Do Not Go Gentle

(Can a true villanelle ever be a really good poem in English?)

Golias

For RJ,

Here's the villanelle in question -- the most popular of poems according to a 50,000-reader poll. But while complying with the formal requirements has Thomas written a flawless poem?

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.

Acknowledging the greatness of 18 of the 19 lines, the metaphor of the third stanza, second line, *Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,* seems, to me, quite a contorted figure, dragged in for the rhyme. What has a green bay to do with *Their frail deeds,* dancing or otherwise? Thomas keeps to the villanelle form, but in doing so falls just one metaphor, one line, short of creating a perfect poem in English.

As a French song-lyric form, I rather think the villanelle inappropriate for anything but a song lyric, set to music so the repetitions can pass easily, as refrains and other repeated lines usually pass in song. For other kinds of poems, the villanelle's repetitions are too many -- becoming monotonous. In the struggle against monotony great contortions are nearly always required to provide variation in meaning and context for the repeated lines. Donald Justice cut back on the form, eliminating the last set of repetitions, and was able to make a pretty good poem -- but it was no longer the traditional 19-line villanelle

Here the only question is: does *Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,* pass muster as a good metaphor and a good line, or does it not? I say it does not.

What say you?

G

I may "say" on this a bit more sometime tomorrow- you may want to look at the whole stanza though. The sentence:

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.

or to remove some clauses:

Good men, rage, rage against the dying of the light.

(or: "Good men rage.")

The clauses removed (modifying "good men") being:

the last wave by,

crying how bright their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay

of which you have issue with the second. It's not a metaphor.

Good men cry at how splendid their seemingly frail/meaningless deeds might have been in a proper setting.

Instead of, we assume, how "dim" their deeds might have seemed (how "frail") when overwhelmed by the contemporary evil. Unlike frail/bright, "Green bay" is the hardest to reverse, but green for Thomas is the color of life, and bay seems to be an icon for the creative and the fresh. "Gray City" might be a good opposite.

Thus- crying how bright their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay

can be opposed by:

"celebrating how dim their strong deeds might have wilted in the gray city". . .which is rubbish. No good man would "celebrate how poorly his deeds would have gone over in a bad place". Yet every good man might *lament* how poorly his good deeds might have failed in a bad place, and (hope this isn't too confusingly worded) thus, should cry how bright their frail deeds **might** have danced in a green bay.

The conditional "might" makes all the difference in this. It lest us know that the deeds *did not actually* dance in the green bay, and thus, in classical opposition (for this is a miniature classical lament) it's safe to assume that what "actually" happened was that the "deeds" were dim in some other setting, and thus, to them, seemed "frail". And, hence, the desire to live, to continue, to struggle for the good causes them to rage.

But all this extends the simple apprehensive grasp that most of us have when reading into a morass of explication. Which is the trouble with most criticism.

I've never had a problem with these lines - they're symbolic, not metaphorical (no discernible tenor) and shouldn't be too deeply delved into once the emotional dynamic is made clear.

I happen to think they work, as does the poem, but would be interested in hearing why you think they specifically fail. You said it's "contorted" but it seems rhythmically and syntactically clear enough to me on a second reading (in large part because the spondees, "frail deeds" and "green bay" effectively control the pacing).

RJ

RJ,

I have no trouble with the grammar or syntax of the stanza. That is not the problem. The problem is that the meaning of the metaphor, or symbolism, is quite uncertain. Your lengthy and involved speculations about it come near to proving its uncertainty.

What is a symbol but a metaphor? A stands for B, or A is B. In this case, what are the deeds, symbolically or metaphorically speaking? Are they frail boats that might have rocked or danced on the waves (had there been any yet to come) in the bay? Do the good men mean that their frail craft might yet have come home to bob at anchor in a green bay? Were they brightly colored boats? Or is the poet thinking of dolphins that might have danced on their tails in a green bay? Were they frail, skinny dolphins? Might such dolphins, or boats, have been *bright* in their dancing? If so, in what sense?

No -- the meaning here, even the image one is supposed to see, is not certain. It is obscure and must be guessed at or done without.

Certainly the sound of the stanza is good -- but the import of the metaphor, or the symbols, remains private to the poet. I don't call that a successful metaphor, symbolic expression, or line. Hence this poem is not flawless.

