Occasion solemn,
The music tiresome;
Assembly sodden,
A spooky cooee.
A man, young, desi,
With covered breast says:
Am dead can you see?
My soul is soaring!
None hear him speaking;
Some chatter, cry, talk.
Many go mocking
The life he had led.
Abound accounts fed
To damage might his.
They’re tales that now tread
Amid yarns spun well.
But what’s heard most well:
Unholy sad knell.
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Villanelles, also known as villanesques, have always fascinated us, and we’re pretty sure they always will. But what exactly is a villanelle? What qualifies a poem as a villanelle? And is it easy to write one? In this post, we’ll answer these questions and explore one of poetry’s most intriguing fixed verse forms.
The English word villanelle is derived from the Italian villanella, meaning a rustic song or dance. In turn, villanella comes from villano, meaning a peasant. Originally, villanelles were imitations of peasant songs and did not follow any fixed poetic structure. Although the form was first developed by French poets and balladeers, most villanelles written today are in English. A villanelle is one of the best-known examples of fixed-verse poetry, the opposite of free verse.
Now that we know where the word villanelle comes from, let’s look at its defining characteristics. A villanelle is a short poem consisting of 19 lines. While these lines are generally concise, there is no prescribed length for each one. Likewise, there are no rules governing the number of syllables per line.
Although modern villanelles do not require a fixed meter, many nineteenth-century examples were written in trimeter. That said, tetrameter and pentameter have also been used successfully.
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As we’ve seen, a villanelle consists of 19 lines arranged into six stanzas. The first five stanzas are tercets (three lines each), while the final stanza is a quatrain (four lines).
The hallmark of a villanelle is its use of repetition. The first line of the opening tercet is repeated as the final line of the second and fourth tercets and as the penultimate line of the concluding quatrain. Likewise, the third line of the opening tercet reappears as the final line of the third and fifth tercets before concluding the poem as the final line of the quatrain. Minor variations are acceptable, but the repeated lines should remain recognisably the same.
In other words, every villanelle contains two refrains. It may sound like a lot of rules—and it is—but these very constraints are what give the form its distinctive musicality and emotional power.
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Writing a villanelle is no easy feat. In addition to its strict pattern of repeated lines, it follows a tightly controlled rhyme scheme. Only two rhyme sounds are used throughout the poem. Each tercet follows the ABA rhyme scheme, while the concluding quatrain follows ABAA.
The rhyme-and-refrain pattern may be represented as follows:
A¹bA² / abA¹ / abA² / abA¹ / abA² / abA¹A²
Here, A and B represent the rhyme sounds, while A¹ and A² denote the two refrains. Both refrains rhyme with the A sound.
A villanelle is a carefully structured poem that:
If you’d like to explore the form further, here are a few classic villanelles:
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A seagull he was then,
Soaring up in the clear sky.
His mates frolicking with him,
Looked at two ships nigh.
The Sun was shining when
To those ships he said buh-bye.
He saw them part their ways;
And just let out a sigh.
Passed away minutes ten,
Things went high and dry.
Water was all around though;
Sheer emptiness came by.
Clouds gathered again,
The Sun kept shining high.
Men went missing soon;
No idea how and why.
The ships now without men
Seemed eerie and awry.
The seagull soon heard a wren,
A wren that let out a cry.
A warrior who practised Zen,
Knew a tale hangs thereby.
So he took some coloured pens,
Drew this image after a try.
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Author David C. McLean first wrote as a child. He, however, stopped writing in his early teens. ‘I did not write any more until 1994,’ the Englishman says, beginning his exclusive interaction with Literary Harbinger. ‘I then appeared in four print zines in the United Kingdom but stopped submitting since I did not like paying international postage. Later, after writing less seriously for a few years, I submitted electronically and appeared in more than 600 different online and print publications over the next few years,’ the author, who lives in Somerset, the UK, shares.
The magazine Whistling Shade offered to do a book of poems after receiving one of the author’s submissions. Says the sexagenarian, who pursued his BA (History) from Oxford University and MA (Philosophy) from Stockholm, ‘I acquiesced to the offer, and over the next few years, there were three full-lenCThs and many chapbooks that I no longer count. I regard my oeuvre as starting with the first book from Oneiros Books; it was in 2013. After this, I stopped submitting over the next few years. The older online work I did is on my blog.’
David’s latest book is a collection of poetry. To be precise, it deals with the woman it was written for, Emma. ‘It also considers goddess, sexuality, and philosophy,’ states the author, adding that philosophy predominantly influences him. The book’s themes, nonetheless, are the conflict between intensity, sensory pleasures, and their incommensurability with representation. ‘I draw inspiration from both Lyotard and Deleuze for this. There is a posthuman tendency in the writing, a more equitable system of evaluating the impact of human behaviours on the planet as a whole,’ he tells us. ‘But basically, it is about love, fire, and intensity. I want to express, or at least show the way to hearing what can only be expressed by an inarticulate cry, a scream,’ he adds.
Having written three novels, the author, who also speaks Swedish fluently, convincingly says he would not consider himself a plotter. ‘My works are pretty much antinovels with no focus on plot. Long prose poems with aphorisms, diatribes, and ramblings. Apart from the many poetry books, I have written a Posthuman Poetry Manifesto, which is the closest to philosophy I have published.’
Asked if he favours any authors, David tells us that while he likes the works of Sylvia Plath, Anne Sexton, Trakl, Larkin, and Auden, he has hugely been inspired by poet Tanya Rakh. ‘I often plunder her work for epigraphs,’ he states. So far as prose is concerned, Davis says the writings of Gertrude Stein, Artaud, Sterne, and Rabelais inspire him. ‘They are capacious; there is room in their writings,’ he says.
Deleuze and Guattari, Lyotard, Derrida, and Heidegger are philosophical writers that David mostly reads. ‘They write articles about posthumanism. I often also listen to popular music for inspiration. ‘Roky Ericksson, The Sisters of Mercy, and The Gun Club are only a few of the many I adore,’ he lets us know.
Relying on inspiration, David says he tends to write every day. ‘But not very long. I will often read something I use as an epigraph and then write a poem more or less connected to it,’ he shares. Conceding that becoming an author was a conscious decision, he says he feels that the Goddess he believes in wants him to write certain things and to try to evolve and ascend. ‘I believe that it is not for me, or by my choice, that I write, but the Goddess is love, and She knows best,’ he quips.
And does he have any advice for authors who tend to lose motivation after a few of their works fail to garner an audience? ‘I do not think that literary success is measured by sales. Just say what you want to say as well as you can. Let that be enough,’ David says in response to the question.
Last but not least, if there is one thing that he would like to change in this world, what would that be? ‘Stopping humans from destroying the Earth should be a priority,’ says the writer. ‘Also, we had better be motivated by something other than profit,’ he pronounces, signing off.
PS: David C. McLean blogs at https://posthumouspoems.blogspot.com.
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Who I in truth esteemed thou asked me then;
Except my God revered none I did say.
Soon dolesome grew thou like a pig in pen;
What self did was lose not just night but day.
When spluttered thou hard did not self take heed?
Remember this self calmed thy nerves quite soon.
In thy book you thought this self had no need;
But love suppressed made self a wholesome goon.
Thou still stand pat, beseeching self to go;
Am fogy say thou hither and yon now?
In God I trust, so His foe is my foe.
But He dotes on all, so may down I bow?
Idea fogy thou might think God is.
Might I make known He is my only bliss?
