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What is a Terzanelle?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lines may be any length or meter within reason.

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

Terzanelles may be written on any subject.

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

Terzanelle in Thunderweather

by Lewis Turco

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

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

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

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prayer

There is a little dirt road called Low Gap Road that winds into the hills west of Ukiah to the ocean. Not long after I moved into the Ukiah area to work for REBOL Technologies in ’99, I found myself exploring this road looking for a place pray.

prayer

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.

Ever since I was a runaway, as I went through my various spiritual-religious phases, I would seek out remote places in the mountains to pray. Prayer has had many meanings to me throughout my life. It began with pleas for my safety and well-being and migrated steadily toward seeking out understanding, sanity, peace of mind, and stillness of spirit. Mixed throughout have been requests for others who have touched my life. Ever present has been a desire to seek out god’s will for me, and the power to carry that out—a lasting echo from my teen and adult exposure to 12-step rooms and precepts.

Throughout my life, while praying in the night, it has been rare that I would do so without seeing a shooting star. I can remember when this began. I was still 15, and not long on my own as a runaway. One night on the top of a mesa near Kingman, Arizona, I made ready to sleep and found myself completely overwhelmed by anxiety and hunger. It was cold, and through the little round breathing hole of my sleeping bag I peered up at the stars and cried, praying. The moment I told the stars that I just wanted to know that everything would somehow be okay, a star fell across the length of my field of vision. I can still remember the sudden calm that practically tingled in my limbs. And an instant faith. A faith I have never lost.

This is how my hilltop prayers began.

I had a friend who worked as the head librarian at Mendocino College, the community college just north of Ukiah, who was dying of colon cancer. She was a quiet yet powerful influence on my life, in ways I don’t quite understand, but in ways I can say with certainty inspired me to go the direction I went with studying and writing poetry long term.

One night at this place of prayer on Low Gap Road I asked for her to be healed, and just as I finished asking two shooting stars, bright with long arching trails, shot across the night just in front of me, horizon to horizon, one above the another. I must have misinterpreted this response because about a year later my friend lost her battle with the cancer. My own father’s death never struck me with such savage pangs of loss.

After her passing in 2002 I visited my place of prayer I think once more, and then all but forgot about it. And since then to now I have not sought out another place for prayer.

A few nights ago I remembered Low Gap Road, suddenly, as if a voice just whispered it into my thoughts. And I found myself filled with ambivalence at the thought of returning for a visit.

I decided to go. And once there just stood silent—for over an hour—playing my bansuri flute in the night. Finally I folded my arms across my chest and looked up at the night and found myself saying, “I guess I feel betrayed.” And went back to playing my flute.

A while later as I played, I turned to look west at the risen moon, and just then a shooting star fell toward the north.

I don’t claim to understand any of this. But this poem, my 23rd terzanelle, was inspired by my reflections on it all.

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oak touch

My 22nd terzanelle. There are two particular inspirations behind this poem, but I’ll mention one. Years ago I had an extremely vivid dream involving a large black oak, species q. kelloggii, or California black oak. Without going into detail, in this dream the tree drew me to the shade of its canopy, and once there I found myself surrounded by all sorts of dream-time creatures (the sort of creatures that don’t exist in waking reality) as a raven high in the crown dropped a small something down for me to investigate. There’s more to it. Actually the dream is pretty well laid out in my poem, “markers”.

Well, two weeks later I was driving back to Ukiah from the coastal town of Mendocino over the Comptche-Ukiah road—a radically windy one-lane little thing—and as I rounded a corner just east of Orr Springs, there it was—the massive old oak from my dream. Years have passed, and I’ve struggled to understand what that dream and this oak are all about for me, but I still don’t really know. I would like to know. But I don’t know. I must settle for vague insights, as this is the way of such things.

oak touch

sepia leaves and branches shade
the supple parchment of your years
rooted deep in stardust dreams

wind shimmers through the boughs of time
beneath an ever phasing moon
the supple parchment of your years

bares the mark of ancient grace
that rustles by a canyon’s edge
beneath an ever phasing moon

grasses lap gray plates of bark
spread throughout a billowed crown
that rustles by a canyon’s edge

with each new breeze like subtle gems
glimmers softly in the dark
spread throughout a billowed crown

writhing in elusive light
the serpent beauty of your form
glimmers softly in the dark

etched against the realm of night
sepia leaves and branches shade
the serpent beauty of your form
rooted deep in stardust dreams

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Thanksgiving Night

Normally, I avoid writing poetry that’s focused on things like Thanksgiving or Christmas, or any holiday. It’s just not the sort of thing that tends to interest me. However, as Thanksgiving day approached, I found myself pondering what Thanksgiving day, a day when most families come together and reconnect, would be like for the kids who live at the group home I work at.

