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This is an exercise I've been wanting to do myself for some time. Maybe posting it will inspire me to actually execute it...
I don't think I've invented this. I think examples exist. I have a dim memory of running across one in Hollander's work, but unable to relocate it. Perhaps the hardest part of a villanelle is coming up with great repetends. The rest is filling in the blanks (OK not easy). So... Take a killer couplet from a famous (or not famous) poem, sonnet, etc. These are your repetends. Fill in the rest and... voila! Villanelle! I'm too lazy to post the rules for the villanelle form here. Maybe someone could come along and do it... Or post a link to guidelines. Serious and slight efforts welcome... Alicia |
VILLANELLE
A poem in a fixed form, consisting of five three-line stanzas followed by a quatrain and having only two rhymes. In the stanzas following the first, the first and third lines of the first stanza are repeated alternately as refrains. They are the final two lines of the concluding quatrain. links with info: http://www.ndsu.nodak.edu/instruct/c...FormPacket.htm http://poetree.virtualave.net/workshop/villanelle.html http://pages.prodigy.com/Firesheets/villanl.htm And the example, though maybe Jim Hayes will put up one of his? Jim? Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave 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 me, 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! --- Dylan Thomas ------------------ ~~Mary |
Alicia if we EXCISE the FUN, where will we be? I think the banner's missing a letter or two?
Mary, good example of a great villanelle. ------------------ Ralph |
Alicia, let me get the rules straight for this exercise. I think what you're saying we're supposed to do is borrow the rhyming couplet from a known sonnet or other poem and use those two lines as the repetends for our own villannelle, is that it? Sounds like a good one, poets.
Carol |
Alicia, I posted this many months ago, but it seems to meet your requirements--All but a few connecting words are Iago's, not mine. The sentiments are ALL his!
“Iago is the most honest character in Othello.” (attributed to W. H. Auden) Honest Iago’s Villanelle Come on, come on; you are pictures out of doors, Saints in injuries, devils when offended. But then again, I think you are all whores. It plucks out brains and all; but my muse labours If you be fair and wise, fairness and witted. And even so, you’re pictures out of doors. Bells in your parlours, wild cats in kitchen chores Or on your backs, your appetites are fed. An honest man would call you honest whores. You coyly hide from Venice rotten cores And find a white that will your blackness wed, So are proper as pictures out of doors. Hussies you be to sell your sweetest stores, Players in housewifery, and housewives* ill-bred. An honest man must call you honest whores. Filth, thou liest--all villainous paramours! You rise to play and go to work in bed. Come on, come on; you’re mere pictures out of doors. But then again, I know you are all whores. *hussies, whores ------------------ Ralph |
Mary, you're a dear! Thank you. Yes, the Thomas is the score to beat...
Carol, you understand the rules exactly. Ralph, I see you already had one up your sleeve! OK. I'm going to go work on mine now... |
Hi: I'm new to this forum. I've been wanting to try a villanelle for quite a while now, so I've taken this opportunity to post one. I trust you will show me the error of my ways. Faith While golden threads were spun around his head he whirled the glittering drips of moistened souls. Not one of them acknowledged they were dead All concerns he had for them were said in flying fingers weaving out their roles while golden threads were spun around his head. His virtues swirled a vortex as it spread among the eager throng. Beyond control, not one of them acknowledged they were dead. And yet they’d left their work for daily bread, with homes and love and children warm with goals while golden threads were spun around his head. Fulfilled with promise, like a spool of thread across a chop of icy barren floes not one of them acknowledged they were dead And they were sucked into the need to wed a protector who reached beyond life’s shoals while golden threads were spun around his head If they believed whereto his promise led their hearts could claim a space upon his scrolls while golden threads were spun around his head. Not one of them acknowledged they were dead. |
What a marvelous idea.
Of course, I'm probably too wimpish to tackle it. I don't have the attention span to write a villanelle. But I'll consider it. Julie |
But Julie, I've never noticed you to be particularly wimpish. Bedsides, now that I'm here you have somebody to be better than. Ha.
