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Greensleeves (a retelling)

One of my all time favorite melodies is “Greensleeves”, especially the chorus. Yet I’ve always found it difficult to fully enjoy because the lyrics are so incredibly chauvinistic. The song is basically about a man feeling “cast off” by his love interest after showering her with gifts, attention, and the promise of status—implying in no uncertain terms that she’s a soulless bitch for having a mind and a heart of her own.

Even so, I’ve found myself singing the first few verses over and over again all my life. But something happened a few years back; I began to experiment with alternative lyrics as I sang. This eventually inspired me to go all out revising this song about personal rejection into a tragic lament about lost love:

Greensleeves

Alas, my Dear, you are dead and gone,
your spirit cast on the starry sea.
And I have loved you oh so long,
delighting in your company.

  Greensleeves was my heart of Joy—
  Greensleeves, my one true love.
  Greensleeves was my sole delight.
  And, who but my Lady Greensleeves.

We met beneath an ancient ash.
Her youthful leaves danced in the sun.
A stream ran near with gentle plash.
We talked until the day was done.

All summer long we made our tryst
where oaks grow strong by the garden gate.
When autumn fields were gold we kissed
and vowed our love with eyes elate.

  Greensleeves was my heart of Joy—
  Greensleeves, my one true love.
  Greensleeves was my sole delight.
  And, who but my Lady Greensleeves.

Our marriage was a quaint affair.
I gave to you my father’s sword.
We traded rings and tender stares,
exchanging many a heartfelt word.

For eight full phases of the moon,
we joyed alone in solitude.
We drank the golden mead at noon
and passed our nights in loving mood.

  Greensleeves was my heart of Joy—
  Greensleeves, my one true love.
  Greensleeves was my sole delight.
  And, who but my Lady Greensleeves.

All winter long and through the spring
you carved inscriptions in the cheese
and chanted charms to bless and bring
our unborn child to life with ease.

At night you hummed by candlelight
the songs your mother sang to you
while weaving clothes to soon bedight
the hope that curled within and grew.

  Greensleeves was my heart of Joy—
  Greensleeves, my one true love.
  Greensleeves was my sole delight.
  And, who but my Lady Greensleeves.

But on that day you labored hard
and in the end for all your strife
the sacred path to breath was barred—
Our child was born devoid of life.

For three full days in bed you lay
with burning brow and a will undone.
On that third night you passed away
and went to join our stillborn son.

  Greensleeves was my heart of Joy—
  Greensleeves, my one true love.
  Greensleeves was my sole delight.
  And, who but my Lady Greensleeves.

Alas, my dear, you are dead and gone,
your spirit cast on the starry sea.
And I have loved you oh so long,
delighting in your company.

The original version repeats the chorus every other verse, but here I decided to come back to the chorus every third verse—though I lead and end with a single refrained verse before the first and after the final chorus. I liked the idea of the opening verse acting as both prologue and epilogue. The last two lines from this verse are the only part of this revision that remain entirely unchanged from the original. Over the years, I’ve encountered several variations of the chorus, so I felt pretty free about creating my own variation, one that more closely fits the story as I’ve reimagined it.

Since the original song seems well rooted in Medieval Britain, I studied up on Anglo-Saxon traditions around courtship, marriage, birth, and death as I explored this recreation. I’ll run through what I used from top to bottom.

It was customary for the groom to give the bride his father’s sword during the marriage ceremony. She would later present this sword to their firstborn son as he passed into adolescence. Rings and vows would also be traded much as we do now. In fact, our current tradition of trading rings and vows stems from this period.

I was surprised to learn that our current use of “honeymoon” is rooted in medieval Britain. Once married, the bride and groom would promptly retire to a remote location for one full cycle of the moon—so 28 days, or “eight full phases” as I put it—every day drinking mead (fermented honey) and making love. It was thought that the mead would bring good health and help ensure conception during this time. Perhaps this worked, as the bride was usually pregnant by the time they returned.

Pregnant women of the period were wont to inscribe charms into the cheese and/or butter they ate. These charms were thought to help ensure full and healthy development of the fetus. One such charm popular at the time was the “Sator Square,” which didn’t even have anything to do with pregnancy or childbirth. Women would also recite charms throughout their pregnancy, often while enacting elaborate rituals, such as stepping over the body of their sleeping husband in bed a certain number of times.

