Villanelle
Een villanella is een gedicht met een vaste vorm, met als rijmschema:
· A b B a b A a b B a b A a b B a b A B
Het bevat twee versregels (in het schema A en B) die enkele malen
letterlijk worden herhaald. De moeilijkheid van het gedicht zit vooral
in de vaste regels, die hoewel gelijk qua karakter anders moeten overkomen.
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Das Konstruieren reiner Villanellen
Sappho (1964- )
(Kleines Organon für Gisela)
Doch, es erfrischt die kleinen grauen Zellen,
erscheint zunächst es auch verteufelt schwer,
das Konstruieren reiner Villanellen.
Schon die Entscheidung ist nicht leicht zu fällen,
was für ein Reim sich eignet: Der? Nein? Der? -
Doch es erfrischt die kleinen grauen Zellen!
Dann wird jongliert mit Reimen wie mit Bällen:
Solang es gut geht, amüsiert es sehr,
das Konstruieren reiner Villanellen.
Bisweilen aber stößt man auch an Schwellen
und muss probieren mühsam, hin und her...
Doch es erfrischt die kleinen grauen Zellen!
Auch hätte sich ein Sinn noch einzustellen
zuletzt, sonst ist es l'art pour l' art, nicht mehr,
das Konstruieren reiner Villanellen.
Vielleicht gelingt es nicht in allen Fällen
und manchmal liest sich etwas leicht verquer -
doch es erfrischt die kleinen grauen Zellen,
das Konstruieren reiner Villanellen!
"The Story We Know"
Martha Collins (1940 - )
Hello. Your hand, your name. So glad, Just fine,
And Good-bye at the end. That's every story we know,
And why pretend? But lunch tomorrow? No?
Yes? An omelette, salad, chilled white wine?
The way to begin is simple, sane, Hello,
And then it's Sunday, coffee, the Times, a slow
Day by the fire, dinner at eight or nine
And Good-bye. In the end, this is a story we know
So well we don't turn the page, or look below
The picture, or follow the words to the next line:
The way to begin is always the same Hello.
But one night, through the latticed window, snow
Begins to whiten the air, and the tall white pine.
Good-bye is the end of every story we know
That night, and when we close the curtains, oh,
We hold each other against that cold white sign
Of the way we all begin and end. Hello,
Good-bye is the only story. We know, we know.
top
J'ay perdu ma tourterelle
Jean Passerat (1534-1602)
J'ay perdu ma tourterelle :
Est-ce point celle que j'oy ?
Je veux aller après elle.
Tu regrètes ta femelle,
Hélas ! aussi fay je moy :
J'ay perdu ma tourterelle.
Si ton amour est fidelle,
Aussi est ferme ma foy,
Je veux aller après elle.
Ta plaincte se renouvelle ;
Tousjours plaindre je me doy :
J'ay perdu ma tourterelle.
En ne voyant plus la belle,
Plus rien de beau je ne voy ;
Je veux aller après elle.
Mort que tant de fois j'appelle,
Pren ce qui se donne à toy :
J'ay perdu ma tourterelle,
Je veux aller après elle.
herbstvillanelle
Jan Wagner (1971- )
den tagen geht das licht aus
und eine stunde dauert zehn minuten.
die bäume spielten ihre letzten farben.
am himmel wechselt man die bühnenbilder
zu rasch für das kleine drama in jedem von uns:
den tagen geht das licht aus.
dein grauer mantel trennt dich von der luft,
ein passepartout für einen satz wie diesen:
die bäume spielten ihre letzten farben.
eisblaue fenster - auf den wetterkarten
der fernsehgeräte die daumenabdrücke der tiefs.
den tagen geht das licht aus,
dem leeren park, dem teich: die enten werden
an unsichtbaren fäden aufgerollt.
die bäume spielten ihre letzten farben.
und einer, der sich mit drei sonnenblumen
ins dunkel tastet, drei schwarzen punkten auf gelb:
den tagen geht das licht aus.
die bäume spielten ihre letzten farben.
Villanelle
William Empson (1906 – 1984)
It is the pain, it is the pain endures.
Your chemic beauty burned my muscles through.
Poise of my hands reminded me of yours.
What later purge from this deep toxin cures?
What kindness now could the old salve renew?
It is the pain, it is the pain endures.
The infection slept (custom or changes inures)
And when pain's secondary phase was due
Poise of my hands reminded me of yours.
How safe I felt, whom memory assures,
Rich that your grace safely by heart I knew.
It is the pain, it is the pain endures.
My stare drank deep beauty that still allures.
My heart pumps yet the poison draught of you.
Poise of my hands reminded me of yours.
You are still kind whom the same shape immures.
Kind and beyond adieu. We miss our cue.
It is the pain, it is the pain endures.
Poise of my hands reminded me of yours.
Villanelle de Buloz
Théodore de Banville (1823 - 1891)
J'ai perdu mon Limayrac;
Ce coup-là me bouleverse.
Je veux me vêtir d'un sac.
Il va mener, en cornac,
La Gazette du Commerce.
J'ai perdu mon Limayrac.
Mon Limayrac sur Balzac
Savait seul pleuvoir à verse.