I actually had my own Thanksgiving days in group homes. In fact, group homes not unlike the place I’m working at. Then there were the two Thanksgivings I endured as a runaway teen. So I have my own memories to draw from in trying to bring the hidden voice of these kids to the world. This is my 21st terzanelle.

Thanksgiving Night

A long cold wind blows down the long brown hall.
The lights are dim. The night man gently paces,
and one by one we drift beyond brick walls.

We AWOL through our dreams and greet the faces
that make our stomachs sick with love and dread.
The lights are dim. The night man gently paces.

Outside our doors the floor creeks from the tread
of memories, like ghosts within the halflight,
that make our stomachs sick with love and dread.

We’ve eaten much, and yet there looms a hunger,
an emptiness that writhes amid the gloom
of memories, like ghosts within the halflight.

We stir the darkness in our broken rooms.
We’re full, for well we ate to stuff our sorrows,
an emptiness that writhes amid the gloom.

The heater drones, yet chill seeps to the marrow.
A long cold wind blows down the long brown hall.
We’re full, for well we ate to stuff our sorrows,
and one by one we drift beyond brick walls.

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Endure

Life can take some unexpected turns, and the path to which we have dedicated ourselves may lead through every kind loss and tragedy. But in the end we must simply endure, for life isn’t always easy or fair, and the potential for discovering new meaning and value lies always just ahead.

      Endure

      The path may wind up slopes of ankle twisting shale,
            and over ridges overwhelmed with loss;
yet each step carries on through triumph and dismay.

            The path may weave through swamps and belching bogs,
through alpine heights where acid springs bleed lethal streams and ponds,
            and over ridges overwhelmed with loss,

      only to drop through valleys baked barren by the sun,
            until it rises up again to lead
through alpine heights where acid springs bleed lethal streams and ponds.

            The path may shrink and seem to disappear
through thickets barbed with venom thorns or leech-filled undergrowth
      until it rises up again to lead

      through places not unlike the sorrows known before
            and on through every emptiness and pain—
through thickets barbed with venom thorns or leech-filled undergrowth.

            Through crackled desolation, blasts of rain,
      the path may wind up slopes of ankle twisting shale
            and on through every emptiness and pain;
yet each step carries on through triumph and dismay.

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Pestilence

Faith and conviction are powerful forces of human nature. They can work to heal and sustain an individual in the face of terrible trauma and adversity. But there is a dark side to this force. In the hands of dogmatists faith and conviction become a pestilence, rained down upon those who do not share their beliefs or who cannot adhere to their ideals.

There was a man who committed suicide. He was deeply religious and he strove with all his might to be what he was told was a good Christian. But when his personal writings were found after his death, it was discovered that he was homosexual. Outwardly there was no way to know. He was married with two children. Inwardly he lived in shame and terror. Shame at being something the dogmatists told him god despised and terror at the thought of spending eternity in hell. Eventually this torment drove him to his end.

I was on the outskirts of this disaster as it unfolded, listening, observing. Eventually I found myself overcome with rage at those who sent him to his death, and so I wrote to them. This, my 19th terzanelle, is written to all those who would use their dogmatic self-righteousness to destroy the hearts, minds, and spirits of others.

Pestilence

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 Phantom of Wheeler Camp

This poem attempts to describe an experience a friend had with a ghost while out backpacking on the Lost Coast Trail, north of Fort Bragg, California. After researching the old logging town of Wheeler Camp, the place where her experience began, and backpacking to the site myself a couple of times, I got the feeling the ghost she encountered was a child’s ghost.

Using what she told me, what I sensed about the area myself, and what I gleaned from my research into the history of Wheeler Camp, I managed the following.

The Phantom of Wheeler Camp

I

The Child’s Life

The ancient redwoods fall like crashing thunder,
Hauled to the clanging mill that pays for his evening meals;
Dismayed, he sees his refuge torn asunder.

Each morning rugged hands awake from slumber,
Heeding a daily call to climb the canyons and kill;
The ancient redwoods fall like crashing thunder.

How can a child teach his father wonder,
Who razes pillared hills, destroying enchanted halls?
Dismayed, he sees his refuge torn asunder.

The sentient forest beings fade in number;
Heavy machines befoul and ravenous saws defile;
The ancient redwoods fall like crashing thunder.

He dreams of ending all this senseless plunder;
His hope decays and fails, for no-one cares what he feels;
Dismayed, he sees his refuge torn asunder.

His world is carted off as squares of lumber;
Helpless, alone, reviled, he grieves to no avail—
The ancient redwoods fall like crashing thunder;
Dismayed, he sees his refuge torn asunder.
 

II

The Child’s Ghost

Suddenly all is dim; he wanders in psychic dream
Among the barren hills of senseless slaughter,
Broken by savage harm, now one with his blighted home.

