Here's a bit of good news: the Fall/Winter issue of The Dark Horse just came out with two of my prose poems in its pages. The Dark Horse is a classically high quality print publication, with very good design features and serious editing, so I'm proud to be represented there. Here's the link to the new issue in electronic form . . . http://www.thedarkhorsemagazine.com/newissue.html.
Sunday, September 29, 2019
Wednesday, September 25, 2019
Writing the elegy (9.25.19)
Elegy is as much mood as mode for the practicing poet. It is feeling first, as E.E. Cummings said, and it is feeling last.
The name comes from the Greek word elegeia, for "lament." My Princeton Encyclopedia of Poetry and Poetics defines the term as a "lyric, usually formal in tone and diction, suggested either by the death of an actual person or by the poet's contemplation of the tragic aspects of life." In other words, an emotion is prompted by an external event (someone's passing) or by introspection (the tragedy of life). Whichever source, the Encyclopedia goes on to describe, the emotion "finds consolation in the contemplation of some permanent principle."
The first thing to note about elegy, in the Encyclopedia's terms, is that it is a lyric form, that is, not dramatic, epic, or narrative, but song. We can extend that distinction: the elegy is never merely ironic or satirical. Where irony's indirectness suggests cynicism, or a kind of fatalism, elegy's lament is often more direct and unfeigned. Where satire points to a wrong in society that must be righted, elegy points to a truth, a "fact of life."
Typically, elegies don't develop plot or characters (as plays and novels do); they don't unfold over vast spans of space and time (The Iliad, The Aeneid); they are not symphonic (Song of Myself). Like love poems, elegies sing intense emotions and address intimate topics. Reading them, you should feel not like you're at a performance of King Lear or watching Apocalypse Now on the big screen, but listening in to an anguished soul in private, one on one. You are experiencing a moment (with someone).
The second thing to note is that the death or "sad but true fact of life" that occasions an elegy is not the subject of the elegy. It is the departure point where the real subject is the poet's feeling about these things. Someone important to you dies--say a relative, a mentor, a friend, a beloved public figure. Your elegy explores the meaning of that loss, to you and/or to your coterie or fellow citizens, etc. If you write a poem that merely celebrates the deceased's life, you have created a eulogy, not an elegy. Or you come upon a robin dead in your front yard. Your elegy explores the life cut short, the vanity of human endeavor, the provisional nature of life, etc. If you write a poem that merely describes the dead bird, you have created possibly a deep and abiding image, but not an elegy.
And the third thing to note in the Encyclopedia's definition is that it leads somewhere; it finds consolation. So the best way to understand elegy as a writer of poetry is that you set out to make yourself feel better about some incontrovertible fact of life: someone's died, something's died, the center cannot hold, life is loss, etc. That is to say, elegy seeks and elegy finds. Or attempts to find.
But is that all, just feeling? Is there craft to elegy? If you set out to write an elegy (spoiler alert!), where do you go after feeling? How do you know that what you're writing isn't really something else? And what does "lament" look like in poetic practice?
I have no answers to these questions. Which is what makes me think this is a great project for us at Wednesdays@One--to try to discover the form by trying to write one. Below are a few very basic guidelines (they're not rules, really) and some examples to get you started. Have fun!
Guidelines
- Keep your poem short, to a single page or less, if you can, and make it meditative.
- Choose a subject: that person whose passing made you (still makes you?) stop and think about what was lost or what that death meant to you or your community. Remember, try not to write an encomium or eulogy--your poem isn't really about that person, but what that person's death means. Alternatively, choose something like that dead bird in your garden, or the abandoned house down the road, or the polar bear (whose extinction seems more and more likely), or Earth (whose extinction seems more and more likely), or Troy or democracy . . . But remember this: you want to write an elegy, a lyric, not a political or religious diatribe, not a satire on Man's Folly, etc. You want to use the subject to explore not just how you feel, but how to feel appropriately about the subject.
- Find consolation, if consolation is to be found. (Such as, this is how I ought to feel about this loss, death, fact of life, etc.) That is, seek wisdom in the elegy, even if it's the most mundane kind of wisdom. That is, direct your poem to somewhere, make it move.
For W_____, Who Commanded Well, by Howard Nemerov
You try to fix your mind upon his death,
Which seemed it might, somehow, be relevant
To something you once thought, or did, or might
Imagine yourself thinking, doing. When?
It was, once, the most possible of dreams:
The hero acted it, philosophers
Could safely recommend it to the young;
It was acceptable, a theme for a song.
And it was wrong? Daily the press commends
A rationed greed, the radio denies
That war is right, or wrong, or serious:
And money is being made, and the wheels go round,
And death is paying for itself: and so
It does not seem that anything was lost.
