Month of Poetry #6: A villanelle

(Month of Poetry note: I am keeping up! I did write poems on the 4th and 5th as well as today, but have decided not to post them, in one case because it's really quite bad, and in the other case because I think it might be rather good with more work, so I'm holding it back to massage it a bit.)

So today I'm trying my hand at a villanelle, another set poetic form that I really like but haven't been game to attempt before.

The villanelle is set form that originated in French poetry, although the word is derived from the Italian villanella, which, descended from the Latin for farm, traditionally referred to a rustic song or dance.

The villanelle pattern is:
5 x tercets (3-line stanzas) which rhyme aba
1 x concluding quatrain (4-line stanza) which rhymes abaa
There are also repeated lines in villanelles - the first line of the first stanza becomes the last line of stanzas 2 and 4, and the third line of the concluding quatrain; the last line of the first stanza becomes the last line of stanzas 3 and 5, and the last line of the quatrain. This repetition helps to tie the themes of the poem together in ways that can be quite beautiful and haunting.

One of my favourite Australian poets, Les A Murray, wrote a villanelle called The Commercial Hotel which I have always admired for its ability to draw poignancy and big truths out of the most apparently prosaic and unpromising material. Following in Murray's footsteps, rather than writing a villanelle that sets out to be Very Deep and Meaningful, I started with something commonplace and familiar, and let the ideas flow from that.

Hence ... Schoolyard.

ground worn thin by tides of black-clad feet
running to the sound of wailing bell
the air remembers, trembles with the beat.

nets, white on green, invite them to compete
balls fly from toes while onlookers yell
ground worn thin by tides of black-clad feet

a garden, quiet, hidden near the street
gives solitude for drinking like moselle
the air remembers, trembles with the beat.

the wafting ice and baking sausage mete
out their tithe of hunger with each trailing smell
ground worn thin by tides of black-clad feet.

critical mass of human, sour, sweet
stamp out their futures, winding up the spell
the air remembers, trembles with the beat.

the eucalypts nod, blossoms fall replete
on sand and concrete, hats and hands as well.
ground worn thin by tides of black-clad feet
the air remembers, trembles with the beat.

- Kathy, 6/1/13