Turns out there was good reason for all this superstition, as today’s anthropologists have determined that as much as 50% of deaths among females in their 20s and 30s occurred during or shortly after labor or miscarriage. The risks would have been well understood at the time. A similar percentage of infants died during or shortly after birth. While pregnancy would have been a time of great joy and anticipation, it was also one of great worry and uncertainty.

Now, I’ve been singing these lyrics ever since deciding they’re finished, and I don’t feel at all weird about it.

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What is a Synthetic Ode?

The synthetic ode is a three part poetic form that is inspired by the ancient Greek Pindaric ode and the dialectic of thesis, antithesis, and synthesis. Before explaining the synthetic ode, I think it makes sense to talk about the Pindaric ode from which it is inspired.

Some Background

The Pindaric ode consists of three strophes (or stanzas), the first two being isometric to one another called the strophe and antistrophe and the last being metrically independent called the epode. As was customary for the time, Pindar wrote his odes as occasional poems, and intended them to be performed on stage, with a left chorus singing the strophe, a right chorus singing the antistrophe, and an orator reciting the epode. As such, these were also called choral odes. More detail can be found at Encyclopaedia Britannica online.

Around the time I encountered the Pindaric ode I also stumbled across the dialectic of thesis, antithesis, and synthesis, and it occurred to me that some variant of the ode form and this approach to dialectic were a match made in heaven. However, I was not interested in using the medium of poetry to introduce, contradict, and resolve an argument. I saw a much broader and more abstract application for these three principles that could be refined and applied to the use of poetic expression. They could be used to visually and symbolically explore contrasts (theses and antitheses) followed by an exploration of how these contrasts complement one another or combine to create a whole (syntheses).

Contrasts can be anything. For instance, a basic contrast could involve colors, such as black and white. The synthesis of this contrast could be grey. Yet the colors themselves might symbolically serve as a vehicle for any number of meanings—a white wedding, a black funeral, a grey disposition. A more complex contrast and synthesis could involve two individuals, a man and woman for instance, whose personalities, interests, and/or idiosyncrasies complement and/or complete one another. Two examples of this approach can be found in my poems “Ode for Joy” and “Coming Together.”

One important characteristic of the synthetic ode as I’ve conceived it is ambiguity. This should ideally force the writer to use imagery and metaphor to explore the contrasts and their syntheses.

Now that we have a sense of the inspiration and premise behind the synthetic ode, let’s delve into the structure of the form as I’ve conceived it.

Form

The synthetic ode is defined by both structural and semantic rules. The structural rules derive in part from the original structure of the Pindaric ode, but also include elements intended to help facilitate the exploration of contrasts and their syntheses. I think this is important because such rules create a challenge that forces the poet to rise to the occasion, inspiring a conscious refinement of language and flow.

The semantic rules are essential to what I feel should be the depictive nature of the form. Without them the poet can just say whatever he or she feels and thinks without actually exercising some of the the more abstract, aesthetic, and visually expressive attributes of language such as imagery, metaphor, and symbolism. These rules are also intended to promote the use of abstract language, which should hopefully create a surrealist feel, thus ensuring a strong, visually potent outcome. So bear this in mind as you study the rules below, whether you’re reading this article to better understand the idea behind the form or to learn how to try your own hand at it.

Structural Rules

The synthetic ode is always titled.

It is organized into three individual poems we can refer to as segments.

Since this is an ode variant, the segments can also be referred to by their position within the poem, the first being the strophe, the second the antistrophe, and the third the epode.

Individual segments are not subtitled. Instead, they are headed by an alphanumeric marker such as 1, 2, and 3; A, B, and C; I, II, and III; etc.

The strophe and antistrophe can be in any format, so long as they are metrically identical to one another, line for line, syllable for syllable.

So if the strophe contains three quatrains, the first in iambic pentameters, the second in trochaic tetrameters, and the last in anapestic hexameters, then the antistrophe will be structured the exactly the same.

This is no easy feat, especially if the segments get long and the meters become unusual and complex. But, done well, the effect can be absolutely striking.

The epode can be in any format, so long as it does not replicate the format of the strophe/antistrophe.

