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I was looking through some books on poetic forms looking for a new form to use here. I noticed four forms that not only begin with "R" but also have similarities.
The Rondeau is a lyric poem from the 13th-century which is characterized by repeating lines or "rounds". It has 15 lines written as a quintet, quatrain, and sestet, with two rhyme schemes.
The Rondel is a 14th Century French lyrical poem that is a variation of the Roundeau. It consists of two quatrains followed by a quintet (13 lines total) or a sestet (14 lines total). The first two lines are refrains which repeat at the end of the second and third stanzas. The rhyming pattern is ABba, abAB, abbaA.
Then we have the Rondolet, another French form consisting of a single septet with two rhymes and one refrain The refrain is written in tetra-syllabic or dimeter and the other lines are twice as long - octasyllabic or tetrameter.
And finally, the Roundel, a form created by Algernon Charles Swinburne as a variation of the rondeau form.
DON'T PANIC. We are not asking for any of those four. They are all examples of forms that get so specific that they can trap the poet.
What I see as the central structural element shared across all four forms is the recurring refrain derived from the poem's opening phrase and an organization of three distinct movements or stanzas. So, here is our new poetic form designed around those shared mechanics without any constraints on rhyme or syllable counts. Let's just call it simply a "round."
While "round" is rarely used as a modern standalone name for a text-only poem, it is the literal English translation and ancestor of all these French forms. You probably know rounds as songs like "Row, Row, Row Your Boat," "Frère Jacques," "Three Blind Mice," and"Sumer Is Icumen In" which is the oldest known English round, dating back to around 1250 AD.
As you can see in our example poem (bottom of page), the title is also the refrain repeated in the first line and in the last line making a kind of circle, a round.
We asked for poems with 12 lines in 3 stanzas, free verse (no forced syllable counts or rhyme schemes required). The form also suggests that the poem in some way is itself thematically circular.
OCTOBER BALANCES
October balances gold against the gray,
A brighter day, a dimmer close.
The sunlight lingers low in trees through amber,
yet a breeze whispers winter in my sleep.
Clear mornings waking sharp with purpose,
I can hear shadows crossing my window.
The light tipping with Earth and me,
The night taking hold more each turning,
Grief will combine with gratitude, falling,
like fading leaves that shine wet with rain.
Harvest abundance, a rest before year's end.
October balances, but just for a few moments.
DUST
settles on the night, the villages of bottlebrush,
the throats of barbets, the winter of memories.
Look carefully and you’ll even find it
within hearts, bones, sinews and nerves.
It matters not how far you can
travel in this body, this chariot also made
of dust
but how well you can carry
these wayfaring thoughts, this changing prison
of youth, this moving palace of decay
the echoes of these footsteps
before they all, one day, return to dust.
Preeth Ganapathy
THE LADYBUG SPINS IN CIRCLES
The ladybug spins in circles,
I wind her up, metal gears hiccup
as they loosen and churn,
the half dome of black spots on red
rolls on wheels and begins
to twirl on my desk.
My desk/my dad's desk,
in his office, his patient
spills out the week's hallucinations
and cacophony of voices
for the doctor and his toy.
The ladybug spins in circles.
Only one antennae remains
above rusty green eyes,
my mom calls from yesterday
A drop of grease in the gears
before turning the crank next time.
Ahhhh....and through my tears
the ladybug spins in circles.
Leslayann Schecterson
JEWS DON'T CELEBRATE CHRISTMAS
Jews don't celebrate Christmas,
my parents said. Every year,
as the candles in our menorah
thumbed their noses
at the December dark,
I longed instead for a tree bedecked
in colored lights, candy canes,
glittery tinsel, ornaments. Then why,
in my prime, does my heart insist
that the 25th is just a day
for movies and for Chinese food,
that Jews don't celebrate Christmas?
Susan Spaeth Cherry
PAY ATTENTION
PAY ATTENTION, our teacher barked as we
watched Weird Kenny through the classroom windows as he
climbed the baseball backstop and sat cross-legged
atop the chainlink screen above home plate.
WE ARE, some kid barked back.
The gnat circling around my ear is annoying --
as annoying as I am to you, apparently.
Why else would you wave me away
with the back of your hand?
On the flight out of Reno
a cowboy said, I'm so broke
I can't even pay attention.
Rob Friedman
TWELVE GOLF BALLS
Hapless new golf balls who once found me,
Shimmered, naked, on the kitchen table,
Pristine, proud, and blindingly new,
Shook off their naive, foetal slumber,
And rolled off their shiny wooden green
Onto the rough of the kitchen floor,
Like soldiers going to fight a war,
Quickly ensuring that their pluck was seen...
Soon savagely, though, depleted in number,
Where, sadly, the many became the few!
The lost, the crippled, the scuffed, the disabled,
Those hapless golf balls who had once found me...
John Botterill
ONE INVENTS OBSCURITIES
One invents obscurities.
Beckett said so
as he waited
like Godot.
One asks questions
with no answer
knowingly
as it’s better than silence
but silence provokes questions.
So as I wait
I can answer truly that
one invents obscurities.
FOR FRANK WHO FEEDS ME
Focaccia for dinner
From the Latin "hearth bread"
A simple flatbread Italian specialty
The dough has risen, the smell of yeast as well
Foretelling something delicious is coming
Pressed into the hot cast iron pan
Then olives, tomatoes, fresh rosemary and sea salt
Arranged with an artist's deliberateness
The fragrance of this colorful earthy canvas
Dances throughout the house on an early autumn day
I ready the table minus cutlery for tonight's meal
Focaccia for dinner
Terri J. Guttilla
ROUND AND ROUND
Round and round we go
A chance remark is misconstrued
You go on defense, feel attacked
I hit back and make things worse
A scab dislodged by heated words
Exposes wounds that never healed
Acquired long before we met
That then became a part of us
The storm subsides, we reconcile, attempt
To understand the part our demons play in this
Until they surface once again, to snarl and chase us
Round and round
Frank Kelly
THE SOURCES OF CHAOS ARE BUSY AT NIGHT
Yes, toxic surprises are born in the night, like witches on broomsticks
Seeding the rainclouds as soon as the red sun sinks into the sea.
Keep your eyes peeled for a night of surprises. Look in the wet garden
Under the dim stars. Poisonous mushrooms emerge from the grass.
And a dangerous land snail sneaks out of the ivy because
The bad news begins in the dark of the moon.
Do you think the nocturnal and secret arrival of pernicious
Mushrooms and snails is not a significant global event?
Remember the bombs that were dropped in the night
And the eye of the hurricane that circled after sundown
And the fresh load of lies that fills the dawn headlines
Because the sources of chaos are busy all night.
Rose Anna Higashi
ROUND
Up and down we go
round and round we go
as she laughs and screams
delighted in the crisp air.
Up and down we go.
Child of my child, delighted
and delightful, tasting the tang
of fall in all the glory of its
being, scattering twirling leaves.
So it’s always been, till we
pass along, leaving but a dream.
Up and down we go.
Rob Miller
Paper and Smoke
Paper and smoke lift from the fire.
Manuscript pages that were unwanted
now only existing as a poet's memory
and even there they are fast becoming
paper and smoke.
The October night is winter cold.
Words that took years to be set down
vanishing in seconds, some light enough
to rise; others heavy, drop to ash.
You rake the ash into a blank space
and set down a new start — a title:
Paper and Smoke