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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