This can be subtle, such as using a Petrarchan sonnet for the epode while using Shakespearean sonnets for the strophe/antistrophe, as I did with “Coming Together,” or this can be much more dramatic such as using what on first glance looks like free verse for the strophe/antistrophe and tetrametric quintains with patterned end-line parallelisms for the epode, as I did with “Samsara.”

The key is to do something different for the epode.

No single line can be longer than the octameter.

I believe that lines longer than an octameter effectively break the mold of a given form and leave the realm of poetry for prose. This restriction is stated for the sole purpose of hopefully maintaining the integrity of the synthetic ode.

For each segment, there is at least one point of parallelism for every two lines, preferably more.

So if your segment is 16 lines long, it will contain at least 8 points of parallelism.

This can manifest in any number of ways, but to give a concrete example for reference, end-line rhyme between two lines would count as a point of parallelism. So, in the case of a 16 line segment, if you were to use end-line rhyme for all your points of parallelism, the lines could be organized into 4 quatrains, each using the abab rhyme scheme to give you 8 points of parallelism.

But rhyme is just one out of many possibilities. Parallelisms can also be semantic (like “mind,” “thought” and “id”) or any of the various alternatives to rhyme, such as with frame rhyme (“spring” and “sprung”). Potential parallelisms far exceed these simple examples.

For the strophe and antistrophe, parallelisms are not restricted to the scope of their own segments. This means they may occur between the segments.

There are ample examples of this in my poem “Samsara.” Just read the strophe and antistrophe in tandem and the parallelisms that exist between them will leap out at you.

Each synthetic ode must be unique in structure.

This is to say that one author should never use the same structure twice. As I understand it, this was actually a characteristic of Pindar’s choral odes. So in a way there is an element of free verse involved despite the rules and restrictions placed on the form because the structure must be arrived at in a spontaneous manner each time one is written.

Semantic Rules

No first person personal pronouns are used anywhere within the poem.

The idea is to remove one’s self as a direct frame of reference, making it much easier to expand the thought, insight, understanding, observation, meditation, etc. behind the subject matter in a more fluid and expansive manner than could ever be managed if the main subject were one’s self.

Second and third person personal pronouns are permitted, however, as these may be sometimes be essential to the content.

The strophe uses imagery and metaphor to introduce and explore a thesis, on any subject.

This is not a thesis in the logical sense, but a subject of focus that becomes the first half of two contrasts.

To provide two examples, in “Samsara” the strophe explores birth—or coming into being—and in “Transmogrification” it explores the innocent, creative wonder of a child.

The antistrophe uses imagery and metaphor to introduce and explore an antithesis.

Again, not in the sense of logic or dialectic. The antithesis here develops a contrast to the thesis, which can be an opposing force, an opposite meaning, a contrasting aesthetic, and so on.

Extending the example from the previous point, the antistrophe in “Samsara” explores death—or going out of being—while in “Transmogrification” it explores the addictive violence and desensitizing effects of modern video games.

The epode attempts to in some way use imagery and metaphor to synthesize the contrasts set forth by the thesis and antithesis.

Here the goal is not to resolve an argument or reveal some fundamental truth, but simply to explore some aspect of the contrasts relative to one another. This could involve unity, conflict, complement, involvement, resistance, or endless other interactions between the contrasts.

Concluding the examples from the previous two points, “Samsara” explores impermanence as a synthesis for birth and death—coming and going—while “Transmogrification” explores a soldier on the field of battle as a synthesis for the creative wonder of a child and the interactions children have with violent video games.

There’s no question that this is a complex art form. What makes it so is as much to do with the rigid structure as with the freedom one still has within its framework. The synthetic ode is intended to facilitate the creation of “art poetry.” This is to say, poetry for poetry’s sake, not just for the sake of spewing out personal opinions and feelings. Yet the hope is that those who take an interest in exploring this form will also manage to bring it down to earth to create immersive, thought provoking, emotionally charged poetry.

I would say the main challenge with this form is the unveiling of relevant, poignant contrasts that can be presented and explored using imagery and metaphor. The secondary challenge no doubt is inventing a new form that feels somehow natural and inevitable to the subject matter while at the same time maintaining accentual isometry between the strophe and antistrophe.