In death he holds a grief which never falters,
Transformed into a sprite that floats where the saplings sprout
Among the barren hills of senseless slaughter.

The loss has crushed his heart till nothing can soothe the hurt,
For every old-growth tree was slain for profit,
Transformed into a sprite that floats where the saplings sprout.

Two thousand years of forest-song, melodic,
Vanished amid the moist and constantly shifting mist,
For every old-growth tree was slain for profit.

Visitors sense his ghost, a subtle and somber guest,
An apparition vaguely seen then faded,
Vanished amid the moist and constantly shifting mist.

His anguish grew as all he loved fell wasted;
Suddenly all is dim; he wanders in psychic dream,
An apparition vaguely seen then faded,
Broken by savage harm, now one with his blighted home.
 

III

Decades Later

Eroding skid roads slowly change to forest;
Alders emerge from sleep and conifers climb the slopes,
Obscuring man’s destructive greed from notice.

A gentle woman dreams in the canyon shadows dim;
Her heart is touched by something lost in torment,
And shaken by the gleam, her spirit succumbs to gloom.

She wakes and walks beneath the new-growth foliage
With heavy-hearted step on trails where, defined and steep,
Eroding skid roads slowly change to forest.

Dismay beyond her own fell just for moments
And brushed her troubled mind with losses forever mourned;
Her heart is touched by something lost in torment.

Her vision blurs with feelings strangely foreign,
A pain she can’t escape that distorts her mental scope,
Obscuring man’s destructive greed from notice.

A grieving spirit groaned within the molested ground,
Responding to the aura of her presence,
And brushed her troubled mind with losses forever mourned.

She stumbles home—her limbs grow weak and torpid—
Hardly able to cope where, as the semesters creep,
Eroding skid roads slowly change to forest.

The very heart of nature stands attendance;
Coyotes hold their poise and ravens serenely pose,
Responding to the aura of her presence.

So few would guess the ancients all were corded
To see these living shapes in place of their eldership
Obscuring man’s destructive greed from notice.

The air around her sighs the whispering subtle soughs
Of sorrows that a broken shade remembers;
Coyotes hold their poise and ravens serenely pose.

Her thoughts are framed with images emotive,
An endless foggy drip and trails where the branches droop;
Eroding skid roads slowly change to forest,
Obscuring man’s destructive greed from notice.

Long after mists have cooled the campfire embers,
A gentle woman dreams in the canyon shadows dim
Of sorrows that a broken shade remembers,
And shaken by the gleam, her spirit succumbs to gloom.

There are three poetic forms used here: Parts I and II are my 18th villanelle and terzanelle, respectively; part III is my 1st hybridanelle.

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The Release

We drove to Yerington, Nevada to visit the site where her father had died many years ago in a tragic accident. It took hours in the local library looking through the microfiche of old newspaper articles, but we eventually discovered the name of the abandoned mine he was exploring when he fell down a shaft to his death. We also learned a few other speculations about the accident that surprised us. It took nearly two weeks for him to be found.

Once we knew the name of the mine, it was just a matter of finding out where it was located. We drove into the mountains and got as close as we could to the old abandoned mine. Then we hiked. To our surprise, the mine had been collapsed. It turns out that after her father’s death, the City of Yerington decided the mine was too great a hazard to leave intact, so charges were set throughout the mine and it was blown up. This left a wide crater more than three hundred feet deep at the location of her father’s death.

We had her dog with us, who was not able to navigate the boulders down into the crater, so I stayed at the rim while she hiked down to its bottom. Once there, she knelt down, pressing her left hand to her heart and her right hand against perhaps the lowest-set boulder in the crater. At that moment the interior of the crater flashed several times, as if reflecting a powerful source of light, and my body went numb with tingles and chills. It was incredible. She found him, and somehow she set him free from that dark cavern where he died.

Later I reflected on this experience and wrote this poem, my 17th terzanelle.

The Release

For Bonnie

His shade is drawn from the earth by the light of his daughter’s love,
From deep in the crushing blackness, where he left his broken body,
Free at last from the silence to wander the stars alive!

He lost his footing and fell, in a moment of fatal folly,
Lost below in a mineshaft where no-one could hear his cries
From deep in the crushing blackness, where he left his broken body.

In time they found his remains; they had ferreted many days;
His carcass was raised from darkness, but his ghost remained enshrouded,
Lost below in a mineshaft where no-one could hear his cries.

He stirred in motionless airs while his loved ones were left confounded,
Gripped by senseless bereavement; his presence could not be felt;
His carcass was raised from darkness, but his ghost remained enshrouded.

His daughter held to the hope that she one day could reconnect;
She called to him in her longing to in some way touch his spirit,
Gripped by senseless bereavement; his presence could not be felt.

