VILLANELLE POEM A villanelle is a fixed form poem consisting of five tercets and a quatrain and also follows a specific rhyme scheme using only two different sounds. A tercet is a stanza with only three lines, and a quatrain is a stanza with four lines. Thus, the villanelle has nineteen total lines. There is also a pattern of two refrains, which are repeated lines in a poem or verse. Therefore, in a villanelle, two different lines repeat throughout the poem. Specifically, the first line recurs as lines 6, 12, and 18, and the third line recurs as lines 9, 15, and 19. In addition, the pattern becomes even more complex with a specific rhyme scheme. The rhyme scheme uses letters of the alphabet to show which lines must end with words that rhyme. In a villanelle the rhyme scheme is ABA ABA ABA ABA ABA ABAA. This means that the final word in the first and third lines in every tercet rhyme together, and the middle lines also rhyme with each other. In the quatrain, the first, third and fourth lines rhyme with the rest of the 'A' lines, and the second line rhymes with the rest of the middle lines, or the 'B.' In this way, only two different rhyming sounds are used throughout the entire poem. A—repeats with lines 6, 12, and 18 B A—repeats with lines 9, 15, and 19 A B A—repeats with lines 1, 12, and 18 A B A—repeats with lines 3, 15, and 19 A B A—repeats with lines 1, 6, and 18 A B A—repeats with lines 3, 9, and 19 A B A—repeats with lines 1, 6, and 12 A—repeats with lines 3, 9, and 15 PRO TIPS: • PICK YOUR END RHYMES CAREFULLY—YOU NEED TO HAVE LOTS OF OPTIONS! • Decide upon a theme/message for your villanelle and craft 2-3 lines upon that theme • Use the rhyme scheme map above to place those repeated lines first • Work forward and backward from the repeated lines to fill in the rest Do not go gentle into that good night The Waking Dylan Thomas, 1914 - 1953 Theodore Roethke, 1908 - 1963 Do not go gentle into that good night, I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow. Old age should burn and rave at close of day; I feel my fate in what I cannot fear. Rage, rage against the dying of the light. I learn by going where I have to go. Though wise men at their end know dark is right, We think by feeling. What is there to know? Because their words had forked no lightning they I hear my being dance from ear to ear. Do not go gentle into that good night. I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow. Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Of those so close beside me, which are you? Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, God bless the Ground! I shall walk softly there, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. And learn by going where I have to go. Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, Light takes the Tree; but who can tell us how? And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, The lowly worm climbs up a winding stair; Do not go gentle into that good night. I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow. Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Great Nature has another thing to do Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, To you and me; so take the lively air, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. And, lovely, learn by going where to go. And you, my father, there on the sad height, This shaking keeps me steady. I should know. Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. What falls away is always. And is near. Do not go gentle into that good night. I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow. Rage, rage against the dying of the light. I learn by going where I have to go. Mad Girl’s Love Song One Art Sylvia Plath, 1932 - 1963 Elizabeth Bishop, 1911 - 1979 I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead; The art of losing isn’t hard to master; I lift my lids and all is born again. so many things seem filled with the intent (I think I made you up inside my head.) to be lost that their loss is no disaster. The stars go waltzing out in blue and red, Lose something every day. Accept the fluster And arbitrary blackness gallops in: of lost door keys, the hour badly spent. I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead. The art of losing isn’t hard to master. I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed Then practice losing farther, losing faster: And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane. places, and names, and where it was you meant (I think I made you up inside my head.) to travel. None of these will bring disaster. God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade: I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or Exit seraphim and Satan's men: next-to-last, of three loved houses went. I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead. The art of losing isn’t hard to master. I fancied you'd return the way you said, I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster, But I grow old and I forget your name. some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent. (I think I made you up inside my head.) I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster. I should have loved a thunderbird instead; —Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture At least when spring comes they roar back again. I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead. the art of losing’s not too hard to master (I think I made you up inside my head.) though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster. .