Elegy for Jane, by Theodore Roethke
(My student, thrown by a horse)
I remember the neckcurls, limp and damp as tendrils;
And her quick look, a sidelong pickerel smile;
And how, once started into talk, the light syllables leaped for her.
And she balanced the delight of her thought,
A wren, happy, tail into the wind,
Her song trembling the twigs and small branches.
The shade sang with her;
The leaves, their whispers turned to kissing,
And the mould sang in the bleached valleys under the rose.
Oh, when she was sad, she cast herself down into such a pure depth,
Even a father could not find her:
Scraping her cheek against straw,
Stirring the clearest water.
My sparrow, you are not here,
Waiting like a fern, making a spiney shadow.
The sides of wet stones cannot console me,
Nor the moss, would with the last light.
If only I could nudge you from this sleep,
My mained darling, my skittery pigeon.
Over this damp grave I speak the words of my love:
I, with no rights in this matter,
Neither father nor lover.
For a Coming Extinction, by W. S. Merwin
Gray whale
Now that we are sending you to The End
That great god
Tell him
That we who follow you invented forgiveness
And forgive nothing
I write as though you could understand
And I could say it
One must always pretend something
Among the dying
When you have left the seas nodding on their stalks
Empty of you
Tell him that we were made
On another day
The bewilderment will diminish like an echo
Winding along your inner mountains
unheard by us
And find its way out
Leaving behind it the future
Dead
And ours
When you will not see again
The whale calves trying the light
Consider what you will find in the black garden
And its court
The sea cows the Great Auks the gorillas
The irreplaceable hosts ranged countless
And fore-ordaining as stars
Our sacrifices
Join your word to theirs
Tell him
That it is we who are important
In Memory of Senator Mitch McConnell, by Clark Holtzman
His obituary will read like a victory lap in Lexington,
garlanded with uncontested primaries, steady electoral landslides,
the squeaker after he had to take a tough stand on principle.
His children will wipe tears away as the Reverend,
in full battle dress, recounts the life of noble animosities,
harrowing retrenchments, and they will know
that, but for him, the country might have gone to hell.
That year, the Derby will be raced with him in mind
and the Senate Chaplain, choking back tears of his own,
will eulogize a lion, a pillar, a bulwark, a standard
before a packed chamber and respectful media, silent for once.
That silence will be death's, profound and dumbstruck.
So be it, that a man will see the world in a mirror,
and as only he can see it, as he can only see it:
each of us loves an invention that can only love us back.
So we'll push on into our still new, still strange century,
adjusting our admirations and expectations to the novelty,
and, whatever yesterday was, hope for tomorrow's better day.
In Memory of Senator Mitch McConnell, by Clark Holtzman
His obituary will read like a victory lap in Lexington,
garlanded with uncontested primaries, steady electoral landslides,
the squeaker after he had to take a tough stand on principle.
His children will wipe tears away as the Reverend,
in full battle dress, recounts the life of noble animosities,
harrowing retrenchments, and they will know
that, but for him, the country might have gone to hell.
That year, the Derby will be raced with him in mind
and the Senate Chaplain, choking back tears of his own,
will eulogize a lion, a pillar, a bulwark, a standard
before a packed chamber and respectful media, silent for once.
That silence will be death's, profound and dumbstruck.
So be it, that a man will see the world in a mirror,
and as only he can see it, as he can only see it:
each of us loves an invention that can only love us back.
So we'll push on into our still new, still strange century,
adjusting our admirations and expectations to the novelty,
and, whatever yesterday was, hope for tomorrow's better day.
Thursday, September 5, 2019
Writing the Villanelle (9.5.19)
Villanelles are notoriously easy to write and hard to write well. So kudos to John P. for bringing his first effort to us at yesterday's salon. His poem is appropriately serious in subject and tone, and formally correct (five beat lines, exact rhymes). And thanks to Delaney, who gets it exactly right when he describes the villanelle as an "anthemic" form, for the villanelle's peculiar repetitiveness more than invites us to make big statements.
What is a villanelle? The original villanelle form was so named by a French prosodist* in the 17th Century. The form actually derives from Italian songs of the 15th Century. A villanello/a is a rustic song (you can see the roots for the Italian villa and French ville in the word). From about the 19th Century on, the form technically became this:
And for much of its history, the villanelle dealt in pastoral themes. But before I go further into any description of the form, read this famous example by Dylan Thomas . . .
Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rage at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
So you can see in this poem how the rhymes work and the lines repeat in strict order. Note that after the first stanza, the opening line contains a new rhyming word to be paired with the closing line or lines of the remaining stanzas (which means that the same rhyme sound is utilized throughout the entire poem). "Night" and "light" are the controlling rhymes. Matched to them are "right," "bright," "flight," "sight," and "height." Also note that the middle line of each stanza rhymes: day/they/bay/way/gay/pray. And note finally that all rhymes are masculine, meaning, words of one syllable, as well as nouns (with the exceptions of "they," a pronoun, in line five, and "bright," the adjective in line seven).
What's the effect of such simple nouns and rhymes? Seriousness, for one. Thomas redirected the form away from the pastoral to the more anthemic (to use Delaney's word again) and serious.** To feel the difference between using masculine and feminine rhyme, trying writing a few lines rhyming multi-syllable words. It's hard NOT to veer into light or comic verse. The poem's boom-boom cadence also lends seriousness to its tone, and of course the subject is mighty serious!
The other effect is control, or, if you will, pressure. The speaker is contemplating the father's death, the inevitable against which he builds a dike of pressurized language and sound-stress. You might hear in your mind how this poem might be recited just shy of a scream. Thematically, the speaker is addressing the approaching loss of a loved one, of course, but also his own mortality. He will not accept the human fate, universal as it may be. And so the language of the poem, the tight syllabics, the noun-rhymes, the drum beat from phrase to phrase and line to line, is resistance. The villanelle's repetitive format only enhances this drum beat quality.
Here's a less strident poem done as a villanelle, by Marilyn Hacker (anthologized in The American Poetry Anthology, ed. Daniel Halperin, 1975):
Villanelle
Every day our bodies separate,
exploded, torn and dazed.
Not understanding what we celebrate
we grope through languages and hesitate
and touch each other, speechless and amazed;
and every day our bodies separate
us farther from our planned, deliberate
ironic lives. I am afraid, disphased,
not understanding what we celebrate
when our fused limbs and lips communicate
the unlettered power we have raised.
Every day our bodies' separate
routines are harder to perpetuate.
In wordless darkness we learn a wordless praise,
not understanding what we celebrate;
wake to ourselves, exhausted, in the late
morning as the wind tears off the haze,
not understanding how we celebrate
our bodies. Every day we separate.
This poem is a riot of rhyme, rhythm, usage, enjambment, syntax and word choice. It breaks certain formal conventions: no capitalization exception at the beginning of a sentence; periods inserted mid-line; three- and four-beat lines; use of masculine and feminine rhyme. The poem also breaks a stylistic convention in being more "spoken" rather than "sung" (as in lyrical); it's made up of declarative sentences, rather than "lines," per se. The rhymes are a mixture of exact and slant, mono- and multi-syllable. Yet the poem is every bit as serious as the Thomas poem, and as mournful. It is a poem of the pain of separation--physically and metaphysically.^
I've probably spent more space examining these two villanelles than you'll find useful to write your own, but I want to make the point that the form presents challenges and opportunities at the same time. The challenges:
What is a villanelle? The original villanelle form was so named by a French prosodist* in the 17th Century. The form actually derives from Italian songs of the 15th Century. A villanello/a is a rustic song (you can see the roots for the Italian villa and French ville in the word). From about the 19th Century on, the form technically became this:
- A more or less rigid form of five tercets followed by a single quatrain
- Pentameter lines (often iambic petameter)
- A rhyme scheme of a-b-a | a-b-a | a-b-a | a-b-a | a-b-a | a-b-a-a in which the rhymes are often exact
- A regularized scheme of repetitions involving the first and third lines of the opening tercet
Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rage at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
So you can see in this poem how the rhymes work and the lines repeat in strict order. Note that after the first stanza, the opening line contains a new rhyming word to be paired with the closing line or lines of the remaining stanzas (which means that the same rhyme sound is utilized throughout the entire poem). "Night" and "light" are the controlling rhymes. Matched to them are "right," "bright," "flight," "sight," and "height." Also note that the middle line of each stanza rhymes: day/they/bay/way/gay/pray. And note finally that all rhymes are masculine, meaning, words of one syllable, as well as nouns (with the exceptions of "they," a pronoun, in line five, and "bright," the adjective in line seven).
What's the effect of such simple nouns and rhymes? Seriousness, for one. Thomas redirected the form away from the pastoral to the more anthemic (to use Delaney's word again) and serious.** To feel the difference between using masculine and feminine rhyme, trying writing a few lines rhyming multi-syllable words. It's hard NOT to veer into light or comic verse. The poem's boom-boom cadence also lends seriousness to its tone, and of course the subject is mighty serious!
