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Paradelles

Billy Collins' poem "Paradelle For Susan" from Picnic , Lightning is our sample poem this time.

Many of us who write poetry avoid the fixed forms. Many "sonnets" you will see published today are nothing more than 14 line poems. As restrictive as some forms seem, to many poets, form becomes liberating. Here, Billy Collins (certainly not known as a formalist) attempts the paradelle - in typical Collins style.

The paradelle is (in Collins' own note) "one of the more demanding French fixed forms, first appearing in the langue d'oc love poetry of the eleventh century. It is a poem of four six-line stanzas in which the first and second lines, as well as the third and fourth lines of the first three stanzas, must be identical. The fifth and sixth lines, which traditionally resolve these stanzas, must use all the words from the preceding lines and only those words. Similarly, the final stanza must use every word from all the preceding stanzas and only those words."

However... Billy Collins claimed that the paradelle was invented in eleventh century France, but he actually invented it himself to parody strict forms, particularly the villanelle. His sample paradelle, "Paradelle for Susan" was intentionally terrible, completing the final stanza with the line "Darken the mountain, time and find was my into it was with to to.

Not all readers and reviewers of Collins' poem/book recognized that the paradelle was a parody of formal poetry and of amateur poets who adhered to formalism at the expense of sense. Some reviews criticized "Paradelle for Susan" as an amateurish attempt at a difficult form without ever understanding that this was, indeed, the point.

Some poets also either missed the parody or just decided to take the form seriously, writing their own paradelles. A form as strict as the paradelle is a real challenge to a poet. Thus, although invented as a hoax, the paradelle has taken on a life of its own. (adapted from http://answers.com)

More information on: Fixed Verse Forms

Paradelle Update: The paradelles on this page by Mary Debow and Ken Ronkowitz have been included in the anthology, The Paradelle , edited by Theresa M. Welford for Red Hen Press.

For more on this prompt and others, visit the Poets Online blog.

PARADELLE FOR MORNING
(For Billy Collins)

Wait, and listen to the air's weighty anticipation.
Wait, and listen to the air's weighty anticipation.
You are like a transparent apple, fallen in rhythm.
You are like a transparent apple, fallen in rhythm.
Like weighty airs to the apple, you listen in a fallen
rhythm, wait, and are transparent anticipation.

Birdcalls beckon something, then announce your return.
Birdcalls beckon something, then announce your return.
A basket woven inwardly, I receive in morning.
A basket woven inwardly, I receive in morning.
Receive a woven basket. I beckon your return inwardly,
then announce morning, something in birdcalls.

This script for touch shivers like coldness or fear.
This script for touch shivers like coldness or fear.
It is the thin skin of apple, a clear yellow glowing.
It is the thin skin of apple, a clear yellow glowing.
Glowing or thin, the apple skin is like a clear script.
It shivers fear yellow for this coldness of touch.

A clear script for rhythm, your birdcalls
are a weighty listen inwardly, something like fear.
You wait, or return in like anticipation of air's coldness,
then beckon, and receive it. The yellow transparent apple,
fallen in a morning basket. Touch is glowing apple
shivers. I announce this to the thin woven skin.

Camille C. Patty

HERE IN THE HEART OF THE HEART

Here in the heart of the heart, love is a burden.
Here in the heart of the heart, love is a burden.
It says what it has come to say, and forgets to leave.
It says what it has come to say, and forgets to leave.
The heart in love says it has a burden of is.
Come here and leave to the heart what it forgets to say.

Love is a wire around my wrist.
Love is a wire around my wrist.
I feed the wolf my hands and my mouth.
I feed the wolf my hands and my mouth.
My wire hands love the wolf I feed.
My mouth is a wrist around my and.

When my passion leaves, there is only the mountain.
When my passion leaves, there is only the mountain.
I wake each morning with its melt on my tongue.
I wake each morning with its melt on my tongue.
Each morning I passion the leaves with my tongue.
Mountain wake my only when on its there is melt.

The burden of passion is a wire each forgets.
I leave love to what it has to feed on.
My heart is a mouth, and my heart is the wolf.
When the leaves say come, my hands mountain the morning.
With only my tongue says my wrist.
Love in and around its it. Wake there. I melt here.