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MS, this is well executed technically, but I can't quite grasp the central figure and metaphor: is it of Christ, a halo spinning 'round his head and the rest of humanity that's dead? In the overall development, I found the third-to-last stanza unclear.
------------------ Ralph |
[Deep apologies to Yeats and good hags everywhere]
Willy Vanilli Villanelle (or The Sex Appeal’s Desertion) I must lie down where all the ladders start, and sleep under the rungs with wiggly rats in the foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart. The smell down here is sulphurous and tart: the old slut keeps a multitude of cats. I must lie down where all the ladders start. I may no longer climb them and depart. I pitch my woo upon these fetid mats in the foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart. What maid would find me fair, a worn old fart, a fop, beddraggled in his tattered spats. I must lie down where all the ladders start, choose hags for friends and all that hags impart-- their vexing cackles and their hexing vats-- in the foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart. I’m done with poetry, I’m done with art. Redheads spurn me, I attract old bats. I must lie down where all the ladders start, in the foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart. |
Very nice, Kate. It also seems to echo Thomas's "Lament," with the old ram-rod dying of welcomes, etc.
------------------ Ralph |
RCL: The technical part is what I was worried about the most. However, the explanation is pretty simple actually--obviously not enough, shame on me. It's about those people who believe in following God's word 100% being added as jewels in his crown as reward for their faith. The stanza below that's so vague,
Fulfilled with promise, like a spool of thread across a chop of icy barren floes not one of them acknowledged they were dead is supposed to say the faithful will have a tiny path to lead them through life and be so happy they won't even care they've died. But oh well. If the format is right that's 50%. Thanks for taking time to let me know how it hit you. M |
Kate--delightful!
The experiment seems to be working... |
OOPS! I see that I mis-posted for this thread by posting a new topic! Apologies. I'll move it over here. Alicia, if you can delete the other post, that would be great.
Apologies to Yeats (Among School Children) French Twist O body swayed to music, O brightening glance that even more than words imparts affection, how can we know the dancer from the dance? Her rhythmic prance has captured him in trance; dim light and mirrors make a soft reflection of body swayed to music and brightening glance. Ah, such is France renowned of swift romance, that his amour is not without detection, but does he know the dancer from the dance? He takes the chance to proffer his advance, though he is troubled he might find rejection of her body swayed to music, her brightening glance. Their cozy stance his intimacy grants; alas, too late he keens his misperception and surely knows the dancer from the dance. She looks askance; he jumps, as through his pants he feels the hard demand of her erection. As her body sways to music, her brightening glance says, NOW he knows the dancer from the dance! [This message has been edited by PrttyKtty (edited April 03, 2001).] |
PK, I also saw last night's episode of Ally McBeal, but just don't write as fast as you do! A magic moment.
------------------ Ralph |
Ralph,
Was Ally McBeal related? I have to admit that I rarely watch television at all, and I've never seen Ally McBeal. It would be really weird if the theme was similar! Mary PS edit. I just asked a co-worker who does watch it. She explained what you meant! That IS weird! [This message has been edited by PrttyKtty (edited April 03, 2001).] |
Please don't laugh too hard at this, my first attempt at a villanelle. The lines are from Helen Hunt Jackson's Poppies on the Wheat.
Deceit I shall be glad remembering how the fleet sails in as I stand on a windy knoll. Lithe poppies run like torchmen with the wheat in fields below, as red as any sweet strawberry as the warships take their toll. I shall be glad remembering how the fleet young men dash up my hill on tired feet accepting what I give them in a bowl-- lithe poppies. Run like torchmen with the wheat; but wise men are more careful where they eat, recalling whose fine hens and goats they stole. I shall be glad remembering. How the fleet, fat clouds roll in! They slyly think to cheat me of my vision. I accept my role. Lithe poppies run like torchmen with the wheat below, and all their dead lie in defeat. The ships! I have no time to gloat and stroll, but shall be glad remembering how the fleet, lithe poppies ran like torchmen with the wheat. |
This is a pastiche of three of Shakespeare's sonnets (10, 18, 55). I've taken a few liberties with some of the repetends and his lines, but this is fairly close to the lines of his I've chosen.