Je veux me vêtir d'un sac.
Pour ses bons mots d'almanach
On tombait à la renverse.
J'ai perdu mon Limayrac.
Sans son habile micmac,
Sainte-Beuve tergiverse.
Je veux me vêtir d'un sac.
Il a pris son havresac,
Et j'ai pris la fièvre tierce.
J'ai perdu mon Limayrac.
A fumer, sans nul tabac!
Depuis ce jour je m'exerce.
Je veux me vêtir d'un sac.
Pleurons, et vous de cognac
Mettez une pièce en perce!
J'ai perdu mon Limayrac,
Je veux me vêtir d'un sac!
Villanelle
W. H. Auden (1907 - 1973)
Time will say nothing but I told you so,
Time only knows the price we have to pay;
If I could tell you I would let you know.
If we should weep when clowns put on their show,
If we should stumble when musicians play,
Time will say nothing but I told you so.
There are no fortunes to be told, although,
Because I love you more than I can say,
If I could tell you I would let you know.
The winds must come from somewhere when they blow,
There must be reasons why the leaves decay;
Time will say nothing but I told you so.
Perhaps the roses really want to grow,
The vision seriously intends to stay;
If I could tell you I would let you know.
Suppose the lions all get up and go,
And all the brooks and soldiers run away?
Will time say nothing but I told you so?
If I could tell you I would let you know.
Villanelle (minimalist): One Drunken Night
Peter Schaeffer
I think
she'll pour
my drink.
I wink
at more,
I think,
than minx
who pours
my drink.
I sink
to floor,
and think
she stinks!
I roar,
"My drink,
you fink!"
I snore,
and think
I drink.
Villanelle for an Anniversary
Seamus Heaney (1939 -2013)
A spirit moved. John Harvard walked the yard,
The atom lay unsplit, the west unwon,
The books stood open and the gates unbarred.
The maps dreamt on like moondust. Nothing stirred.
The future was a verb in hibernation.
A spirit moved, John Harvard walked the yard.
Before the classic style, before the clapboard,
All through the small hours of an origin,
The books stood open and the gate unbarred.
Night passage of a migratory bird.
Wingflap. Gownflap. Like a homing pigeon
A spirit moved, John Harvard walked the yard.
Was that his soul (look) sped to its reward
By grace or works? A shooting star? An omen?
The books stood open and the gate unbarred.
Begin again where frosts and tests were hard.
Find yourself or founder. Here, imagine
A spirit moves, John Harvard walks the yard,
The books stand open and the gates unbarred.
The House on the Hill
Edwin Arlington Robinson (1869 – 1935)
They are all gone away,
The house is shut and still,
There is nothing more to say.
Through broken walls and gray
The winds blow bleak and shrill:
They are all gone away.
Nor is there one today
To speak them good or ill:
There is nothing more to say.
Why is it then we stray
Around the sunken sill?
They are all gone away.
And our poor fancy-play
For them is wasted skill:
There is nothing more to say.
There is ruin and decay
In the House on the Hill
They are all gone away,
There is nothing more to say.
One Art
Elizabeth Bishop (1911 - 1979)
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.
Do
Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night
Dylan Thomas (1914-1953)
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.
The Ted Williams Villanelle
(for Ari Badaines)
Wendy Cope (1945-)
"Don't let anybody mess with your swing."
Ted Williams, baseball player
Watch the ball and do your thing.
This is the moment. Here's your chance.
Don't let anybody mess with your swing.
Its time to shine. You're in the ring.
Step forward, adopt a winning stance,
Watch the ball and do your thing,
And while the ball is taking wing,
Run without a backward glance.
Don't let anybody mess with your swing.
Don't let envious bastards bring
You down. Ignore the sneers, the can'ts.
watch the ball and do your thing.
Sing out, if you want to sing.
Jump up, when you long to dance.
Don't let anybody mess with your swing.
Enjoy your talents. Have your fling.
The seasons change. The years advance.
Watch the ball and do your thing,
And don't let anybody mess with your swing.
The Grammar Lesson
Steve Kowit (1938 - )
A noun's a thing. A verb's the thing it does.
An adjective is what describes the noun.
In "The can of beets is filled with purple fuzz"
*of* and *with* are prepositions. *The's*
an article, a *can's* a noun,
a noun's a thing. A verb's the thing it does.
A can *can* roll - or not. What isn't was
or might be, *might* meaning not yet known.
"Our can of beets *is* filled with purple fuzz"
is present tense. While words like our and us
are pronouns - i.e. *it* is moldy, *they* are icky brown.
A noun's a thing; a verb's the thing it does.
Is is a helping verb. It helps because
*filled* isn't a full verb. *Can's* what *our* owns
in "Our can of beets is filled with purple fuzz."
See? There's almost nothing to it. Just
memorize these rules...or write them down!
A noun's a thing, a verb's the thing it does.
The can of beets is filled with purple fuzz.
The Worker and the Tramp
Jack London (1876 – 1916)
Heaven bless you, my friend—
You, the man who won't sweat;
Here's a quarter to spend.