That is my problem with this poem. And all the other villanelles that various people have recommended to me as *good* have shown similar flaws. It seems that at least one stanza must always contain some awkward or irrelevant idea, image or expression in order to obtain the rhyme or to fit in with the required repetitions.

Some, like this one of Thomas, are enjoyable and even moving-- except for flawed lines which some, even many, readers seem willing to overlook or which they do not read carefully and actively. E.A. Robinson's *The House on the Hill* is another such:

THE HOUSE ON THE HILL

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.

Consider whether the idea in the fifth stanza is intrinsic or extrinsic to the rest of the poem. Again I say it is not... the SKILL of the poet is, it seems to me, irrelevant, providing nothing except the rhyme required by the form. For the poet to suddenly leave his subject (the condition of the house and the absence of its former occupants) is, to me, distracting and obstructive to the success of the poem. The villanelle form wins out again. The poem loses.

G

Hmm. Very good points, G. I'd say that E.A. Robinson's "The House on the Hill" is a much more modest poem, with nothing of the transformational in it (statement/description/restatement) and, moreover, isn't very compelling. It does illustrate your point pretty well.

I wonder though (in general) if "absolute" meaning is necessary to a successful metaphor? I generally speak of "primary" meaning- i.e. a phrase/image who's meaning is not certain, but has one possibility at the forefront after small effort. Some of the Rilke translations, or Kunitz's poems work this way. The end of "The Testing-Tree" isn't logically parseable, yet the poem has us thinking along certain lines, so when we reach it, we are "led" towards a "most obvious" meaning. Yet other poems might flounder and offer little support for (or contradictory undercutting of) their more ambiguous lines; thus the common tag that the poem has "earned it" when coming across a more ambig line in well made poem.

I'm not sure if this argument holds for "Do Not Go Gentle" but it might be worth considering. Perhaps some symbols or metaphors can function as a place holder for "any good thing"/"any bad thing" and manage to work for a reader within the context of the poem.

What do you think of Bishop's? I'd rate that one even higher than DNGG, actually I'd rate Bishop as one of the major poets of the twentieth century; imop her work accomplishes more than Eliot's.

ONE ART

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 beloved 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!) a disaster.

Elizabeth Bishop

PS: One assumes DT means that the dancing deeds, in visible shapes, might have been brightly illuminated by the light of life, were that light not dying. The other three-line stanzas deal with light in one form or another -- but the metaphors there are all quite intelligible -- or so they seem to me. It is the poet's failure, in this stanza, to describe or even to imply what the visible shapes are which especially troubles me. Do you think he meant readers to see the deeds as boats? *Frail* might suggest that, but it's all too unclear.

Doubtless D.T., somewhere, to someone, explained what he meant here, but the meaning is not determinable with any certainty from the poem itself.

G.

RJ

Evidently our posts crossed. Just read your last. Personally I dislike Bishop's work. It seems dry and devoid of poetry to me. I see no beauty in it at all -- just technique. It hits me nowhere.

I guess there's no point in our discussing any particular poem by Bishop, since you like her so much and I dislike her just as much. Someone has said that in commenting on a poem a critic's first goal should be to avoid offending those who love it.

As for the notion that the meaning of a metaphor should be clear, I do hold such a notion. I don't mind being a little uncertain as to what a slithy tove is or looks like, but in serious verse I like to know what I'm supposed to be reading about, whether boats, dolphins, or the aurora borealis.

I should have said before, however, that it is not only the irrelevant idea, image or line that causes good villanelles to be less than perfect poems -- sometimes it may be just the subject or treatment. Ernest Dowson made some fine efforts, but all his villanelles, even Wine, Women and Song, fall short, in my opinion.

Question: Was the prototype and standard for villanelle's, Jean Passerat's *J'ai perdu ma tourterelle:* a good poem? I don't know. French is not my native tongue.

G.

Sorry I can't help with your question as I've never bothered studying the history of Villanelles (beyond just reading them, that is). Thanks for posting the poems; it's been a good discussion.

RJ

Vladimir Horowitz was asked once why he made so many mistakes. I could avoid the mistakes, he replied, but it would mean holding back.

Having noted that Shakespeare "scarce blotted a line," Ben Jonson said, "would he had blotted a thousand!"

