villanelle

forsaken city



Wife's Disaster Manual
When the forsaken city starts to burn,

after the men and children have fled,

stand still, silent as prey, and slowly turn
back. Behold the curse. Stay and mourn

the collapsing doorways, the unbroken bread

in the forsaken city starting to burn.
Don't flinch. Don't join in.

Resist the righteous scurry and instead

stand still, silent as prey. Slowly turn
your thoughts away from escape: the iron

gates unlatched, the responsibilities shed.

When the forsaken city starts to burn,
surrender to your calling, show concern

for those who remain. Come to a dead

standstill. Silent as prey, slowly turn
into something essential. Learn

the names of the fallen. Refuse to run ahead

when the forsaken city starts to burn.

Stand still and silent. Pray. Return.
■


Hello Friends,
One of the hardest poetic forms to write is the villanelle, and today's poem by Deborah Paredez is an absolute mastery of that form. Notice that the entire poem uses only two rhyme sounds, and that the first and third lines of the first stanza are refrains that repeat as the last lines of alternating stanzas throughout the poem. But a really good villanelle like Paredez's doesn't give you a hint of just how hard it is to write; it flows effortlessly.
Paredez certainly invokes the biblical character identified only as Lot's wife, who turns into a pillar of salt when she ignores an angel's command not to look back over her shoulder at the city they are leaving behind as they flee. However, what I love about this poem is that its female gaze on disaster could as easily be about a woman fleeing Aleppo in 2016 as it is about a woman fleeing Sodom in biblical times — it has that level of timeless quality about it.
"Wife's Disaster Manual" appeared in the September 2012 issue of Poetry Magazine. Villanelles have also been featured for Poem-A-Day April 14, 2016 and Poem-A-Day April 6, 2008. You can read more about the villanelle form here.
Enjoy.

Ellen

Take over the drone

Twelve-Hour Shifts

A drone pilot works a twelve-hour shift, then goes home
to real life. Showers, eats supper, plays video games.
Twelve hours later he comes back, high-fives, takes over the drone

from other pilots, who watch Homeland, do dishes, hope they don’t
dream in all screens, bad kills, all slo-mo freeze-frame.
A drone pilot works a twelve-hour shift, then goes home.

A small room, a pilot’s chair, the mic and headphones
crowd his mind, take him somewhere else. Another day
another dollar: hover and shift, twelve hours over strangers’ homes.

Stop by the store, its Muzak, pick up the Cheerios,
get to the gym if you’re lucky. Get back to your babies, play
Barbies, play blocks. Twelve hours later, come back. Take over the drone.

Smell of burned coffee in the lounge, the shifting kill zone.
Last-minute abort mission, and the major who forgets your name.
A drone pilot works a twelve-hour shift, then goes home.

It’s done in our names, but we don’t have to know. Our own
lives, shifts, hours, bounced off screens all day.
A drone pilot works a twelve-hour shift, then goes home;
fresh from twelve hours off, another comes in, takes over our drone.

■

Hello Friends,

Today’s poem by Jill McDonough is the best example of a villanelle I’ve seen in years. The villanelle’s repetitive nature perfectly suits the subject matter of a drone pilot’s routine; and the restraint of such strict form, the understatement of it, perfectly captures the gravity of “It’s done in our names, but we don’t have to know.” You can read more about villanelles here.

I hope you’re enjoying poetry month!

— Ellen

Poem-a-Day, April 16: Some rift between

MYTH

I was asleep while you were dying.
It’s as if you slipped through some rift, a hollow
I make between my slumber and my waking,

the Erebus I keep you in, still trying
not to let go. You’ll be dead again tomorrow,
but in dreams you live. So I try taking

you back into morning. Sleep-heavy, turning,
my eyes open, I find you do not follow.
Again and again, this constant forsaking.

Again and again, this constant forsaking:
my eyes open, I find you do not follow.
You back into morning, sleep-heavy, turning.

But in dreams you live. So I try taking,
not to let go. You’ll be dead again tomorrow.
The Erebus I keep you in — still, trying —

I make between my slumber and my waking.
It’s as if you slipped through some rift, a hollow.
I was asleep while you were dying.

Hello Friends,

Much like Elizabeth Bishop’s villanelle “One Art,” Natasha Trethewey’s “Myth” conveys the impossible enormity of loss through the tightness of the form employed to contain it — as strict or stricter than any villanelle or pantoum. The structure of “Myth” evokes ancient myths of reflection — Narcissus, Echo — and also gestures toward the perfect symmetry and circularity of 11th-14th century courtly love epics (wherein moral outcomes are determined by simple formulas, codes… the good guy always wins, and nobody dies in his sleep).

I had a hard time choosing which poem from Natasha Trethewey‘s 2006 collection Native Guard to send to you; if you like this one, you won’t be disappointed by checking out the whole book.

To learn more about National Poetry Month, or to subscribe to a more official-like Poem-a-Day list, visit www.poets.org.

Best,
Ellen

Poet Natasha Trethewey was also featured for Poem-a-Day April 18, 2010.

Poem-a-day, April 6: the art of losing

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 loved 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!) like disaster.

***

Hello Friends,

Elizabeth Bishop‘s “One Art” is an example of a villanelle, a difficult poetic form to master. You can read more about the villanelle form here. There’s also an excellent analysis of this poem in Chapter 2 of Edward Hirsch’s How To Read A Poem.

Today’s poem is dedicated to Nishat and to my grandmother.

Love,
Ellen

Poems by Elizabeth Bishop were also featured for Poem-a-Day April 3, 2007; Poem-a-Day April 5, 2009; and Poem-a-Day April 13, 2010.