Definitely peruse the synthetic odes I have posted here at Form and Formlessness to gain further insight into the form. Also feel free to post links to any synthetic odes you write in the comments. As its creator, I’m likely to read and give feedback on how well I think the poem adheres to the structure and spirit of the form.

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What is a Trisect?

The trisect is a three-part poetic form that is inspired by its visual counterpart, the tryptych. I wanted to use the concept of the tryptych as a vehicle for developing my use of verbal depiction, but I found this difficult when I attempted to do so without a solid framework to work from. So, after much thought, I created the rules by which such a poem—which I named the trisect—would be written.

It is not very often that a poetic form has semantic requirements beyond that of repeating a few words or phrases, such as with the sestina or villanelle. But, since I wanted to use this form to make a detailed study of verbal depiction over an extended period of time, I realized that there should be several semantic requirements designed to obstruct the natural tendency toward prosaic exposition, a trap that even the most seasoned poets find difficult to escape.

As such, I could see that the trisect should never attempt to sell an idea or explain a concept, whether that concept be a personal experience or the interpretation of any material or mental object. It should, however, thoroughly exercise and develop ones powers of observation, a sense of relational association between things, and the use of depictive and metaphoric language.

So the trisect should never explain itself to the reader or give itself away. The goal, then, would be to depict observations and experiences using only imagery and metaphor. This provides the reader with a way of interpreting the words purely from his or her own experience rather than, as is customary, being told what to think, feel, and believe about them. I could see that as I write my verbal tryptych I should, as far as possible, use depiction in such a way as to obfuscate my own interpretation of what is being portrayed so that the words create a series of visually (sensationally) depicted associations from my observations, with a special focus on particular objects, from which the reader can derive his or her own experience.

The success of a trisect poem with a given reader, then, would be gauged by the level of interest he or she takes in it, the degree of significance he or she ascribes to it, and how potent or powerful an experience he or she has with it. If the reader has a vivid, memorable experience despite the abstract nature of the language, then I think something went right. With this in mind, I developed the rules of the trisect form with the hope of maximizing such potential.

Form

The trisect poem is defined by both structural and semantic rules. The structural rules are intended simply to create an appropriate, adaptable frame for the trisect’s content. I think this is important because they create a challenge that forces the poet to rise to the occasion, inspiring a conscious refinement of language and flow. The semantic rules are essential to the depictive nature of the form. Without them the poet can just say whatever he or she feels and thinks without actually exercising the use of verbal depiction, which is the entire point behind the form. These rules are also intended to promote the use of abstract language, which should create a surrealist feel, thus ensuring a strong, visually potent verbal tryptych. So bear this in mind as you study the rules below, whether you’re reading this article to better understand the idea behind the form or to learn how to try your own hand at it.

Structural rules

The trisect is always titled.

It is organized into three individual poems that I refer to as segments.

Each segment is always subtitled.

There are four stanzas in each segment.

Each stanza must be a tercet or a quatrain.

Each line must be between two and seven feet long (dimeters to heptameters).

These rules provide a canvas and a frame for the word-painting without being overly restrictive. A segment can be 12 to 16 lines long, and lines can be two to seven feet long. This allows for brevity by using only tercets with shorter lines, but it also permits the necessary space to complete a more complex depiction by allowing quatrains to be used with longer lines. If you are uncertain about the use of meter, you can visit my articles on verbal meter, starting with “Discovering the Iamb and the Trochee”.

Now for the semantic rules, which are far more restrictive, but provide the real meat for the purposes of this form.

Semantic rules

No first person personal pronouns may be used anywhere in the poem.

First person personal pronouns such as I, me, my, mine, and myself may not be used anywhere in the poem. This includes the title and subtitles. The same goes for inclusive personal pronouns such as we and ours.

If you have to use such personal pronouns to express something, then you should use another poetic form or free verse to do so. These pronouns generally are only used to express romantic ideals or personal feelings and opinions. The language of the trisect is not at all romantic or self-expressive, but depictive—And purely depictive.

Segment one depicts an item without naming it.