The Genetic Engineer Reflects I am shamed by that which I bring forth. Make thee another self, for love of me, for you, in living, bear things nothing worth That wonder which shall perish from the earth. Though beauty still may live in thine or thee, I am shamed by that which I bring forth. Chill winds do blow from out the barren north and freeze all earth with monstrous poverty. And so do you, who bear things nothing worth. For in your mirrored you, some phantom stirreth the waning codes of your true memory and shames me by what you and I bring forth, So even Satan, seeing it, abhorreth the fruits of his own ancient devilry. And so should you, to bear things nothing worth. In all for whom or what I foster birth, let there be naught of thee and less of me, for I am shamed by that which I bring forth and so should you, to bear things nothing worth. |
Mary, I'll never read those lines the same way again. Ha!
Julie, lovely and strange. I think I am missing a reference though. Is the speaker meant to be someone particular--Cleopatra, Circe? Jerry, Mr. Form and Function--too clever by half! You have succeeded in composing an entire poem by splicing and cloning... |
Quote:
Julie |
Ralph,
I can't let your clever conglomeration pass unappreciated. I think you've done a fine job of cutting, pasting and modifying using the building blocks you've adopted. Jerry |
Kate,
I enjoyed this, with its self-deprecation and invective, and especially liked the alliterative near-Spoonerism in "their vexing cackles and their hexing vats". Intelligently and amusingly done. Jerry |
MScott,
Your villanelle has three lines too many - it's a 22-line poem trying to fit into a 19-line form. I don't know if correcting this is an opportunity or a curse, but - Good luck. Jerry |
Julie,
That's not only a very capable villanelle, it's skillfully-nuanced, so the repetends assume slightly different roles and significance in their recurrence. That's hard to manage, and you did it very well. And I echo Alicia's sense of its mystery and folkloric/supernatural implications. Who could ask for more? Jerry |
Finally I have a few minutes to comment on these.
Ralph, I think your Honest Iago's Villanelle very clever. It moves along quite smoothly. MS, I think this works pretty well. Based on your explanation of it though, I think you have a mixed metaphor in the final stanza. Are they to be both jewels in his crown and hearts on his scrolls? As has been pointed out, it does have an extra stanza. Kate, Very masterful! It had such a scuzzy feel to it -perfect! Julie, I really liked the way you were able to enjamb the lines to twist the meaning. Very nice. |
Hi. I'm brand new to this site, and this will be my very first post. But I couldn't resist joining in the fun and applause (especially for that marvellous reworking of Yeats's foul rag-and-bone shop).
