The Terzanelle is a poetry type which is a combination of the villanelle and the terza rima forms. It is a 19-line poem consisting of five interlocking triplets/tercets plus a concluding quatrain in which the first and third lines of the first triplet appear as refrains. The middle line of each triplet is repeated, reappearing as the last line of the succeeding triplet with the exception of the center line of the next-to-the-last stanza which appears in the quatrain. The rhyme and refrain scheme for the triplets is as follows:
Ending Type 1:
Ending Type 2:
Each line of the poem should be the same metrical length.
1. Some people abhor quiet and others they adore it, I would say I’m often in the latter group but not all the time; we all have this need to be sociable creatures to some extent, whether it’s to meet new clients and network; gab with our girlfriends or see the boys for a game; or simply sit in a coffee shop and absorb the hum of conversation occurring around us.
2. I have this love for quiet (or silence you might call it) because they’re special ideas and transfigurations of your imagination hiding within it; some people can feed their creativity in the loud and garish noises of a crowd of people yelling and hollering to a person near to them; but the best place for some of us to elaborate on ideas and call fourth the muses of our imagination is in the silence where we write brilliant stories, paint paintings, and daydream of our future creations.
3. Sometimes it’s not the quiet or silence which is meaningful, but the spaces inbetween the quiet, because in those hidden molecules lives a powerful and significant understanding between two people; it is love in it’s magnificence which exists within the silences of husbands and wives, partners, girlfriends and boyfriends, children and their parents, grandparents and grandchildren, friends, and people and their pets; this space within silence is a secret place two people who love each other exceptionally, coexist together without uttering a single word, while both comprehending each other deeply even within each other’s souls.
I could paint you a brilliant picture in so many vibrant colours; I don’t know if you’ll like it, but it will still be art. And it might only be words.
Art has such varied definitions. I’ll give you every kind. The tattoo of a woman hair blowing, she flies across your back and chest — one of my favourite species of art.
Graffiti of the skin is truly sublime. Graffiti on the wall can be merely a mural. When I was in high school Art, I painted murals across the school. I learned the texture of a wall.
Michelangelo and Adam touching fingertips by the stairs. And a leafy haven enfolding items of art and drama. We viewed them both as art, glimmering and sublime.
But the building changed functions and they painted over the murals. To them they were just tasteless high school meaningless graffiti. They weren’t works of art to liven up the solid, boring, white wall paint. Some people are boxed in by definitions of what art is and is not.
When I visited San Diego, under all the bridges was this fantastic and beautiful graffiti. It was art out loud and it was allowed to beautify a dirty place, under a bridge. It was enlightening, let them do graffiti.
And I’m always wondering when an artist paints a mural to make an area prettier, why some kid has to ruin it spray painting orange profanities.
I guess to him his graffiti is a greater art. But to anyone who knows beauty, a terrible sin was created when he sprayed over a mural which told a story in paint already.
If you are going to do graffiti, you should do it at the right place or atleast do it well.
I love it at the skateboard park when all those skinny skaters, bring their spray paint and go wild on the places they do flips and ollies.
Graffiti can be outstanding a burst of skittle colors on blank pages of a building. Like the tattoo artists who create images of meaning on our body, there can be so much meaning behind Graffiti.
And it should be allowed because art is a personal freedom. If you have the skill to electrify and colourize any white surface professionally or learning, let the artist work. Let them rain beauty.
As a girl who has done some art and knows something on the subject, I can tell you the kind of tools and subject matter is different with every person for any drawing or painting done in art.
And you can see the varied methods of art when we explore collages, or twisted metal sculptures. Rooms of installations with the sounds of birds chirping and flying.
You can see art in the artists who stand still for many hours, when we light up a bridge or tower, when the sky springs with pride on our country’s birthday with fireworks.
You can’t fit art in one place. It is everywhere and everything. Art is people kissing and the way the sunlight hits their faces. Art is old men walking, and the heart and effort it takes to walk with a healing hip.
Art is graffiti. It is any kind of inspiration that can be found or can be given. It is crazy thoughts we think will never work. But one day they do. In a starburst of evolution art is created.
So give me more graffiti, as long as it’s quality. As long as for me, it’s beauty. Art is central to the individual as the butterfly tattoo on your hip. Or the poppy tattoo you can’t quite convince yourself to get.
Put Graffiti on white spaces. Like the little guys who put crayon and felt tips on their mother’s walls.
Spray paint a glorious vision of passion and reality; the metaphysical delusions that only make sense to you.
Spin for me a radiant vision of a catastrophe honoured or a special day realized. Make your art poetry, make poetry graffiti.
You can spray the truth and I’ll write it without subterfuge. I’ll give you a blast of colour, shape, line, form, and design with my words.
My words are the spray paint and I’m painting your soul. A spectacular illusion of light and space that alludes to deeper meanings and all the colours celebrate.
Let me paint a picture for you: I am in the living room at home. The walls are seashell beige on the wall opposite of me where there is a grand picture window with wispy white see-through curtains. Behind me the wall is a darker beige, with a slight green tinge to it. To the right is a corner cabinet in oak, furniture my Uncle built, displaying a few trinkets. Beside the corner cabinet to the left is a side-table stained in a darker wood with a butter yellow corrugated place mat on it. Beside it is a deep dark red-orange sofa with a sheet covering the seat and back. The sheet is off white with brown and copper leaves. In front of the coach is a french provincial coffee table with a cream runner on top. The left corner of this coach is usually where I sit and write. It is quite comfortable, a place to sink into words.
The side table is where I pile various textbooks I’m using for school: Furniture in History 3000 BC – 2000 AD, and papers about applying for a Masters in Fine Arts. There is a little leaf green binder for portion sizes of food you eat; I try to follow the guide. It’s from when I was doing Herbal Magic. There are tabs of varied colours you can write on to make a divider for your binder or mark a chapter in the textbook. There is lip chap, pens of blue and black, paper clips, and a binder for my Furnishing’s Course –thick with printed out slides and notes. In front of me is the IKEA catalogue. And to the left of me a framed vertical drawing of a bench and buildings in Ottawa, it’s matting is forest green. There is a lamp that’s tall with a cream lamp shade, providing light to me as I write on my lap top. I am resting my right arm on a multicolored brown, orange and red pillow, a muted knitted purple blanket covers my legs. Usually it’s nice and quiet during the day, everyone is at work. But lately, there is a loud truck across the street and it runs and makes the most horrible rumbling sounds. I’m trying to ignore it and I can’t do anything about it. But I wish the people would hurry up and leave already or get their truck fixed.
I’m burning a candle on the coffee table it smells like heavenly vanilla, I love that smell. And I just keep on writing. I wish I had a quiet room with a desk and a comfortable leather chair to sit in, where I was looking out the window at the river valley full of orange and red in Autumn. A place I couldn’t hear this rumbling noise, it’s like a tractor. But you write where you write and create your “room of your own” wherever you can find the space. This will do for now.