How important is perfection? It seems to me that the greatest works of art are not necessarily the most perfect. Excessive caution produces mediocrity. One must overreach a bit, take a few risks, tolerate a few flaws to achieve the greatest good.

Hi Josh,

I agree with you in large, but why do it in such a straitjacket as the villanelle or, even worse, the sestina? Compositions in these two forms are, in my opinion, parlor tricks -- like playing chess blindfold. Blindfold chess is almost never really good chess. Villanelles and sestinas are almost never really good poems.

Phraseological Infelicities

A good example of the flawed but famous is Shelley's "Ozymandias", which is the second-highest-placed sonnet in the BBC's book of the 100 favourite British poems. If Shelley had posted it to Sonnet Central it would have got a good kicking, and deservedly so in view of its padding and tautologies. Even so it is a very fine poem and deserves its popularity. Regards

'Morning, David,

Could you point out the flawed lines? I'm not sure which ones you mean. Maybe line 8? The *and's* in line 5?

I met a traveler from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert . . . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which still survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing else remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

Afternoon, Golias.
No, I was thinking of the closing:
"Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away."
(30 syllables)
When you analyse it, Shelley is saying this:
"Nothing remains except the wreck."
(8 syllables)
It's a good example of what Jonson called the Procrustean bed of sonnetry: chopping or (in this case) stretching the subject to fit the form, and sounding self-consciously Poetical in the process. Only we mustn't say so about Shelley!
Regards

Now that you explain it, DA, I see what you mean, but I rather think the last image helps the poem. Probably that's why I overlooked the stretching.

Dear Percy was vulnerable in so many ways: bad husband, gifted but overly effusive poet, and a poor sailor.

G

Maybe Shelley needed a workshop: I met a traveler from an antique land
("antique land" is too "poetic"--try old country)
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
(Needs tightening. Don't need "two" since legs come in pairs. "Vast" is
inaccurate--how can legs be vast? "Trunkless" is awkward. How about:
"Big stone legs" (lack of body is implied)

Stand in the desert . . . Near them, on the sand,

"on the sand" is superfluous since we already know they're in the desert.

Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,

Tighten. Try: "A shattered face with a sneer"

Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Archaic inversion. Try: "read those passions well."

Which still survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed:

"fed"? Fed what? Or on what? Pls clarify.

And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing else remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

Tighten. Too many syllables. Try:
The pedestal read: "Look what I've done, big shots, and give up!
That was it. Nothing left except the wreck."

Hmm. Joan- Close to Twain on Cooper but lacking the wryness.

And I was always bothered by:

Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert . . . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,

Which seems to be mutually exclusionary. I.e. it's either "on the sand" or it's "Half sunk". But if you work at the image, it's not too bad. Regardless, it's a classic.

RJ

Hello Joan.
That's a very fine analysis, and you highlight, very wittily, the defects in this sonnet. The fact is, as Golias implies, that Shelley was too expansive to be a good sonneteer. But he had the magic and struck a chord with humanity.
Regards

RJ,

I agree with you (gasp) re: the apparent mutual exclusions of "on the sand" and "half-sunk." And yes, I agree it is a classic. It's also one of my favorites.

David,

I hope you're being facetious--I was. I really don't think the work is defective.

Joan

Hello Joan. No, I'm not being facetious. Some of your comments re archaisms, etc, are obviously flippant, but your critique is basically well-founded, and most of the comments you make have been made before by serious critics. The point about Ozymandias is that it rises above such detail: partly because it is a sonnet, and sonnets have a force all of their own that free verse can never aspire to; partly because of the brilliant ambiguity of the closing; and partly because it is about Rameses the Great who, of course, left us much more than a pair of legs. Regards

David,

That's very interesting (about other critics of Ozy). However, I do think it's a mistake to critique works from another cultural era using contemporary standards (thus my joshing with it, workshop style).

Re:

"The point about Ozymandias is that it rises above such detail: partly because it is a sonnet, and sonnets have a force all of their own that free verse can never aspire to; partly because of the brilliant ambiguity of the closing; and partly because it is about Rameses the Great who, of course, left us much more than a pair of legs."