Herewith my villanelle of sorts: Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Such is a favorite sport of amorous men. Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May or Alice or Cassandra . . . Who am I to say what might be witnessed by the hidden wren? Shall I compare thee to a summer's day and say that thou art temperate? No way! Far better you were hot as Gwendolyn when rough winds shake the darling buds of May . . . or Julie . . . and we are tumbling in the hay. In such a way again and yet again would I compare thee to a summer's day, or better, teach the bees themselves to play. When we in splendid chorus breathe: Amen! rough winds will shake, the darling buds of May will blush a deeper red, the thrush essay a song unheard before. Then, darling, then I'll have compared thee to a summer's day. Let rough winds shake those darling buds of May. Jan |
Welcome Jan
& thanks for taking up the challenge! Lots of fun rimes in this--I like the mix of diction (no way! Amen!). The darling buds of May start to take on a whole new meaning... These are all so good I'm getting intimidated about trying this myself. AE |
"The Witch to Hansel"
Ah, this I know: that you are very fine. The autumn day we met, I thought the air, seasoned with sage and onions and port wine, anticipated in its scents of vine and gardenplot all that we are to share; and this I know: that you are very fine. I recognized your hunger as a sign that we were at the start of something rare. Seasoned with sage and onions and port wine, the morsels which I gave to you to dine upon were proof of my devoted care. And this I know: that you are very fine. I've nutured you and watched as my design swelled toward fulfilment, answering my prayer. Seasoned with sage and onions and port wine, the dishes you consumed were rich as mine will be and which, soon now, I will prepare. And this I know: that you'll be very fine, seasoned with sage and onions and port wine. [I think I cheated by playing a bit fast and loose with the original, which is from Southey's sonnet "To a Goose": "But this I know, that thou wert very fine, Seasoned with sage and onions and port wine." Howard] |
Howard,
Another good one! I like the witch's culinary turn of mind. Gleefully sinister. I also am partial to that Southey sonnet. AE |
Sir Prance-a-lot
Do not go gentle into that, Good Knight, There is no bulb inside to light your way; Rage, rage against the dying of the light! There is another outhouse here to ease your plight, But there are other structures in your way - Do not go gentle into that, Good Knight. Your armour’s hard to take off ‘cos it’s tight. This would have been much easier by day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light! Now you’re uncanned, you are a sorry sight. A photo booth! You can’t be seen this way! Do not go gentle into that, Good Knight. The flash has flashed and your skin’s pallid white Is now recorded – you must run away. Rage, rage against the dying of the light! I know you’ve not had time to expedite Your mission. There’s no outhouse anyway http://www.ablemuse.com/erato/ubbhtml/wink.gif! Do not go mental. And with that, good night! (Rage, rage again - we're dying with delight!) Porridginal |
What great entries! Jan, and Howard, hope we see more of you. And Porridge, welcome back, you've been missed!
Carol |
I enjoy the humor and hijinks of these--especially the knight and the outhouse, and the hijacking of "the darling buds of May." Afraid my contribution is not light verse at all, but was sparked by this funercise (sp?), so I'll try it out here.
Every Night They Have a Fight My mother, your father, live across the street-- an eyesore, even in this budding slum-- fourteen thirteen Alligator Street. Step-children step or jump to a different beat, a herky-jerk of one-off syncopation. My mother, your father live across the street behind a picket fence like yellowed teeth, askance in a wide jaw, ready to lunge-- fourteen thirteen alligator street, a home of sorts, where kids conspire to meet for hours without home cooking, chores, attention... My mother, your father live across the street but plod back from long shifts, dead on their feet, "Don't get on my last nerve. I'm warning, son." Friday thirteenth on Alligator Street goes 24/7. But for a treat there's smokes, liquor, drugs, a loaded gun. My son, your daughter live across the street-- fourteen thirteen Alligator Street. |
(Serious and slight efforts welcome...) -- villanelle
Hi. I'm new to this forum, and since I enjoy villanelles and the ones I'd read in this thread, I thought this would be a fun way to get started. Do Not Chase Wildly after That Cute Guy (thanks to Dylan Thomas) Do not chase wildly after that cute guy; Young girls should shine in charm school and home ec; Wait, wait for their true love to pass them by. Good girls who read proposals in the sky And letters filled with rhymed, romantic dreck Do not chase wildly after that cute guy. Wild girls who dare to look boys in the eye, While casually choosing partners based on spec, Wait, wait for their true love to pass them by. Gay boys who look at boys and then deny Their differences and hold their thoughts in check Do not chase wildly after that cute guy. Shy girls who date bold boys who always try To give them rings to wear around their neck Wait, wait for their true love to pass them by. And you, my daughter, to whom no rules apply, Though tempted to hook up; say what the heck; Do not chase wildly after that cute guy. Wait, wait for your true love to pass you by. |
Nicely turned, Georgia. I especially like what I take to be the rather wise irony of the final stanza. (How else can one advise one's daughter?)