If you did but mend,
My job you would get;—
Heaven bless you, my friend.—
On you I depend
For my work, don't forget;—
Here's a quarter to spend.
My hand I extend,
For I love you, you bet:—
Here's a quarter to spend.
Ah! you comprehend
That I owe a debt;
Heaven bless you, my friend,
Here's a quarter to spend.
Mad Girl's Love Song
Sylvia Plath (1932-1963)
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary darkness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
I fancied you'd return the way you said.
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
The Waking
Theodore Roethke (1908 – 1963)
I wake to sleep and take my waking slow.
I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.
I learn by going where I have to go.
We think by feeling. What is there to know?
I hear my being dance from ear to ear.
I wake to sleep and take my waking slow.
Of those so close beside me, which are you?
God bless the Ground! I shall walk softly there,
And learn by going where I have to go.
Light takes the Tree; but who can tell us how?
The lowly worm climbs up a winding stair;
I wake to sleep and take my waking slow.
Great Nature has another thing to do
To you and me; so take the lively air,
And, lovely, learn by going where to go.
This shaking keeps me steady. I should know.
What falls away is always. And is near.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I learn by going where I have to go.
Villanelle for D.G.B.
Marilyn Hacker (1942 -)
Every day our bodies separate,
exploded torn and dazed.
Not understanding what we celebrate
we grope through languages and hesitate
and touch each other, speechless and amazed;
and every day our bodies separate
us farther from our planned, deliberate
ironic lives. I am afraid, disphased,
not understanding what we celebrate
when our fused limbs and lips communicate
the unlettered power we have raised.
Every day our bodies' separate
routines are harder to perpetuate.
In wordless darkness we learn wordless praise,
not understanding what we celebrate;
wake to ourselves, exhausted, in the late
morning as the wind tears off the haze,
not understanding how we celebrate
our bodies. Every day we separate.
Villanelle of His Lady’s Treasures
Ernest Dowson (1867 – 1900)
I took her dainty eyes, as well
As silken tendrils of her hair:
And so I made a Villanelle!
I took her voice, a silver bell,
As clear as song, as soft as prayer;
I took her dainty eyes as well.
It may be, said I, who can tell,
These things shall be my less despair?
And so I made a Villanelle!
I took her whiteness virginal
And from her cheek two roses rare:
I took her dainty eyes as well.
I said: “It may be possible
Her image from my heart to tear!”
And so I made a Villanelle.
I stole her laugh, most musical:
I wrought it in with artful care;
I took her dainty eyes as well;
And so I made a Villanelle.
top
Missing Dates
William Empson (1906 – 1984)
Slowly the poison the whole blood stream fills.
It is not the effort nor the failure tires.
The waste remains, the waste remains and kills.
It is not your system or clear sight that mills
Down small to the consequence a life requires;
Slowly the poison the whole blood stream fills.
They bled an old dog dry yet the exchange rills
Of young dog blood gave but a month's desires.
The waste remains, the waste remains and kills.
It is the Chinese tombs and the slag hills
Usurp the soil, and not the soil retires.
Slowly the poison the whole blood stream fills.
Not to have fire is to be a skin that shrills.
The complete fire is death. From partial fires
The waste remains, the waste remains and kills.
It is the poems you have lost, the ills
From missing dates, at which the heart expires.
Slowly the poison the whole blood stream fills.
The waste remains, the waste remains and kills.
The World and the Child
James Merrill (1926 – 1995)
Letting his wisdom be the whole of love,
The father tiptoes out, backwards. A gleam
Falls on the child awake and wearied of,
Then, as the door clicks shut, is snuffed. The glove-
Gray afterglow appalls him. It would seem
That letting wisdom be the whole of love
Were pastime even for the bitter grove
Outside, whose owl's white hoot of disesteem
Falls on the child awake and wearied of.
He lies awake in pain, he does not move,
He will not scream. Any who heard him scream
Would let their wisdom be the whole of love.
People have filled the room he lies above.
Their talk, mild variation, chilling theme,
Falls on the child. Awake and wearied of
Mere pain, mere wisdom also, he would have
All the world waking from its winter dream,
Letting its wisdom be. The whole of love
Falls on the child awake and wearied of.
top
Milk the Mouse
Michael Ryan (1946-)
He'll pinch my pinky until the mouse starts squeaking.
The flooramp casts a halo around his big, stuffed chair.
Be strong Be tough! It is my father speaking.
I'm four or five. Was he already drinking?
With its tip and knuckle between his thumb and finger,
he'll pinch my pinky until the mouse starts squeaking
Stop, Daddy, stop (it was more like screeching)
and kneels down before him on the hardwood floor.
Be strong Be tough! It is my father speaking.
What happened to him that he'd do such a thing?
It's only a game, he's doing me a favor
to pinch my pinky until the mouse starts squeaking
because the world will run over a weakling
and we must crush the mouse or be crushed later.
Be strong Be tough! It is my father speaking.
to himself, of course, to the boy inside him weeping,
not to me. But how can I not go when he calls me over
to pinch my pinky until the mouse starts squeaking
Be strong Be tough? It is my father speaking.
lees hier een kort verhaal geschreven als een villanelle >>