by an irruption of fragile emotions. I had at this point been experiencing varying degrees of the same for about a week and a half.

There comes a point with extreme anxiety—panic—where life not only feels and seems unfaceable, but on all applicable fronts is unfaceable. The only way through this sort of thing is to resolve, or have resolved beforehand, to live through it, no matter the torment. And since I had made a deal with myself as a fourteen-year-old, after my first NDE from a car accident (see my first trisect, “E merge nce”, for a poem inspired by this experience), not ever to submit to death while in a non-peaceful state, I was grimly determined to ride it out despite some serious impulses to do otherwise.

When the car hit me as a fourteen year old, I was in a state of extreme mental, spiritual, and emotional unrest, and the horror of this state “carried over” in such a way as to become tremendously amplified in the absence of spiritual impedance, my body. And on returning to my body, I understood that I can never go like that. My life has been about cultivating peace of mind to the best of my ability ever since.

Up to that point in the Montgomery Woods, I had been trying out various mantras to fend off the anxiety. Each of them would provide me with some level of distraction from my panic and emotional distress, but none offered any sense of comfort, reprieve, or peace from this turmoil. I told my friend who walked with me that my prayer-mantras were only providing some limited distraction, and that it seemed impossible find something that would overcome the sheer strength of my anxiety and doubt, my tendency to perseverate and fret. And then I asked him if he had any ideas on what I should ask god for in my prayers that might provide this offset.

He then told me that I was going about it all wrong; that I was going to god with my hand out like a beggar on the sidewalk. As he said this I already began to realize my mistake, but he continued. He went on to point out that the various religions of our Western societies have produced a race of people who go to god with a shopping list, and who become very resentful of god when certain items on this list aren’t granted. This could only be called ego-based prayer, and this is exactly what I was doing. So he aptly made it clear that I was asking the wrong question, and for the wrong person—myself.

And it’s funny, since I have been a member of twelve step programs most of my life you would think that I would already know that the most peace comes not from trying to manipulate god toward my own will, but in humbly seeking out god’s will for me, along with the willingness and strength to carry it out. Whenever I’ve done this, I’ve been led right, toward personal freedom and peace of mind, and in a way that magically contributed to a few other lives around me, oddly enough. Whenever I’ve done otherwise I’ve slyly managed to land myself in a brand-spanking new life tragedy that ultimately ends up sucking time and energy—peace of mind—out of my own life and the lives of those who care about me.

Once this understanding comes, it’s kind of a no-brainer—Just a matter of coming into contact with this understanding and internalizing it… Yet again.

Surrender

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.
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The Dimming

This poem, my 17th hybridanelle, was requested by a member of the poetry community I participate at, Suzanne Smee, who lost her 16 year old daughter to suicide October of last year. When she read my last hybridanelle project poem, “Unbounded“, she asked me if I would write a poem in memory of her daughter. I was thinking about writing something inspired by the circumstances of her daughter’s suicide at some point, but this would have been in my own time and not written as a memorial poem—Just in reflection of the circumstances that I was aware of without having to pry.

As a request, this changed. I told her I would only be able to fill her request if she would be willing to answer any questions I had about her daughter’s life and the weeks, days, and hours just prior to her passing. This may seem harsh, but it really is the only way I could do the poem justice. It must be understood that although 95% of what I learned has not been used in the poem’s content itself, 100% of it has influenced the poem’s outcome. If any piece of information I had was missing, this would be an entirely different piece of writing.

The Dimming

for Suzanne Smee
in memory of her daughter Nicole (Nikki) Vance
(March 1989 – October 2005)

Clear waters meditate on hidden sounds;
a silver sickle sinks into the twilight
as fallen leaves are scattered by the wind;
bright eyes search the heavens for distant hints of hope;
bare feet wade through shallow waves in silence
where oaks and tamaracks extend their fading hues.

Whispered prayers rustle unseen boughs
like spirits moved to trembling in the darkness;
clear waters meditate on hidden sounds,
the rise and fall of cricket-song crescendos,
the muffled sobs of anguish, alone and undiscerned;
bare feet wade through shallow waves in silence.

A sort of vision quest for understanding
unfolds between a chapel and the night
as fallen leaves are scattered by the wind
and falling stars leave traces of promise in the skies,
now powerless to dissipate confusion—
the muffled sobs of anguish, alone and undiscerned.

Dawn breaks pale on Erie’s inland sea;
the great blue heron lifts to meet the half-light;
clear waters meditate on hidden sounds,
a rapid ringing tap that echoes clearly,
the rosy call of grosbeaks sifting through the woods,
now powerless to dissipate confusion.

A troubled psyche left our world to wander
among those planes that phase amid the shade;
as fallen leaves are scattered by the wind,
gentle spirits join to keep a subtle wake—
the Chagrin River shares a song of mourning,
the rosy call of grosbeaks sifting through the woods.

Colors pale before the nearing winter;
a phantom half acknowledged walks the shadows;
clear waters meditate on hidden sounds
as fallen leaves are scattered by the wind;
yet still within the dream-space of the living
bright eyes search the heavens for distant hints of hope;
the Chagrin River shares a song of mourning
where oaks and tamaracks extend their fading hues.