And may I, a newcomer myself here, welcome you to the forum. Jan |
Thank you, Jan, for reading, commenting, and welcoming me to the forum.
And welcome to you, too. Georgia |
Hello Eratics,
Sorry to be a bit scarce lately. Easter festivities are a big deal in these parts (much bigger than Xmas), and we've had houseguests, etc. More fun entries! Welcome, Georgia. A wryly-wrought parody! Porridge, I shall treasure "Do not go mental"... CGM Enjoyed. I must confess to some ignorance as to the allusion, though, of the repetends... Thanks to so many of you for taking up the challenge! I've really enjoyed these! |
Please Be Gentle For This Is My First Post
Please be gentle for this is my first post. Sweat I have sweated and tears I have shed, Praise, Praise is all that I ask of my host. Though wise men and women all, you may boast, I came to feed my ego, not my head. Please be gentle for this is my first post. Outrageous fortune, I’ve suffered the most. My words fork no lightning it has been said. Praise, Praise is all that I ask of my host. My work in flammable liquid should roast, They said my words clunked and bounced like dropped lead. Please be gentle for this is my first post. And don’t try to teach me, just let me coast. Towards more knowledge I will not be led, Praise, praise is all that I ask of my host. And don’t try to tell me that you know the most, I have no interest in light you may shed. Please be gentle for this is my first post, Praise, praise is all that I ask of my host. http://www.ablemuse.com/erato/ubbhtml/redface.gif It surely needn't be said that I am a novice, and this is exactly the kind of work I need to be doing. I really had fun, and at risk of overstating the obvious, it was a lot harder than I thought it would be. Thanks. Heather |
OK, I give up. I was hoping someone other than the author would recognize my repeated couplet, and smuggly supply the pertinent 411, but I guess it was somewhat obscure. I thought it would be almost universally known. It is from a jump-rope rhyme that was all the rage during my formative years on the wrong side of the tracks (Vallejo, CA):
My mother, your father live across the street, Fourteen, thirteen Alligator Street. Every night they have a fight, And this is what they say, "Boys are rotten, Made of dirty cotten, Girls are dandy, Made of sugar candy..." I wish I could supply the moving conclusion, but it is in neither my memory, nor my Anna Banana Book of Jump Rope Rhymes. As to the praise vs. criticism discussion that appears and reappears on these boards, sure, I enjoy praise, just as I enjoy Ice-cream Sundaes. But I don't want a diet of either. Criticism is MUCH more useful, in sparking revisions that can improve poems immeasurably. Isn't that what it's all about? Asking for it, CGM [This message has been edited by C.G. Macdonald (edited April 28, 2001).] |
Lots of good stuff on this thread! My own contribution seems unworthy in comparison, but now that I've done it, what else am I going to do with it than put it up here?
The repetends are from Pope's Essay on Criticism (slightly altered to suit my convenience), where he is recommending the example of the Ancients (lines 165-6). Though I started out having fun twisting Pope's lines, I'm afraid I didn't end up with a humorous verse. In fact, it may have come out sounding a little overwrought. Oh well, I hope it will be intelligible, and if it is that no one will think it autobiographical (it isn't). "Straight-acting" Let it be seldom and compelled by need (When business calls you to another city) And have at least some precedent to plead— The Greeks perhaps—or, better, blame the weed You’ll smoke tonight—oh hell! blame Aphrodite. Let it be seldom that, compelled by need, You join the dance you’ve always parodied: Yoke your pleasure to the plow of duty— You’ll have at least some precedent to plead. Your lips pay tribute to the common creed, Deny the summons of your deity. Let it be seldom that, compelled by need, You hear his urgent tune played on a reed— And when your body heeds that lawless ditty You’ll have at least some precedent to plead If body capers unaccompanied While you look on, detached as some committee. Let it be seldom and compelled by need— You’ll have at least some precedent to plead. [This message has been edited by ChrisW (edited May 05, 2001).] |
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