Mary DeBow

LIGHTNINGBUG PARADELLE

That summer, the fields dry
That summer, the fields dry
We ran about, and flew and chased at night
We ran about, and flew and chased at night
The fields that night dry and chaste
Summer ran - we flew at and about

Lightning bugs, low and near
Lightning bugs, low and near
Tucked into tight-lidded Mason jars
Tucked into tight-lidded Mason jars
Lightning lidded low into Mason jars
Bugs tucked tight and near

They were night lights among dried grass
They were night lights among dried grass
And jewelry, smudged into our skin
And jewelry, smudged into our skin
Jewelry skin - they were into and among dried grass
Our smudged nightlights

Low and near - they were into and among night
Dried lightning -- lidded - chaste bugs
And the fields ran dry
And lights flew at night
Mason jar jewelry - grass smudged about
We tucked that summer tight into our skin

S. Bauer-Zingg

MUTATION VERSE

This is awkward, unnatural and strange
This is awkward, unnatural and strange
As a jigsaw puzzle with no picture
As a jigsaw puzzle with no picture
Strange awkward jigsaw this is
And with no picture, a puzzle unnatural.

Forcing the square into the round
Forcing the square into the round
It is a mutation, as art for its own sake
It is a mutation, as art for its own sake.
Round as mutation into the square
It is forcing the art, a sake for its own.

Can we make sense of this hybrid verse,
Can we make sense of this hybrid verse,
Like a moronic building that one jumps to enter?
Like a moronic building that one jumps to enter?
Can we enter this moronic verse of hybrid sense
That one jumps like to make a building??

Forcing as with a picture of hybrid sake
This is a moronic verse, unnatural and a puzzle
Awkward, strange as a jigsaw building.
Can the square make sense like the mutation jumps?
Into the round art, it is this we enter
That to one, for its own.

Aric Gles

TWO YEARS

The heart softens with winter,
the heart softens with winter.
Time strengthens your thin body,
time strengthens your thin body.
Your thin body strengthens.
Winter time softens the heart.

Oak and sage edges the river,
oak and sage edges the river.
Rock breaks the water, its rings survive,
rock breaks the water, its rings survive.
Sage, oak and rock survive the breaks.
The river water rings its edges.

From a year without you beside me with the pain,
from a year without you beside me with the pain.
These selected moments surface,
these selected moments surface.
You beside me without the pain,
surface from a year with these selected moments.

The river rock softens its edges with time.
Oak at the heart strengthens as the rings thin.
Sage survives the winter pain.
Your body breaks the water surface beside me.
These moments selected from a year with
and without you.

Ken Ronkowitz

Paradelle for Emma's First Birthday

When Emma scrunches up her nose and knits her tiny brow,
When Emma scrunches up her nose and knits her tiny brow,
My granddaughter spins a happy web of hyphens that connect-her-eyes.
My granddaughter spins a happy web of hyphens that connect-her-eyes.
Connect her up, her brow, her nose, a web of Emma scrunches
That,when granddaughter knits, spins tiny hyphens and my happy eyes.

But big-spring-sky-blues get old too fast, and early some time near
But big-spring-sky-blues get old too fast, and early some time near
Will dull as she forgets slow what we've already lost.
Will dull as she forgets slow what we've already lost.
As sky already forgets spring, we've but dull old blues, slow, fast
And near, some big time. What, she will get lost early, too.

Her tousled-angel-twinkly-pouts accuse her hovering tutors.
Her tousled-angel-twinkly-pouts accuse her hovering tutors.
Her wise eyes smirk: here's to whatever we the grownups might recall.
Her wise eyes smirk: here's to whatever we the grownups might recall.
To angel eyes, we hovering grownups, smirk wise tutors, accuse:
Here's her whatever, her tousled recall, her twinkly might, the pouts.

When old tutors smirk pouts, we've tousled her twinkly time.
The wise get fast too early and slow her will some,
And as granddaughter knits up that tiny nose, spins her brow of scrunches,
She already near lost her might. Here's what big dull sky forgets:
Spring blues, her happy eyes, her hyphens -------- , a web.
But recall, my Emma, hovering angel eyes, connect to grownups, whatever we accuse.

Hank Cierski