After completing my study of the ghazal in the middle of 2003, I embarked upon a study of the terzanelle and villanelle art forms, which later included a hybridization of the two, which I called the hybridanelle. This study lasted until the middle of 2007, as I finished my 23rd poem from each of these forms. I will over time return to these forms again as inspiration comes, but not as part of a focused study.
The reason I studied these forms for such a long period is because I felt they had something to offer my writing process. I felt that by writing poems in strict adherence with these structures and then bending the rules as I explored variations on the forms, I would refine my overall use of imagery, word choice, and word economy. I’m pretty sure it worked, because as the study progressed, my free verse also seemed to improve—by leaps and bounds.
Every hybridanelle I have written is linked to from the list below. Entries are organized from the most recently completed poem to the oldest.
This article provides information about the hybridanelle along with insights gained from working within its framework. Examples are provided to illustrate the form, including commentary meant to highlight certain features. A link is provided to one other example that takes a unique approach to the form.
Convergence (June 2017)
Originally, this was intended to commemorate my first marriage in 2005, but I ended up abandoning the effort for another angle entirely. Years later I decided to finish this poem, but now as a metaphoric meditation on the nature of consciousness, selfhood, and companionship—and how these interconnect.
Emancipation (June 2007)
This cynical poem was written after the catastrophic failure of my first marriage and then getting dumped without explanation by the first woman I had a relationship with a couple years later. It was liberating in a way. For the first time in my life, I reached a point where I was completely at peace being alone.
Elegy (March 2007)
This poem was written as I finally accepted that my first marriage was over, which was about a year and a half after we separated. She was a diagnosed borderline, so she told me. I didn’t know what this meant as our relationship began, but I certainly had some insights by the time it was over.
Song of the Animist (December 2006)
Here I use imagery and metaphor to explore the interconnectedness of all things through breath and spirit, and by extension The Dreaming. “Animism” is one word that points toward this way of seeing and experiencing the world, a world of spirits and all-pervasive subtle influences and interactions.
Confounded (September 2006)
Childhood abuse and/or neglect completely shape a child’s psyche, especially when endured over time. The impact is readily observed in how a child approaches play. Here I reflect on the impact my own childhood abuse and neglect had on how I approached play as a child and later life as an adult.
Rain (July 2006)
I can’t remember a time when rain didn’t quiet my spirit, calm my unrest. This was especially true during my teen years, about half of which were spent as a runaway. Here I use vivid imagery and metaphor to call upon the rain to come and subdue for a time the glaring reality of overwhelming circumstances.
Surrender (July 2006)
Prayer is an ever evolving process for me. As a young adult, my prayers came out as egocentric requests of a divine entity. Today, if I pray at all, it looks more like a conversation with the stars. Here I explore a valuable insight concerning prayer. This poem may now only be found in my book, an inkling hope.
The Dimming (March 2006)
In October of 2005, the 16 year old daughter of a friend committed suicide. The devastation to her family was complete. Months later, this friend asked me to write a poem in memory of her daughter. And after six weeks, this is what I managed—a vivid, subtle thing that reverberates gently within the mind.
Unbounded (February 2006)
Art Bell was a radio personality that hosted Coast to Coast AM, which I listened to from its inception until he retired. In January of 2006, his wife died suddenly. He later used a broadcast to talk about the experience, and I was moved to write this poem, which may now only be found in my book, an inkling hope.
Oak Dream (December 2005)
This is the first in a series of four poems inspired by a dream that lead me to discover a remarkable oak tree that grows in the mountains west of Ukiah, California. This poem focuses on the tree itself, using imagery and metaphor to depict its relationship with the natural world and the subtle realms.
On a Life Left Unfinished (November 2005)
This is written in memory of a friend who passed away suddenly in September of 2005. Here I use imagery and metaphor to apply my peculiar way of thinking about death to his passing while also reflecting on the forever unfinished nature of a life lived fully and well. He was a good friend. I miss our conversations.
Anima Cantus (September 2005)
Loosely translated, the Latin title means “mind song,” “psychic melody,” or something along these lines. Here I use vivid imagery and metaphor to depict the melodious, vibrational nature of thought, presence, and emotionality—being. This poem may now only be found in my book, an inkling hope.
Matrimony (September 2005)
For the unity of marriage I used Hurricane Katrina as the metaphor for life’s struggles. And for the survivors of Katrina I used matrimony as a metaphor for unity. My first marriage was much like a hurricane, leaving terrible destruction in its wake. This poem may now only be found in my book, an inkling hope.
An Invocation (August 2005)
Any piece of art—from poetry to architecture—is the product of inspiration, however insipid or brilliant. Here in the tradition of ancient poets such as Homer and Dante I call out for such inspiration. I call out for clarity of mind, for freedom from an ever present fog that shrouds my thought and creativity.
The Sophistry of Prophecy (July 2005)
When I was young—as in my late teens through early twenties—biblical prophesies held some allure for me. But I learned about the world and its history, slowly realizing these prophesies have been unfolding for all of human history. So the allure faded as the sophistry of it all became apparent.
Burning the Flag (June 2005)
I find that the American flag is now treated like a corporate logo, such as Nike or Pepsi. It’s smacked on the back of pickup trucks and left to crack and fade in the sun. It seems to me that to treat the symbol of justice and liberty for all in such an undignified manner is tantamount to burning it in the town square.
Recurring Nightmare (May 2005)
When I was 12, I had a series of vivid dreams of a nuclear blast occurring in the Los Angeles area. In these dreams I would be instantly vaporized, partially or mostly melted, and/or burned to cinders. Then I would wake with pounding heart. This poem reflects on these dreams and what they could mean.
Sunlight (April 2005)
This beautiful poem was written for the woman who would become my first wife. Here I liken her countenance to sunshine, extending the metaphor to its effect on shadows (regrets), darkness (uncertainty), fog (confusion) and more. The same woman also inspired “Matrimony” and “Elegy,” listed above.
Cocoon (April 2005)
I wrote this poem as I reflected on the profound impact of a perfectly random act of kindness and senseless beauty. In Arizona’s Grand Canyon National Park, which I visited as a runaway teen, a park ranger handed me a subzero sleeping bag. This allowed me to survive two winters on the open highways.
Legacy (March 2005)
Here I try to give voice to an idea that haunted at limen of my thought for years. The notion is that ancestry is not strictly the product of genes. There are more subtle elements involved that can entirely circumvent blood. This poem uses vivid imagery and metaphor to explore a couple such elements.
Fusion (February 2005)
This beautiful, delicate poem strives to in some way honor the life and death of my first wife’s first husband. He committed suicide not long after she and I met. His ashes lay buried at the foot of a sapling sequoiadendron near Eugene, Oregon. This poem may now only be found in my book, an inkling hope.
Stormlight (January 2005)
As a runaway teen, I mostly avoided sleeping in locations suggested by a stranger, even other teens. I had the wherewithal to surmise the risks involved. But there were some stormy nights full of wind, rain, and lightning where I had to choose between uncertainties. Here I reflect, vividly, on one such night.
Inhumation (December 2004)
A significant portion of my early teen years was spent locked up in psychiatric facilities. Whether or not I ever belonged in such places is debatable. Here I reflect on my year spent “inhumed” in Camarillo State Hospital between the ages of 13 and 14, and the effect this place had on my spirit, soul, and psyche.
The Phantom of Wheeler Camp (October 2004)
A close friend had a potent ghost encounter at an old lumber encampment in the rugged backcountry of Northern California’s remote coastlines. The encampment has long since fallen into ruin, reclaimed by secondary redwood forest—now protected. This poem explores her experience in depth.