As far as possible, use imagery and metaphor to depict a given item of focus without naming it. This is by no means limited to mere visual descriptions. To truly depict something, the brain must stretch (sometimes painfully) to include other sorts of information about it. Such information can include the item’s textures, smells, environment, history, development, behavior, relation to other items and time, and much more. The observations used to depict the item will be colored by your own perception, experience, and understanding of it. This is only way self-expression comes into play, which will happen one way or the other in each of the three segments.

To help clarify, read the first segments of each of the following trisect poems in relation to what their items of focus are:

Poem Title
Segment One Focus
E merge nce
cardboard
Guardian
modern canoe
Three Ravens
figurine of a raven
Architect
the LEGO brick

Segment two depicts a more complex item without naming it.

The item of focus for segment two is only more complex in relation to the item of focus for segment one. So, the item depicted by segment one can itself be complex, but the item depicted by segment two must be—or at least seem to be—more complex.

If segment one depicts a flower petal, for instance, then segment two could depict the flower itself because it is more complex by comparison. For another example, if segment one depicts the earth, then segment two could depict the sun, the solar system, or the galaxy because any of these would be more complex by comparison.

Again, to help clarify ways of depicting something without naming it, I recommend reading segment two from each the same poems:

Poem Title
Segment Two Focus
E merge nce
the automobile
Guardian
the Yukon river—so by extension, “a river”
Three Ravens
a raven
Architect
the LEGO construct—things made from legos

Segment two includes a reference to the item depicted by segment one.

This is of course done without naming it. The reference can be vague and peculiar to your own experience and understanding. Going back again to the four poems, I’ll illustrate key phrases from their second segments which reference the item depicted by the first:

Poem Title
Excerpt
Reference Type
E merge nce
“… an alley’s dirt”
location
Guardian
“a fleck of lost humanity”
relational metaphor
Three Ravens
“… / where … an icon lures”
location and metaphor
Architect
“Imagination …”
application and association

Segment three depicts an event or process without naming it.

This is the crux of the trisect. Generally speaking, the items depicted in the first and second segments are in some way associated with or involved in the event or process depicted by the third segment. Again, and I can’t stress this enough, the depicted event or process may not be named—directly denoted.

For instance, if you are depicting a car accident, you would not use any words that could be part of a direct denotation of the event, like “car”, “automobile”, “wreck”, or “accident”—Words found in such denotive phrases as “automobile accident” or “car wreck”. Instead, the language will focus on depicting individual, potentially telling elements and aspects of the event or process. This could involve phrases such as, “crushing contact”, “black lightning struck”, “chrome bending shock”—Just to give an idea.

The event or process depicted may of course be compounded, for they will rarely stand alone anyway.

Returning again to the four poems I’ve been using as examples, ponder the third segment of each poem in relation to the event or process it depicts:

Poem Title
Segment Three Focus
E merge nce
hit and run & near death experience
Guardian
an animistic experience on the Yukon river
Three Ravens
a dream experience involving flight and metamorphosis
Architect
development of cognition through explorative play

Segment three includes references to the items depicted by segment one and segment two.

This is the same idea as that explained above under the fourth point. As I did there, I’ll indicate key phrases from the third segment of each example poem which reference back to the items depicted in the first and second segments of that poem.

References back to segment one’s item of focus:

Poem Title
Excerpt
Reference Type
E merge nce
“shelter shattered open like a nest”
usage and state
Guardian
“… the floating soul …”
usage and relational metaphor
Three Ravens
“… in the shade of gaze …”
action and behavior
Architect
“Individual colors snap …”
application and metaphor

References back to segment two’s item of focus:

Poem Title
Excerpt
Reference Type
E merge nce
“black lightning”
metaphor
Guardian
“from out the wash … floating soul”
spatial and relational attributes
Three Ravens
“… a figurine”
partial denotation
Architect
“impressionist expressions of the mind”
metaphor

This list is by no means complete. The third segment of some of these poems have multiple references to the items depicted by each of the previous segments. But this should give some idea.

Subtitles do not explicitly denote the focus of their segments.

The subtitle captures some attribute or aspect of a segment’s focus through metaphor or some other type of reference, but does not identify it directly by name or denotation.

The poem’s title must avoid giving away the overall focus of the poem or any of its segments.

Just as the subtitle should avoid giving away the focus of its segment, the title should avoid giving away the focus of the poem in a similar fashion. Rely on metaphor or some other associative type of reference when deciding a title.

