Villanelles

so while reading Neil Gaiman's Smoke and Mirrors I ran across a rondel^* which reminded me that I'd been meaning to find out the 411 on a similar(ish) kind of poem called a villanelle.

it turns out that the villanelle is a French form imported into English and consists of 19 lines arranged into five triplets and a closing quatrain. the line lengths and meters and rhythms are entirely a matter of personal choice, but the line endings must rhyme like dis:

aba aba aba aba aba abaa.

yes: there are only two rhymes allowed. it gets worse, though: the first line of the first stanza must also be the last line of the second and fourth stanzas, and the last line of the first stanza must be the last line of the third and fifth stanzas. these two repeated lines must then also be the last two lines of the final stanza.

to illustrate: probably the most famous example of a villanelle (or at least the one I'm most familiar with) is Dylan Thomas' Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night which on rereading is not nearly as great as it was when I was a teenager, but still good (with repeated lines bolded and italicized for the edification and education of the reader):

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, 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. 
  
a few more examples: Oscar Wilde's Theocritus; Roethke's The Waking; Sylvia Plath's Admonitions; and an unexpected Entropic Villanelle from Thomas M. Disch.

(note: all of the above shamelessly cribbed from Vince Gotera's excellent Craft of Poetry and Emily Lloyd's Villanelle Central.)

^* "Reading the Entrails: A Rondel", Neil Gaiman
 
They’ll call it chance, or luck, or call it Fate -
The cards and stars that tumble as they will.
Tomorrow manifests and brings the bill
For every kiss and kill, the small and great.
You want to know the future, love? Then wait:
I’ll answer your impatient questions. Still -
They’ll call it chance, or luck, or call it Fate,
The cards and stars that tumble as they will.

I’ll come to you tonight, dear, when it’s late,
You will not see me; you may feel a chill.
I’ll wait until you sleep, then take my fill,
And that will be your future on a plate.
They’ll call it chance, or luck, or call it Fate.


(it's mainly the way there's the repetition of lines that reminded me)

could all images for this blog go under /images/write please?
write on maestro

let it begin.

I’m not quite certain what we’ll do with this, but it’s going to be all about the writing. I’m sure you know how much I love to read. There are few people who have escaped my acquaintance without suffering at least one rant about how just completely fucking brilliant some book or other is, and you’ve been lucky if it was just the one (and to those who’re into the triple figures by now, my sincere apologies.) But loving books so and spending all your time reading them is dangerous in the same way that hanging out with other people’s babies is: sooner or later you want one of your own.
mmYou know that it’s different when you’re not just visiting for awhile. You know you’ll need to take on extra responsibilities and wake up in the middle of the night when the fucker needs you and actually make a commitment to something other that’s not just for Christmas and maybe stop being a child yourself. There will be nappies to change and vomit to clean up. You’re aware of overpopulation, and the gratuitousness of the act, but but but - to sprain the analogy, the biological clock is ticking and you’re getting broody like a hen.
mmThis is the situation I’ve been in for a long time. Unlike a child, however, which any fools can (and often do) make by a moment’s thoughtlessness, a book requires a sustained act of thoughtfulness. Hell, even writing this has been the longest I’ve concentrated on anything bar a crossword or my own misery since I finished uni. There are problems to be overcome: the problem of what to write; the problem of why we write; the problems of how, where and when; the problem of the terror that gnaws my innards at the thought of being read; a thousand others. 
mmFortunately for us, we are not solitary genii scribbling consumptively in garrets. We are friends, and when put together may constitute a whole functioning person. 
mmOnwards.