2008 Villanelle: Gravity

Gravity
DW Bender
February 18-20, 2008

'Tis gravity that ages you and me;
we circuit day by day, year after year
on clockwork gears of earth, sun, moon and sea;

So round we go, flies on a string, and free
to rise or fall within our atmosphere;
'Tis gravity that ages you and me:

The constant pull and push on A through Z
grinds periodic elemental spheres
on clockwork gears of earth, sun, moon and sea:

As sure as warmth draws sap up through the tree
and water draws the root down deep and near,
'tis gravity that ages you and me.

All Adam's clay, we sink to whence we spring
(o just another ruse, dear Chanticleer).
On clockwork gears of earth, sun, moon and sea

the wheel of life-death-life spins until we,
weary, find rest in That which holds us dear.
'Tis gravity that ages you and me
on clockwork gears of earth, sun, moon and sea.

======

Hyperlinked here, are pages of a site with a favorite villanelle by Theodore Roethke, The Waking. Also, Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night by Bob Dylan. Others villanelles and poems are available on the site, including a surprising one I've not read before: In Memory of the Unknown Poet, Robert Boardman Vaughn by Donald Justice. Here, I discovered a villanelle I like very much, Sugar Dada, by J. Allyn Rosser. I am especially drawn to Rosser's deep and Zennish, if not philosophically disillusioned lines, "Meaning lies in meaning's absence. The mist / Is always almost just about to lift./Nothing is truer. Dear, not even this ...". Love the poem.

Another site with some of my favorite villanelles by other poets: Mad Girl's Love Song and by Sylvia Plath, One Art by Elizabeth Bishop; some also on the above site.

Villanelles 1976-2003

3 villanelles, published previously at WHCpoetrybridge, World Haiku Review 5-1, 2005

Three older villanelle's below. "War of Dreams" was the third villanelle I penned, just before our son enlisted in the Air Force, about 17 years ago (revised):

War of Dreams
DW Bender

The end of hope is never what it seems:
Men lose and gain in war a prize not planned
So sons must fight to win their fathers' dreams.

O Glorious Future beckons. Battle screams.
War heroes, good and bad die, bleeding men.
The end of hope is never what it seems.

Just one more killing field! Bright promise gleams
Right at arm's length; the end is near at hand,
So sons will fight to win their fathers' dreams.

Ripe fields of blood are harvested and gleaned.
Felled seeds of wrath lie shell-burst in the land.
The end of hope is never what it seems

And what is spawned of war, they did not mean.
Downed hope, redressed, is bannered once again,
So sons must fight to win their fathers' dreams.

Men fight and lose, yet victory and the things
They sought might come in other ways, but then,
The end of hope is never what it seems—
So sons fight on to win their fathers' dreams.

The following is the first villanelle I wrote, in the mid-1970's during a poetry seminar held by Salvatore Salerno at Johnson County Community College, Jacksonville, NC. He had warned us against using trite phrases and cliches in poetry, end-rhymes such as "night, bright, light." So I, of course, got silly and made a poem just to use those words as end rhymes. I would have used "moon, spoon, June," too, but thought better of it, in lieu of making at least a halfway decent poem.

The Finger Pointing to the Moon
DW Bender

The moon you gave to me and all its shine.
I, being blind, had only seen the night.
Without the vision, I can't know what's mine.

The moon, you said, is like a silver dime.
You tried in vain to make me see the light;
The moon you gave to me and all its shine.

We've touched the moon. It's not so far in time.
I felt the coin's edges, thin and slight.
Without the vision, I can't know what's mine.

The moon has eyes, but cannot see its mime.
Its lifeless face reflects another's bright.
The moon you gave to me and all its shine.

Your finger pointed to the moon. We rhyme:
The moon and I are dark as sun is white.
(Without the vision, I can't know what's mine.)

To know the moon is having it in mind.
Your words gave this blind witness to your sight.
The moon you gave to me and all its shine;
Without the vision, I can't know what's mine.

I believe that "Alien Invasion was the 2nd villanelle I wrote, around the same time I wrote "War of Dreams." I don't recall which came first. At the time, I was working on a group of poems based on 1950's American culture.

Alien Invasion
DW Bender

..........(Don't touch that dial. we'll be right back!)

They came to earth to steal the minds of men;
We dare not say that we were unaware.
In black and white this truth is waived again.

Through tabloid hype and sci-fi's silver screen
We looked past Sputnik into future fear:
They came to earth to steal the minds of men

And saucer-eyed we begged them enter in,
Hypnotically enslaved by sightless stare
In black and white. This truth is waived again

Subliminally from images we've seen
And heard from channeled messages. Beware:
They came to earth to steal the minds of men!

In homes, the quasi life-form's "master plan"
Would change the world by mastering the air.
In black and white this truth is waived again.

And bit by bit we've changed to be like "them":
At finger's flick, antennae raised, we stare.
They came to earth to steal the minds of men.
In black and white this truth is waived again.