Her sorrow numbed and distressed, as a part of her heart grew frigid,
Held too long in a stasis where time had no way to soothe;
She called to him in her longing to in some way touch his spirit.

We come to find where he died, and the moment she nears his tomb,
The canyon reflects his spirit, a release from dim confusion,
Held too long in a stasis where time had no way to soothe.

And now with a touched amazement, I gaze on their bright reunion;
His shade is drawn from the earth by the light of his daughter’s love;
The canyon reflects his spirit, a release from dim confusion,
Free at last from the silence to wander the stars alive!

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Raven

This is my 16th terzanelle, and the longest one I’ve written. This is also my first attempt to alternate between four meters in a consistent fashion. You should find that, starting with the second tercet, there is an interlocking pattern of hypercatalectic iambic pentameter, iambic pentameter, catalectic trochaic pentameter and trochaic pentameter. They’re all pentameters, but four different types woven together in a sort of braid. I was curious to see what the effect of this patterning would be. For the most part, I’m not unhappy with the results.

Raven

rugged feathers brush against my neck
something perches staunchly on my shoulder
croaking wisdom through an unseen beak

it seems an ancient being shrewd and sober
black as empty space between the stars
something perches staunchly on my shoulder

i sense a stern reproach to all my fears
dreads that formed from countless gripping losses
black as empty space between the stars

with rigid countenance it keenly watches
game to see me through each anxious qualm
dreads that formed from countless gripping losses

it came from somewhere in the subtle realm
skies abruptly filled with calling ravens
game to see me through each anxious qualm

this spirit somehow heard my lamentations
cries of savage pain that shook the clouds
skies abruptly filled with calling ravens

they soothe my grief in smooth or raucous chords
offered ever since they found me wailing
cries of savage pain that shook the clouds

this spirit and their spirits ever sailing
pass to me a gift of light and song
offered ever since they found me wailing

with rough and yet a clear enlightened tongue
subtle caws resounding in my spirit
pass to me a gift of light and song

whenever all is still i feel and hear it
rugged feathers brush against my neck
subtle caws resounding in my spirit
croaking wisdom through an unseen beak

Ravens have been special to me my entire life. Everyone who knows me for any length of time will eventually notice that ravens behave a little differently around me than they do other people. They still act like ravens, but they seem to show an awareness of me that they don’t of others. Maybe one day I’ll end up befriending one of these birds and I can study its behavior more closely. They’re fascinating beings.

Publication History:

Blue Unicorn — Winter 2004

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The Lotus Tree

I was inspired to write this poem after one of my full moon visits to a particular redwood tree that grows near a place called Usal Beach, north of Fort Bragg, California. It’s a remote beach, accessible only by six miles of dirt road, after driving at least 60 odd miles of remote highway. Most redwoods grow straight up, a single spire swaying up to the clouds. However something has inspired this tree to grow very differently. About fourteen feet from the ground it suddenly spreads out into about thirty individual spires, each of which have grown over the years into mature redwoods. When seen from a short distance, the effect is that of looking upon an enormous chandelier. I call her “The Lotus Tree” because of the whorl-like pattern of her individual spires.

This tree has a strong presence about her. And judging by the path that winds up to her knees through a grove of similarly twisted redwoods—though none so spectacular as herself—it would seem that she has connected with quite a few people over the years. Knowing her has been one of the great blessings of my life.

The Lotus Tree

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.

This poem was incorporated into my villanelle/terzanelle project, so “the grove” and “full moon visit” are my 15th and 16th villanelles, respectively, and “the sagess” and “astral visit” are my 14th and 15th terzanelles, respectively.

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Pulp

Psychology has its merits—That is when the psychologist is knowledgeable, experienced, and compassionate. But, to my mind, psychiatry has very few merits, no matter how well-intentioned its practitioners may be. I have watched the infusion of psychiatric drugs destroy the minds of those around me, and it has also destroyed most of what potential I was born with and began to develop as a child.

Very, very few losses inflict as much pain and despair as the loss of ones own potential. I know. So, thinking such thoughts, I found myself writing this poem, my 13th terzanelle.

Pulp

they made his mind a molding mess
a slow and solemn nest of thought
a brooding storm of deep distress

confusion ruled his darkened heart
enraged at what his mind became
a slow and solemn nest of thought

as reason weakened and decayed
he bashed his limbs and tore his flesh
enraged at what his mind became

his anguish flared a bitter flame
when it would surge with burning force
he bashed his limbs and tore his flesh

he wished for death with yearnings fierce
a wish he never could perform
when it would surge with burning force

he longed to leave his broken form
destroyed by psychiatric drugs
a wish he never could perform

the poisons flowed within his blood
they made his mind a molding mess
destroyed by psychiatric drugs
a brooding storm of deep distress

Publication History:

The Awakenings Review — Summer 2007