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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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sunyata

A friend of mine, a scholar of Buddhism and traditional Chinese, has recently been talking about how ‘sunyata’ is grossly mistranslated into English and misunderstood in the West as ‘nothingness’, when the most accurate translation would be ‘evanescence’.

When he first mentioned this I thought to myself, “Well then, I guess that makes sense.” Everything about life and every moment has always seemed evaporative to me.

I didn’t quite know what the title of this would be when I started writing it, but about halfway through, ‘sunyata’ seemed like a perfect fit. Still feels like a perfect fit. So, my 23rd villanelle.

sunyata

fill with evanescent light
every momentary cell
coursed throughout imagined form

every vessel heart to limb
pulsing moments on to self
fill with evanescent light

illuminate each hidden fold
churning vapors through the soul
coursed throughout imagined form

every fiber bound to life
linking bone to skin be still
fill with evanescent light

elucidate this vital force
streaming like an endless swell
coursed throughout imagined form

every sorrow pain and fret
breathing mixed amid the silt
fill with evanescent light
coursed throughout imagined form

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Spillway

Lake Mendocino, a reservoir lake, is a few miles north of Ukiah. The lake serves multiple purposes, among which are water storage for civic and agricultural uses, hydroelectric power for the City of Ukiah, and water-sport recreation for the region’s inhabitants.

About a two mile’s walk southeast of the dam there is a broad spillway that has been cut right through a tall hillside, effectively turning one peak into two. I have found that if I play my flute at the concrete lip of the spillway, the side furthest from the lake, I can create an orchestra of reverberating echoes. The effect is often stunning and mesmerizing.

This is my 22nd villanelle.

Spillway

Amid the ghostlike skeletons of oaks,
a lone song lifts from a channel brown with grass
and echoes up to join dissevered peaks.

Whispers lap the edge of a mountain lake
nestled in a valley, smooth as glass,
amid the ghostlike skeletons of oaks.

Wind shimmers through the chambers of a reed,
resonates across a manmade vale,
and echoes up to join dissevered peaks.

Frogs concealed in rip-rap greet the dusk;
a pair of small birds chase each other’s tails
amid the ghostlike skeletons of oaks.

A raven drops clear pebbles off its beak,
a sound that ripples lightly through the air
and echoes up to join dissevered peaks.

The lone song dims to silence. In its wake
a gentle quiet settles with the dark
amid the ghostlike skeletons of oaks
and echoes up to join dissevered peaks.

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sea dog

I was reflecting on how Robert Service, a favorite poet of mine, would write poems in various Scottish, British, and other dialects. Some of these poems are very moving. For instance, “Bills Grave” and “Pooch”. If you read them, you might suspect that Service was well acquainted with the dialect used in the first poem, as well as the mindset, and that he more or less guessed at the dialect used in the second poem. I believe the first uses a Northern England dialect, where he grew up, and the second uses the dialect of a Black American, possibly Southern.

I was also reflecting on this book I had just finished reading, The Whereabouts of Eneas McNulty by Sebastian Barry. The nature of the story was such as to cause me a lot of after-read reflection, and there was some life at sea involved therein.

So, with all this stirring about in my brain, I found myself tapping out a few phrases, and shortly thereafter, my 21st villanelle fell out thus.

sea dog

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.

Writing poetry in various dialects is something I plan to explore over time, so it was nice to have this experience. The title was suggested by Chris England, an acquaintance I run into at the cafes here in Ukiah.

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A Lullaby

Thought I’d write my inner child a lullaby. This is my 20th villanelle.

A Lullaby

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 fell out pretty quickly. I came into work about a week and a half ago to discover my schedule had been shifted dramatically. There is a part of me, a fairly large part, that always feels that I’ve just done something wrong and I’m about to be punished miserably for it. I’m pretty sure this is connected to the same part of me that, throughout my childhood, lived in sheer terror of dozens of unlikely events. Events like tidal waves (though living well inland), floods (though not living near a river or flood plain), super storms (though living in a mild climate), and really out there stuff like black holes sucking earth into oblivion. Oh, and death.

These were debilitating fears. When thoughts of this or that potential disaster passed through my mind, my body would go cold with terror. Not just an anxiety that causes fretting and unease, but the sort of fear that whitewashes the mind like hi-beams on a dirty windshield and sends waves of frozen fear throughout the body like liquid nitrogen.

For some reason, the most trivial things can trigger this liquid nitrogen whitewash effect. The night I started this poem, I was told by my supervisor as I walked into the on-duty administration office to clock in that he needed to talk to me. As it turns out, he needed to talk to everyone—about the restructuring of everyone’s schedules. But, in that moment, I was frozen in the headlights, and it took me a couple of days to recover from it. This is one of the long-term effects of thoroughly messing up a child’s mind.

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To the Parent Who Committed Suicide

As scary and abusive as my father was, I still think I eventually would have found a way to reconcile with him in adulthood, had he not killed himself when I was ten. Though I’m not the most successful of individuals financially, I still think he would have been proud of who I became as a person. Somehow I’m certain of this.

Like many who claw their way forth from disadvantaged backgrounds, I often felt the urge and impulse to throw it all away to drugs, thievery—and much worse—as a way of dealing with feelings of impotence and inadequacy, as a way of lashing out at myself and the world. But instead I somehow chose to self-cultivate, slowly but surely, over time. A never ending process of ever evolving fruition.

If I were my child, I would be proud of him, knowing the impossibility of what he had to overcome both internally and circumstantially. And so sometimes I wish I could show myself to the father who left my world, who left life when I was ten, and enjoy even just a moment of his acknowledgment, his praise. The proud father of a survivor who learned to thrive in his own way.