The other effect is control, or, if you will, pressure. The speaker is contemplating the father's death, the inevitable against which he builds a dike of pressurized language and sound-stress. You might hear in your mind how this poem might be recited just shy of a scream. Thematically, the speaker is addressing the approaching loss of a loved one, of course, but also his own mortality. He will not accept the human fate, universal as it may be. And so the language of the poem, the tight syllabics, the noun-rhymes, the drum beat from phrase to phrase and line to line, is resistance. The villanelle's repetitive format only enhances this drum beat quality.
Here's a less strident poem done as a villanelle, by Marilyn Hacker (anthologized in The American Poetry Anthology, ed. Daniel Halperin, 1975):
Villanelle
Every day our bodies separate,
exploded, torn and dazed.
Not understanding what we celebrate
we grope through languages and hesitate
and touch each other, speechless and amazed;
and every day our bodies separate
us farther from our planned, deliberate
ironic lives. I am afraid, disphased,
not understanding what we celebrate
when our fused limbs and lips communicate
the unlettered power we have raised.
Every day our bodies' separate
routines are harder to perpetuate.
In wordless darkness we learn a wordless praise,
not understanding what we celebrate;
wake to ourselves, exhausted, in the late
morning as the wind tears off the haze,
not understanding how we celebrate
our bodies. Every day we separate.
This poem is a riot of rhyme, rhythm, usage, enjambment, syntax and word choice. It breaks certain formal conventions: no capitalization exception at the beginning of a sentence; periods inserted mid-line; three- and four-beat lines; use of masculine and feminine rhyme. The poem also breaks a stylistic convention in being more "spoken" rather than "sung" (as in lyrical); it's made up of declarative sentences, rather than "lines," per se. The rhymes are a mixture of exact and slant, mono- and multi-syllable. Yet the poem is every bit as serious as the Thomas poem, and as mournful. It is a poem of the pain of separation--physically and metaphysically.^
I've probably spent more space examining these two villanelles than you'll find useful to write your own, but I want to make the point that the form presents challenges and opportunities at the same time. The challenges:
- to come up with two good lines strong enough rhythmically and thematically to warrant this much repetition. Not easy! I get at this challenge by trying to write a good couplet. If I can accomplish that, then I have the first and third line of the first stanza and the last line of every other stanza. All I have to do after that is to insert a line between the couplets six times.
- the first and second lines of stanzas two through six have to introduce new rhyming words and, inevitably, new content.
- the new rhymes and content of each stanza will of course affect the meaning of each, and, in turn, the development of the meaning over the entire poem. This can get complicated. To move forward, try letting each new rhyme direct you to possible new content that can then be "fitted" together with the recurring lines/content.
And the opportunities:
- The constantly new rhymes and content are really a rewarding challenge, if you choose to go with the poem's flow. In fact, introducing the new content in the first two lines of each stanza will encourage a forward flow of thought and feeling, if you're paying attention and move deliberately through the writing process. You'll be surprised where your villanelle takes you!
- The repetitive structure of a villanelle also encourages you to use the same words in different ways--different meanings, different parts of speech--throughout the poem. Look again at Marilyn Hacker's poem. She uses the word "separate" as both an adjective and a verb; needing a good and meaningful rhyme, given the theme she's developing in the poem, she also comes up with a humdinger of a word: "disphased."
Just one more example, on a lighter subject but still taking on a more serious and philosophical theme, by Gregory Orr, from his recent book, The Last Love Poem I Will Ever Write:
The Ferris Wheel at the World's Fair
The wheel swoops you up, swoops you down again.
The giddiest ride in the world, they swear.
When you're high, you're high, but where does it end?
You take your seat and then your seat ascends
And far below you: bright lights of the fair.
The wheel swoops you up, swoops you down again.
When you're high, stars and neon blur and blend
But don't get off, unless you walk on air.
When your'e high, you're high, but it will end.
They look so small down there, your former friends.
Like ants or insects. Who could really care?
But the wheel swoops up, swoops down again,
And when it does, when the big wheel descends,
You'll step off dizzy. You'll want someone there
When all your highest highs begin to end.
Fortune has a zero for a heart--defend
Against Her, whose wheel is noose and snare.
It swoops you up to swoop you down again.
It takes you high, but all highs have their end.
So then. Have some fun with this project. Spend a little time this week thinking up a couple of good lines--and marry them into a rhymed couplet. Do that, and you're almost half the way home!
------------
*A prosodist studies formal poetic elements like meter, syllabics, accentual verse, stress and non-stress in a line or phrase of verse.
**So did Edward Arlington Robinson a generation before Thomas, but in a slightly altered, less strict form, in "The House on the Hill."
^I admire the subtle, moving irony in the statement, "Every day we separate." If the lovers separate every day, they necessarily reunite every day as well, in order to separate again. This works in the villanelle because it's in the repeated line.
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