........ (Tune in tomorrow, same time, same station.)

"When All in Play" was written in the early 2000's, for fun.

When All in Play
DW Bender

When all in play I turn my words to sing,
and rhythms of far heartbeats mix with mine,
perchance the voice of my own soul shall wing.

In melodies of ancient shores that ring
I hear strange languages from other times,
when all in play I turn my words to sing.

Such cadences, so like, yet differing!
Should I delight to verse these friendly lines,
perchance the voice of my own soul shall wing.

But soft, what phrases rouse through wondering,
and make me wish to poem them into rhyme
when all in play I turn my words to sing?!

As psalms of mendicants and saints shall bring
together choirs of celebrants, sublime,
perchance the voice of my own soul shall wing.

O sweet, exotic music, let your strings
be in my ear and on my tongue in kind;
When all in play I turn my words to sing,
perchance the voice of mine own soul shall wing.

White Lotus

Original poem:

At dawn I asked the lotus,
"What is the meaning of life?"
Slowly, she opened her hand
with nothing in it.

DW Bender, 2005

See the previous (the following post in blog page order) post. The work-in-progress stanzas combined together, the poem, to date, would be something like thus:

White Lotus
DW Bender, 2008

At dawn I asked the lotus,
"What is the meaning of life?"
Slowly, she opened her hand
with nothing in it.

Receiving what is given,
She does not grasp to retain;
In the heart of the lotus,
what is ever lost?

Her cup overflows with light:
The cosmos rests in her palm.
When darkness settles on her,
she enfolds the sun.

At dusk, as her petals closed,
I whispered, "Why must we die?"
The lotus vanished, and all
turned into her dream.

Song of the Lotus, February 2008

At dawn I asked the lotus,
"What is the meaning of life?"
Slowly, she opened her hand
with nothing in it.

Debra Woolard Bender 2005
(published by permission Workman Publishing Company in the Smith & Hawken, Secret Garden Calendar, 2006: Month of April page)
First published by permission on Michael Garofalo's "The Spirit of Gardening" website, in the quotes section.

My above poem has been visiting my thoughts recently. Sunday morning, I awoke with stiches and thoughts forming towards one or more stanzas which would be a continuation. The finished piece could possibly be titled, "Song of the Lotus." Maybe not. "White Lotus" might be it.

The verse which follows, and which I wrote Sunday morning, comes from a dream I had several years ago. The dream seemed profound and beautiful, and has remained with me. In it, I was looking up into a dusk sky above my head. I gazed at seven or eight large ovoid bodies, still, pure white living objects (or beings, although, not with bodies like ours). These hovering forms were composed of petal-like shapes that silently transformed by way of folding and unfolding within themselves. Their movement (in my conception when waking) seemed like an elegant and more complex version of the child's origami 'fortune teller' finger game. Luminous, the pendant orbs were lit from within, like benevolent and awesome heavenly lanterns afloat aove the earth. Other people milled about. I wondered if anyone else was seeing them. On awakening, the only descriptive word-thought that entered my sleepily awakening consciousness was "white lotus." Although they were similar, they were also different than lotus flowers. They did look much like the blossom in this picture: White Lotus
And they also resembled, in some ways, the beautiful pendant kit lamps often created by Scandinavian designers, which are formed of geometric patterns and made of paper or plastic, such as these: Pendant lamp 1 Pendant lamp 2 . But the dream-lotus shapes were moving within, serene and living, their internal patterns morphing, shifting in pattern. More intricate and much more beautiful. Following is a verse which came from that dream. I didn't realate the images to death or ask that question in the dream -- but later, on Sunday, contemplating on the poem and the dream, the images, thoughts and questions arose in poem:

At dusk, as her petals closed,
I whispered, "Why must I die?"
The white lotus, deepening,
turned into a dream.

or alternatively:

At dusk, as her petals closed,
I whispered, "Why must we die?"
Floating away, the lotus (or: Descending, the white lotus)
turned into a dream.

*Lotus blossoms descend into the water at night, and reappear in the morning.

or:

At dusk, as her petals closed,
I whispered, "Why must we die?"
White lotus vanished, and all
turned into her dream. (I feel this is the right one)


One of the verses that arose from the thoughts, were these following words, which might become a middle stanza, while further stanzas which may arise later:

Her cup overflows with light:
The cosmos rests in her palm.
When darkness settles on her,
she enfolds the sun.

or alternatively:

Her cup overflows with light:
The cosmos rests in her palm.
When darkness comes, the lotus
embodies the sun.

*both "enfolds" and "embodies" are the right words, but I can use only one.

Written (or rather assembled) from that morning's thoughts, just now:

Receiving that which enters,
She does not grasp to retain;
In the heart of the lotus,
what is ever lost?

=====
Note to reader: Although I write poetry in Japanese genres, and I know that the lotus is a spiritual symbol in Asian religions (and in Hindu and Egyptian religion and mythology), these verses are not written out of any particular religious belief or practice (I'm Christian). They are written from the underwaters within.