I wrote this poem, my 19th villanelle, as I pondered what my father has missed out on. I know that he would have wanted to be here for this, to see me find my way. So as much as I lost him when he died, it seems like he lost me even more. I think this is the way with the suicide of a parent—The parent misses out on everything. The child adapts and ultimately finds his or her way, but the parent misses out on absolutely everything. It is the ultimate loss.

To the Parent Who Committed Suicide

You’ll never know what they will come to be,
The children of your heart who live without your love;
At best, you leave behind but stings of grief.

You’ll never share their triumph or defeat
And smile when again they rise with new resolve;
You’ll never know what they will come to be.

You’ll never comfort them in times of need
Or feel the subtle joy that always comes thereof;
At best, you leave behind but stings of grief.

You’ll never see them strive to meet their dreams,
The hopes within their soul they struggle to achieve;
You’ll never know what they will come to be.

You’ll never beam a parent’s prideful glee,
To see them find their way and how they learn to live;
At best, you leave behind but stings of grief.

You lost them as you swung your failing feet,
And now you’re just a void that they will always have;
You’ll never know what they will come to be;
At best, you leave behind but stings of grief.

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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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In the Shade of Suicide

This poem, my 17th villanelle, reflects on the conditions and spiritual aftermath of my father’s suicide. I wasn’t there. My parents separated and divorced by the time I was born, and though I lived variously with both of them, at ten years old, when my father ended his life, I was living with my mother 260 miles away.

Sometimes, as the years went on, I’d try to imagine the circumstances of his death—What he felt, saw, heard, and pondered. What crushed him? Was it truly just his alcoholism? Who knows. But it did end in the dark of the Monterey County Jail drunk tank, an old building used for the purpose since the days of the old west.

In adulthood I’ve visited the jail, just to see it. And I could swear I sensed his presence there, all unheeding—Lost in the abysmal trap of its own self-pity and sorrow.

In the Shade of Suicide

steel bars seal the concrete cell
dim lighting casts a haze on everything
suffocating hope until the pulse is still

here unheard there sobs a secret weeping soul
the air is weighed beyond all comforting
steel bars seal the concrete cell

some can sense a lost control
regrets cascade and crush in heavy throng
suffocating hope until the pulse is still

year by passing year brief glances rise and fall
a faded figure sometimes seen to hang
steel bars seal the concrete cell

wrenched within their drunken pall
detainees wake to hear a gasping lung
suffocating hope until the pulse is still

violence born of sorrow echoes through the hall
the final act of him who kicked and swung
steel bars seal the concrete cell
suffocating hope until the pulse is still

Publication History:

The Awakenings Review — Summer 2007

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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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Ephemeral

Perhaps, in the end, questions concerning the origins of man and his universe will not be answered. We want answers, but chances are they are way beyond, or before, our reach. This is like asking about the origin of faith, or the origin of mind. Everything we know is manifest, but attempting to answer the question of “from” or “where” will only takes us in circles.

Reflecting on such thoughts, I found myself writing this poem, my 14th villanelle.

Ephemeral

Who launched the flat gray stone across the pond,
A stone now manifest and in the air
Barely above the water, gliding on?

Was it the misty void, though folded soft
Within its mystic lair of dark allure,
Who launched the flat gray stone across the pond?

A stone’s gray flight can never last for long,
Its hue in contrast with the liquid mire,
Barely above the water, gliding on.

Do waters ponder, when it lands awash
And splashes up in flight again to soar,
Who launched the flat gray stone across the pond?

Momentum slows for every skimming rock,
Too soon to sleep enfolded in the mere,
Barely above the water, gliding on.

Once it is lost from view, its motion stopped,
Ripples expand and fade; and, no-one’s there
Who launched the flat gray stone across the pond,
Barely above the water, gliding on.

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Helpless

My infatuated fascination with the opposite sex began very early. There are many possible reasons for this, but I can remember even as far back as age four or five absolutely craving for the attention of a beautiful woman. If I had a class with a pretty elementary teacher, it would be impossible for me to concentrate on anything beyond fantasizing about close contact. Not “sex”, that didn’t enter into my thought process until much later, but intimacy nonetheless.

So this set the stage for a life of desire for that which cannot be realized—Or at best realized for only a brief period. For people change. No-one stays young and retains a youthful countenance and physique forever. I even find the plastic “beauty” of older women who have changed their features artificially to be utterly creepy and unsavory.

So why? It is a curse I have not found a way to lift. I would give anything to be able to just appreciate a woman’s beauty as it changes through age, seeing only with my heart. But, sadly, this has never been possible for me, however much I may hope for it. I envy those who have this ability or natural inclination. So, as I reflected on all of this, I found myself writing this poem, my 13th villanelle.

Helpless

My heart is moved by that which wastes away;
My soul is rendered incomplete by beauty
And yearns in vain for that which cannot stay.

An urgency eclipses simple joy,
And caught within its raging rush unruly,
My heart is moved by that which wastes away.

How often I have heaved the heavy sigh,
A heedless hope that heats within profusely
And yearns in vain for that which cannot stay.

Today, as when a half unconscious boy,
Enslaved by aches that govern absolutely,
My heart is moved by that which wastes away.

My sense is charmed by figures slight and spry,
The fairest features doomed to rot unduly,
And yearns in vain for that which cannot stay.

I’m plagued by wonton wants that just destroy,
That urge with fiendish force until, all gloomy,
My heart is moved by that which wastes away
And yearns in vain for that which cannot stay.