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 terzanelle I have written is linked to from the list below. Entries are organized from the most recently completed poem to the oldest. The first seven—all belonging to a single poem—were written a few years before this study began.
What is a Terzanelle?
This article provides information and history about the terzanelle poetic form along with insights gained from years spent working within its framework. An example from the inventor of the terzanelle is used to illustrate the form. Links are provided to other examples to demonstrate different approaches.
prayer (June 2007)
Since my early to mid teens, prayer has played a central role in my life. Yet, for the most part I’ve also never really been religious—though I guess I’ve tried. Here I try to capture one unique and difficult moment in prayer, after a years-long interim. This poem may now only be found in my book,
an inkling hope.
oak touch (February 2007)
This is the last in a series of four poems inspired by a dream that either predicted or lead me to an encounter with a most special oak tree that grows off the side of a road in the mountains west of Ukiah, California. This poem in particular attempts to depict the animistic relationship I share with this tree.
Thanksgiving Night (November 2006)
For three years I worked the graveyard shift at a group home for at-risk youth. I also spent a good part of my childhood in group homes of a similar nature. So as a night staff walking the halls, when holidays such as Thanksgiving came round, I had a unique perspective into what these kids were experiencing.
Endure (September 2006)
We each walk a path unique to our choices and circumstances. This path may ultimately lead through places and climes that seem impossible to endure. But if one is to find out what triumphs still lie ahead, one must continue to step forward. Here I use vivid natural imagery to further expand this metaphor.
Pestilence (December 2004)
I see religious righteousness as a plague. It is a pestilence that destroys cultures, cripples independent thought, and maims the human spirit. Here I use scathing imagery to call out the hypocrisy of religious righteousness and indignation. This poem may now only be found in my book,
an inkling hope.
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.
The Release (September 2004)
About 10 years after a friend’s father died while exploring an abandoned mine, we drove out to find the site of his death. Once there, we discovered the mine had been collapsed into a deep crater with explosives to prevent more explorers from suffering a similar fate. This poem tries to depict what happened next.
Raven (August 2004)
I’ve always felt a connection with ravens that’s difficult to express. Every time I see or hear one, it’s like seeing or hearing the voice of an old friend. Over the years, many close to me have noted that ravens even seem to take notice of me. Here I use imagery and metaphor to explore this life-long connection.
The Lotus Tree (July 2004)
There is a remarkable tree that grows near a remote beach in Northern California. Though she is a coastal redwood with a powerful presence, she doesn’t just grow straight up; she fans out into a series of around 30 individual spires. This poem may now only be found in my book,
an inkling hope.
Pulp (May 2004)
Psychiatry—as opposed to psychology—may sometimes be able to help adults when practiced with care and compassion, but not children. A child’s brain is still developing, so directly messing with its chemistry is just a disaster in the making. I know, for I was one such child myself, and the best I could do was survive.
A Modern Troubadour’s Lament (April 2004)
A few years after I began my study of poetry, I discovered to my consternation that the only way to be taken seriously by those with influence in the industry is to sacrifice all personal values and interests in the art to pursue and parrot the values and interests of others. This has never been an option for me.
Way Station (February 2004)
Dreams have always played a major role in my life, ultimately influencing everything about the way I see and experience the universe. Here I reflect on a place I have visited in my dreams over and over again since early childhood, which I’ve gradually come to think of as a spiritual way station of sorts.
Aeolian Strains (January 2004)
After learning about a massive Aeolian harp (wind harp) erected out in the deserts of New Mexico, I soon made it a point to pack some camping items into my Geo Metro and drive out to see it. I was very much impressed and amazed by this living sculpture, but I was also dismayed to find it in a state of disrepair.
Baby Grand (October 2003)
I have always enjoyed the wonder of piano music. It is possibly the most beautiful, elegant, and empathetic musical instrument ever created. Whenever I’ve been fortunate enough to have someone in my life who plays, I’d never tire of listening. Here I meditate on the magic of the baby grand piano.
Moonpines (July 2003)
Within a couple hours of its zenith, the full moon’s light plays in peculiar ways on the tall coastal redwoods of
Montgomery Woods, a state natural reserve in Northern California. Here I meditate on the mysterious, moonlit beauty and of these woods, drawing on imagery from my many midnight walks there.
Fragments (August 2001)
Here I dedicate each of seven terzanelles to a meditation on a given stage of life, starting with “Dawn,” or conception, and ending with “Dusk,” or the evaporation of selfhood. It was the process of working on this poem and reflecting on the outcome that made me realize poetry is what I wanted to do with my life.
