[David Anthony]

Interesting and thoughtful comment, Mike, though I don't agree that McCrae's refrain builds no resonance:

'In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses'
(Sets the scene.)

'now we lie
In Flanders fields.'
(We died there.)

'We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.'
(Even the opiate cannot grant us sleep.)

Alicia, you're right, Swinburne devised the roundel, and produced a book of them, with two or three good ones.

When Leigh Hunt wrote his Rondeau, Turco was no more than a twinkle in his great-great-grandfather's eye, so definitions of forms were more flexible than they are today.

Best wishes,
David

[Mark Blaeuer]

1234567The Roman Road

The Roman Road runs straight and bare
As the pale parting-line in hair
Across the heath. And thoughtful men
Contrast its days of Now and Then,
And delve, and measure, and compare;

Visioning on the vacant air
Helmed legionaries, who proudly rear
The Eagle, as they pace again
1234567891234567891The Roman Road.

But no tall brass-helmed legionnaire
Haunts it for me. Uprises there
A mother's form upon my ken,
Guiding my infant steps, as when
We walked that ancient thoroughfare,
1234567891234567891The Roman Road.

--Thomas Hardy

[This message has been edited by Mark Blaeuer (edited January 22, 2005).]

[Mark Blaeuer]

Another by Hardy...


12Midnight on Beechen, 187-

On Beechen Cliff self-commune I
This night of mid-June, mute and dry;
When darkness never rises higher
Than Bath's dim concave, towers, and spire,
Last eveglow loitering in the sky

To feel the dawn, close lurking by,
The while the lamps as glow-worms lie
In a glade, myself their lonely eyer
123456789123456On Beechen Cliff:

The city sleeps below. I sigh,
For there dwells one, all testify,
To match the maddest dream's desire:
What swain with her would not aspire
To walk the world, yea, sit but nigh
123456789123456On Beechen Cliff!

[Mark Blaeuer]

And while I'm at it, here's one from No Word of Farewell by R.S. Gwynn.


Bone Scan

Shadows surround me, building in the air
Like clouds, were I inclined here to compare
My kingly state to portents in the sky.
I could say the expected: I could lie,
Claiming our long-term forecast will be fair.

So, family and friends, do not despair.
Shadows mean nothing. There is nothing there.
Knives will find nothing wrong. Still, I know why
12345Shadows surround me.

The night my father died, I moved my chair
Close to his bed to touch his meager hair
While shadows gathered in his room that I
Might gather I was not too young to die.
Now, circuits close. A tunnel beckons where
12345Shadows surround me.

[Mike Alexander]

David,

just wanted to pop back to clarify. You're taking me wrong if you think I said "McCrae's refrain builds no resonance." What I said was that the refrain was weak; please see this in context. The McCrae poem is, as Ms. Stallings put it, the standard. It is to English rondeau what "Do Not Go Gentle" is to English villanelle. Yet, the most easily identifiable trait of the form, the refrain, is not particularly showy. Its resonance is part of the effect of the poem, to be sure, but it's the special spacial relationship of the rhymes that create that resonance, by virtue of the "& now we lie" & "though poppies grow" that precedes the refrain. Those phrases hit as hard as they do because of how they fit into the rhyme scheme. The form, restricted to only two rhymes, gives each of its rhymes a chance to set up the refrain. Choosing those two rhymes is more crucial to the success of the rondeau than choosing the refrain. I believe that McCrae showed wisdom in choosing a refrain that did not draw a lot of attention to itself, that by itself would've been a fairly weak line. The form made the refrain what it is, not the other way around.

-- Mike



[This message has been edited by Mike Alexander (edited January 24, 2005).]

[A. E. Stallings]

I have found this thread very interesting and informative. Have been trying to do a rondeau myself, and I have to say am finding it darn difficult to get anything more than an exerercise out of it. What seems to me the problem--or the challenge to be overcome--is that the r. seems to require a lot of preplanning or contrivance to work out. I don't feel that way with the sonnet, where I am happy to launch in and trust the form. Perhaps it is just a matter of practice, though, as with so many technical things.

Since Leigh Hunt came up here with his "Rondeau", thought I'd point out a review of a recent biography:

http://news.ft.com/cms/s/12b3272c-6a...00e2511c8.html

I think the strongest poem here is Hardy's Roman Road, a poem I have been familiar with for years but never really registered as a r. Thanks for posting those, Mark.

[Janet Kenny]

Alicia,
I too am grateful for the discussion. I do feel that forms must be in the blood before anything good can happen. Thomas Hardy used form so naturally. He wrote a wonderful rustic triolet. Can you imagine any of us daring to write such a preamble to something so small?

Winter in Durnover Field
Scene.--A wide stretch of fallow ground recently sown with wheat, and frozen to iron hardness. Three large birds walking about thereon, and wistfully eyeing the surface. Wind keen from north-east: sky a dull grey.

RookfieldsaThroughout the field I find no grain;
fieldsandfielThe cruel frost encrusts the cornland!
StarlingfieluAye: patient pecking now is vain
fieldsandthuThroughout the field, I find...
Rook.Throught the field, I findfieldfieldfourNo grain!
PigeonfieldNor will be, comrade, till it rain,
pigeonfieltccOr genial thawings loose the lorn land
pigeonfielthrThroughout the field.
RookpigeonfielghoutthefielfielfieldI find no grain:
onfielthroughThe cruel frost encrusts the cornland!

[nyctom]

.


[This message has been edited by nyctom (edited January 31, 2005).]

[Michael Cantor]

Slow Rondeau

A slow rondeau is an erotic way
for dancers to portray the interplay
of lovers who, in love with vertigo,
surround each other in the ebb and flow
of steps that lead them to a white bouquet.

In time, he winces when he hears her bray,
and she’s convinced she’s wed a popinjay –
the metaphor’s no longer apropos:
the metaphor's a slow rondeau

becomes a tight and vicious rondelet
of iterating phrases that betray
the movement of their dance; but even so,
though lovers sometimes stumble they still know
to fake the turns that honor and obey
the metaphor's a slow rondeau.


[This message has been edited by Michael Cantor (edited January 24, 2005).]

[Steven Schroeder]

There's actually a rondeau in the forthcoming issue of The Eleventh Muse. I'll try to remember to post it here once the issue comes out (and if I can get the author's permission).

------------------
Steve Schroeder