After completing my study of the ghazal in the middle of 2003, I embarked upon a study of the villanelle and terzanelle 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 villanelle I have written is linked to from the list below. Entries are organized from the most recently completed villanelle to the oldest. The first two were written a few years before this study began.
This article provides detailed information about the villanelle poetic form along with insights gained from years spent working within its framework. A well-known example is used to illustrate the form, with commentary included to highlight certain features. Several links are also provided to other examples.
sunyata (April 2007)
“Sunyata” is a Pali/Sanskrit term most commonly translated to English as “void,” “emptiness,” or “nothingness.” Several conversations with a friend who has studied Buddhism all his life revealed that its best translation would actually be “evanescence,” sparking a series of insights that led to this poem.
Spillway (February 2007)
Years ago, when I lived in Ukiah, California, I used to hike out to the spillway of a nearby lake to play my bansuri flute. It’s a beautiful hike that takes you over hills through a forest of black oaks, madrones, and manzanita. Here I try to capture the experience of playing my flute in this picturesque, man-made little vale.
sea dog (November 2006)
This poem is written from the perspective of an old seaman as he ponders how to go about retiring. It uses a dialect that seems somehow proper to the trade, purely imagined, but sharing some similarities with West Country English. This poem may now only be found in my book, an inkling hope.
A Lullaby (August 2006)
I lived out my childhood fraught with debilitating fears. Fears of unlikely things, like tornadoes in California and black holes destroying the earth. It was only in adulthood that I began to realize these fears were transpositions of my fear of my abusive father. Here I offer an assuaging lullaby for that child I once was.
To the Parent Who Committed Suicide (December 2004)
My father committed suicide when I was 10. After decades of processing this loss and its impact on my life, it one day dawned on me that he lost so much more than I did, for in death he can never have any knowledge of what his children come to be or any kind of relationship with the people they become.
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.
In the Shade of Suicide (September 2004)
My father’s suicide took place in the drunk tank of the Monterrey City jail in Central California. No-one in the family really knows why, though of course there’s speculation. Here I contemplate the psychospiritual impact of his suicide on the jail and its immediate surroundings—as a haunting.
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.
Ephemeral (May 2004)
About the time one begins to wonder what happens after death, one begins to wonder how being came about in the first place. Around the time I wrote this poem, I was beginning to realize that both questions are entirely futile—and for similar reasons. We are stones skipping across the pond of consciousness.
Helpless (April 2004)
I have always envied those whose emotional affections translate directly into sexual desire. This has never been the way it works for me. I bear the curse of not being able to remain sexually attracted to one I love with all my heart, for I can only feel sexual attraction to women who look a certain way.
Transmigrant Memory (March 2004)
At the time of this writing, I was in a relationship with a woman who felt she might have been a horse in a previous life. Something about the way she expressed this, along with her connection with horses, inspired me to explore the idea in this poem. She also inspired “Equine Dreaming,” linked to below.
Presence (March 2004)
Throughout my life, from my earliest memories, I have sensed a presence somewhere near at hand. It’s like that change in “pressure” you sometimes feel when someone silently enters the room—but ever-present. Here I contemplate the effect this presence has had on my life and on my personal development.
Frostbite (December 2003)
Poems that meditate on some aspect of my spiritual beliefs and disposition do just that—reflect on one small facet. Such is all that can really be explored within the space of a poem. Here I reflect on a handful of psycho-spiritual difficulties and circumstances that have sometimes driven me to prayer.
Culture (November 2003)
Here I use the decaying hull and internals of a long-ago scuttled ship as a metaphor for modern American culture. This is pure metaphor, or allegory, with only the title giving something away with regard to the poem’s meaning and intent. This poem may now only be found in my book, an inkling hope.
Pilgrim (September 2003)
I’ve never been one to make many friends, being content to use my time doing my own thing at my own pace. When I do take on a friendship, it tends to be with a personality that’s unusual enough to hold my interest. This poem was inspired by a friend who I often thought might have attained enlightenment.
Cloud (September 2003)
I once lived on a property that was directly in the path of a morning cloud migration. They would form miles away, down slope, then steadily rise up through every vale and canyon to the ridge tops where they would dissipate or drift away. This poem may now only be found in my book, an inkling hope.
Night Walk (August 2003)
Throughout my life, I’ve had this tendency to take walks at night. This has led me to discover the true magic of places normally only seen by daylight. Here I weave sights and sounds from one such walk into meditations of stillness and wonder. This poem may now only be found in my book, an inkling hope.
Silent Consolements (August 2003)
I believe that when we come into the world, we bring certain spiritual alignments with us. I can’t guess at how these alignments manifest; they’re just there. In infancy, I was subjected to severe neglect and abuse. Somehow I’ve always attributed my survival—in part—to the alignments that came with me.
Path by Moon (July 2003)
My many midnight walks in distant places also include paths by moonlight. I’ve come to see such paths as a metaphor for following one’s personal calling. Here I invite the reader to walk awhile with me and maybe discover some new meaning along the way. This poem may now only be found in my book, an inkling hope.
Equine Dreaming (July 2003)
At the time of this writing, I was in a relationship with a woman who felt a special kinship with equine-kind. Indeed there was something, for any time we encountered horses in any setting, they would come running to her, allowing her to stroke and scratch their faces, necks, and sides.
For Me Alone (July 2001)
How many poems are out there that the author might introduce with, “Well, there was this girl …”?—Well, there was this girl, a stunningly beautiful woman actually, and she sang to me—For me alone. Of course it never went anywhere, as has always been my luck. But now there’s this poem.
Your Loss (July 2001)
This was written to console a friend after her fiance left her for another woman. Turns out he had been cheating on her for quite a while with this woman, making the blow all the more harsh when this fact came to light. This poem actually addresses her ex, suggesting that he’ll never find another like her.