There are a lot of allusive references in here that are particular to Nikki’s life and the circumstances leading up to her suicide, but I’ll point out just a few of them.

“Clear water” is what an old Amerindian word, “Shagrin”, means. The Chagrin River is actually a mis-transliteration of the original name of the river. Nikki would visit the Chagrin River when she needed time to herself to think and reflect. When she did this she would walk barefoot in the river. I understand she even did this at night, including the night before her passing. Hence the night imagery throughout the first part of the poem.

In Nikki’s notes found by the reviewing officer, she made heavy mention of the shallowness of our society. This was really bothering her. And this is part of the reason I chose the wording “wade through shallow waves” in one of the refrains.

I feel that Nikki had an animistic relationship with the Chagrin River itself, at the very least through spiritual blindsight. Much of the imagery used in this poem attempts to reflect this relationship.

Suzanne used to take Nikki to watch a great blue heron fish in a pond near where they live off the shores of Lake Erie, near the Chagrin River. The “rappid ringing taps” refers to the piliated woodpecker. It’s tough to use designations like “piliated woodpecker” in a poem like this without compromising the mood and impact of the poem, and this is why I chose an image reference rather than a proper designation. Nikki seemed to have some connection with this bird, as one would only come round to visit her grandfather’s home and feed from the bird feeder when she was visiting.

Last but not least, she once had a red-breasted grosbeak land on her hand as she was feeding chickadees by her home. I once had a wild sparrow fly out of a tree and land on my shoulder. It actually stayed there as I turned my head to look at it, cocking its head at me and flittering its feathers a bit before going back into the tree. That was an experience I have never forgotten, and I still feel very special for some reason when I reflect on it. And so I know that Nikki’s experience with the grosbeak had special meaning to her, hence the “rosy call of grosbeaks” being included as part of the animistic mourning process reflected in the poem.

Before starting the poem, I made an attempt to deepen my understanding of some concepts in Chinese cosmology around the nature of being because I don’t know of any way for suicides to have a chance at freedom or release in the dogmas of Western religion or spirituality. I did leave a way in the close of this poem for Nikki’s ghost (gui in Chinese cosmology) to hope for that release and clarity based on what I’ve learned and come to understand. I know I have much more to learn in this area, and I plan to continue working at deepening my understanding in relation.

There’s more, in fact each and every word and phrase in this poem has arisen from my investigation into and meditations on Nikki’s life and death along with connecting subjects. Writing this also caused me to reflect a great deal on my father’s suicide and the possibility of his eventual release from gui state.

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Unbounded

I was inspired to write this, my 16th hybridanelle, after listening to a recent edition of Coast to Coast AM, where the radio show’s original host and creator, Art Bell, dedicated an hour to describing his experience with the recent loss of his wife. I’m not sure what motivated me, but it was a very strong sudden urge, and I pursued it to the creation of this poem. Hearing him talk about his experience was very moving to me—Made quite an impression.

I was actually about to start reading up on an entirely different subject that I felt was suitable to the hybridanelle form. But after listening to this broadcast I changed my mind and reoriented my efforts toward dedicating the next project poem to him and the memory of his wife, Ramona Bell. She passed away without warning on January 5th. Although I sent a copy of this poem to him, I doubt he’ll ever see it since he’s pretty much drowning in emails from his listeners.

Unbounded

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.
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Oak Dream

This poem, my 15th hybridanelle, is the first of four poems that connect to a dream I had in 2001. The other three poems, in the order they were written, are “Three Ravens”, “markers”, and “oak touch”.

The poem “markers” does a decent job of describing the dream itself. Being a surreal dream, “markers” is a surreal poem. Some of the circumstances surrounding the dream are talked about in the intro to “oak touch”. This poem focuses on the oak tree that I encountered in “real life” about two weeks after I dreamed about it.

      Oak Dream

      random weaves of rugged bark
           writhe against the phasing skies
        that drift beyond capricious leaves

  roots extend throughout a dozen worlds
     winding deep into the plane of dreams
to brush the wayward mind like strokes of wind

     weathered plates of charcoal gray
           shift and slide into the air as
        random weaves of rugged bark

     tendrils cleave the mists from drought to draught
        driven to explore domains of light
winding deep into the plane of dreams

     vapors breathe against the moon
           raising plumes within the void
        that drift beyond capricious leaves

     solar cells fan out as emerald lobes
        along dynamic conduits of growth
driven to explore domains of light

     mosses clothe erratic limbs
         climbing toward inconstant heights up
        random weaves of rugged bark

     colors dance across elusive grains
        in gradual pilgrimage through subtle realms
along dynamic conduits of growth

     russet rustles greet the stars
           when cloud-breaks split the stormy nights
        that drift beyond capricious leaves

     like ripples cast by gentle drops of rain
        rings expand through time as branches reach
in gradual pilgrimage through subtle realms

     stardust rises from the earth
           to sing across the depths of space on
        random weaves of rugged bark
  that drift beyond capricious leaves

     beneath the spread of tangible mirage
        roots extend throughout a dozen worlds
rings expand through time as branches reach
  to brush the wayward mind like strokes of wind