closed form

I find it a great (and fun) challenge and good way to incite creativity to write poetry in closed form. I also like to respond to poems written by others, to put my own spin on them or to take them in the opposite direction. I feel I'll be doing a lot of that for creative writing during this semester. It is almost like taking a study break, except I've taken much better study breaks in the past, in a more free-verse sort of way...

So today I'll be working on a villanelle. A villanelle is a nineteen line poem in which the first and third lines of the first tercet are repeated according to a certain pattern, and then placed next to one another in the last quatrain. The rhyme scheme is: A1bA2, abA1, abA2, abA1, abA2, abA1A2. Okay so now that I've gone all teacher on you, I'll continue on with it, and give two examples.

A nice example of a classic villanelle is Dylan Thomas' Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night.


Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

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 that 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 not so classic example is Elizabeth Bishop's One Art.


One Art

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster,

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three beloved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

— Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) a disaster.