I absolutely agree. And, I would add that what we view now as a "defect" (filling out the line) made for a musicality that added to its power. As you say, its content--what is actually about--also enhances its power because it provides some intellectual satisfaction. I think those two elements: musicality (in or out of form) and intellectually satisfying content are notably absent from much of our contemporary poetry.

Thanks, Joan

Golius,

There are a number of forms (villanelles, pantoums, etc.) that require repetition and present other restrictions that make it difficult to write a "perfect" poem in the form.

That being said, the strength of some poems, such as the one by Thomas that initiated the thread, seems to draw upon the characteristics of the form. The repetition, the reinforcement, all act to add depth to the poem and strengthen the reader's emotional reaction.

The form alone is not sufficient, as the Bishop example shows, but matched with the right subject and images, the form can be a contributing factor in the "greatness" of the poem as an entity.

JB

Hi Josh,

I agree with you in large, but why do it in such a straitjacket as the villanelle or, even worse, the sestina? Compositions in these two forms are, in my opinion, parlor tricks -- like playing chess blindfold. Blindfold chess is almost never really good chess. Villanelles and sestinas are almost never really good poems.

Hi Golias,

Well, my personal preference is for the English rather than the French garden. But neither can succeed without the right combination of land, seeds, light, effort, water, and skill, and those who lack sufficient quantities of the above should probably stick to window boxes. Which is to say that while I've found that the strictures of form can liberate rather than constrain the imagination, the poet must be up to the job. Otherwise form takes over and the poem serves it, rather than the other way around. And the more difficult the form, the more difficult it is to make it serve the work, which is why, like you, I find so many sestinas and villanelles tedious exercises at best, and why I think a poet should choose the most difficult form that a) he can master and b) serves the task at hand.

In this case, I think Thomas made exactly the right choice. Not that he didn't get a few bites and scratches on the way; all formal poetry inflicts them. But I think Thomas used formal repetition to reflect the recasting of possibilities and arguments in the face of inevitably painful consequence, and it seems to me that the work owes some of its magnificent power to that choice.

Hi David,

Funny, this thread had me thinking of "Ozymandias" too, because I remember someone remarking--after reading it in one of the most moving poetry readings I've ever heard--that he thought Shelley had gotten into a bit of trouble along the way, but that it mattered not at all.

I sometimes think that those of us who undertake to criticize the work of the greats, and for that matter of one another, are a bit like window washers who have been hired as building inspectors: we find lots of smudges because we don't know how to ascertain the state of the foundation. If someone came up to me and said "on the sand, half sunk, I saw this big stone face," I wouldn't think twice about it. I'd know what he meant. Conversely, someone could describe a stone face with the grammatical exactitude of a trained linguist, and it wouldn't make an impression. It just doesn't make a difference, any more than the window smudges do.

[I think those two elements: musicality (in or out of form) and intellectually satisfying content are notably absent from much of our contemporary poetry.

Thanks, Joan]

Joan, well said. I couldn't agree with you more.

By the way, I wholly agree with the comments above that the villanelle format can make a good poem great. I have little time for pantoums and sestinas, except as an intellectual challenge, but next to sonnets I love villanelles the most, and hope one day to write one. Yes, strict form can be a straitjacket. But also it is a first line of defence against loose and ill-considered thought, and can create its own beauty and logic. Regards

David,

"...But also it is a first line of defence against loose and ill-considered thought, and can create its own beauty and logic."

I agree. Using a form like the villanelle forces you into a kind of word-by-word precision you don't feel you need in free verse. It forces you to go to word choices, turns of phrase, that often create surprises and new directions. In that sense, paradoxically, form *fosters* creativity rather than constricting it. In free verse, the open territory is so vast, one often shrinks in order to mark out their space--how many free verse poems do you see on the mundane activities of someone's life? It's like the child creating a safe little play-space in a huge field. Because we need to mark the boundaries somehow. Instead of pressing

That being said, I usually don't like contemporary villanelles or sestinas unless they really "mess up" the form somehow. Very, very few lines can bear so much repetition. It's the relentless quality I find off-putting. And when a mediocre line keeps getting showcased..ugh.

I have a lot of early work written in form and adhering to meter--now, I guess, my "juvenilia." ;-) And I studied initially with a real craftsman-poet for several years before getting totally bored and needing to accelerate into a whole different realm. Still, I believe that early work in form and meter served me well.

Best, Joan

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