The rules are actually easier to follow than they might seem. The challenge is in following them well, to good effect. This can only be discovered via trial and error, as I have been doing with the form until now.

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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.

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Riptide

A lot has happened over the past few weeks. But, first the poem, then the news.

Riptide

I used to bodysurf.
It was years ago, as a child.

I lived not far from white sands
    and long curling waves,
from sailboats and oil tankers
that loomed like quiet phantoms
at the liquid edge of the world.

Wearing dark blue trunks,
I would wade in through broken
waves until the brine lapped
softly against my chin.
As whitewater neared, the sea
would drop just low enough that
I could push off and join
the tumult, turned briefly
into a crude, knobby surfboard
    sliding amid the swell
until at last my trunks scooped up
    a little sand, and I found
myself beached between worlds.

Once, while waiting for just
the right wave, I bent my knees
and dropped below one not quite
    big enough, pushed up
to the higher water behind it, and
came down on absolutely nothing.

The sand was gone.

I extended one leg, toes spread
down to find it, but all I could feel
was grit rushing around my foot,
    my ankle, and shin.

There was a moment of uncertainty,
as if the wily sea were merely playing
a practical joke, then on instinct
I began to swim toward shore
where I could once again find sand
to stand on. But, I went the wrong way,
swimming forward, my body slid
back toward those distant ships, limbs
useless as seaweed on the wake.

The joke was over. Fear flashed
electric through my limbs. I sprinted,
kicking and stroking with all my might,
eyes wild and white, face pale, arms
and legs weakening until at last they
turned flaccid and ghostly as jellyfish.

Strength spent, I gasped for air
as my chin dipped into that salty,
half-lit world. And with that air
I choked and gulped at the sea.

Somewhere in the watery depths
of my soul, I began to accept this fate.
I began to accept that I now would join
and merge with the great abyss forever,
that maybe I would find my father there
in the cold blue depths, that the simple
    joys of breath were at an end.

Then, suddenly, a bright orange buoy
splashed near and I heard a voice
howl, “Grab the buoy! Grab the buoy!”

It was just out of reach, and I was still
being pulled out to sea. But I saw him,
a muscular man in glaring orange
    trunks waste deep with fear
in his eyes—he saw me, a lifeguard.
And seeing I could not reach the buoy,
with one great snap of his wrist,
whipped it out of the water back
to his hands. Like a quarterback
from heaven, he heaved back
and hurled that orange buoy as if
he meant to land it beyond the horizon.

It landed just past my head, and with
one feeble hand, I grabbed hold.
My body lifted horizontal as the rope
pulled taught, and for the first time
I could feel current rushing past
every inch of skin. My other feeble
hand took hold and the man full
of muscles reeled me in against
that all consuming tide until I flapped
and flopped onto dry sand, crying.

    I remember looking back
on that great ocean, waves weaving
docile patterns onto the shore,
        shaking,
heart hollow with fear and dread.

When the doctor came in, he asked
me to remove my sunglasses. His
face was granite. He said he wanted
to see my eyes. In that moment,
I came down on nothing and began
            to tread uncertainty.

I removed my glasses, and he began
to tell me about your procedure, tilting
his head forward as he tracked my eyes.
I toed for sand as he talked of polyps
safely removed from your watery
depths. Then he took a breath, almost
imperceptible, and said in dry, measured
tones as grit rushed past my leg,

                       “I found a malignancy.”

So, yes. We discovered a month ago that my wife has rectal cancer. The tumor itself has since been staged at T4n0, which means it’s a very large tumor that has not yet spread to the lymph nodes, though nearby lymph nodes are inflamed. The medical oncologist initially set the staging at 3b, which indicates the cancer has spread to the lymph nodes, but the staging may be lowered to 3a or possibly even 2, though the size of the tumor itself along with the inflamed lymph nodes makes stage 2 unlikely.

This poem came about as I tried to tell my sister what it was like for me to learn about the tumor, using this childhood experience as metaphor for the more recent experience. Perhaps the doctors involved, including the surgeon overseeing the case, could be the lifeguards and the treatment protocol the buoy. But, for the most part, I feel like I’ve already been swept out to sea. We do try to stay positive, though. That’s important.