I wrote this villanelle for class. I'm 21 and have witnessed and partaken in college drinking the last few years. I wrote this when I had a semi-serious problem.
I’m not an
alcoholic, no, not yet.
It runs in
my genes like my eye color.
Don’t puke,
don’t stumble, you will lose the bet.
Every
weekend a bottle is met,
my lips draw
sweet sourness like a lover,
but not an
alcoholic, no, not yet.
It’s just me
being social, I won’t let
it take hold
of me as it did mother.
Don’t puke,
don’t stumble, you will lose the bet.
In class I bring a Jameson Coke, a
trick trophy conveniently covert.
I’m not an
alcoholic, no, not yet.
Not
twenty-one, through others I must get
the heat,
the speed, my heightening brother.
Don’t puke,
don’t stumble, you will lose the bet.
Soon I’m
losing control, like-a feral pet
they turn to
bite me over and other.
I’m not an
alcoholic, no, not yet,
do(n’t)
puke, do(n’t) stumble, …I have lost the bet.
There's a sense of denial running through your verse with expression of opposite outward signs "like a trophy convert". Also the inference that it's not the subject's responsibility, "it runs in my genes like my eye color". I like also your use of "like-a feral pet", suggesting the subject was once tame, but has been led astray, with a sense of realization just at the end.
Not bad for sticking into the structure of a villanelle, though it feels like you may have stretched the definitons of a villanelle just a tad? I do enjoy the nice lacing you've accomplished throughout the poem
Matt,
I'm so sorry for the loss of your father. What a tragedy for you. My family is wrought with alcoholism. My mother, thank God, has now achieved 10 years of sobriety but she almost didn't live to become sober. My father was in much the same boat as yours, but he ended up in jail. It may have saved his life. Alcoholism is a masked terror many people fail to see. It breaks my heart to hear what happened to you.
I did mean covert, not convert. Sorry I didn't see you thought that. I'm so glad you like the feral pet part. My teacher wasn't so fond of that, but I think you have a deeper understanding of what I meant that she did. I have had experiences with feral animals. A cat I was trying to foster for the Humane Society was kind of tame, so I thought I could rehabilitate him. First, he viciously attacked me, but I made the excuse that he was scared. Then, he almost killed my other cat. We ended up having to put him to sleep. It was really hard. Thank you so much for the lengthy review! It helped me to like this piece a lot more.
Miss Manda. I have to tell you that I lost my father two years ago to alcoholism. He had advanced cirrhosis of the liver, and suffered from alcoholic dementia the last year of his life. His drinking never slowed or stopped, right up to the day he passed away. Your poem so clearly depicts the excuses and permissions that we fabricate to allow ourselves to participate in what we know is self-destructive behavior. Your observations apply to any addiction, any crime, and any cruelty that a human being can be tempted to engage in. “I am doing this thing, but this thing is not me.” We tell ourselves that we’re in control, and different from all the others who have fallen into the hole that they can’t get out of. Then, one day, we realize that we’re right there with them, clambering to get back to the freedom we talked ourselves calmly into throwing away.
Christopher, I like your review. However, the first line you mentioned actually describes the Jameson-Infused Coke as a “covert” (rather than convert) trophy. To me, this implies that the writer was proud of herself for being so bold as to have alcohol in class. She was underage and pleased with herself, also, for the creative way in which she disguised her dissobedience.
I interpreted the “feral pet” allusion differently as well. The word “feral” applies more to a creature that was never tamed than to something that once was. In high school I had a friend who rescued a baby raccoon that had fallen out of the den its mother had set up in a disused treehouse on his property. It was the cutest little thing but, as it grew, it became less and less affectionate and much more destructive. He told me one day, after he’d released it in a nearby park, that it was really hard for him to get over his affinity for the animal he’d considered a pet…but that he’d realized it never was and never could be tamed. The addiction that is the subject of this piece is similar. It lulls a person into a sense of being in control. It offers enjoyment, release, and distraction. The time eventually comes when the person sees it’s gotten larger, more dangerous, and downright sinister. It’s a happy day when someone has the strength to recognize that change and set the thing free…but many times the bond between man and wild pet is too strong to break, and the human being is pulled into the dark woods on the tail of his habit, never to return. Ha ha. That was a lengthy and overly wordy review…but this theme struck me hard. Great job Amanda! I love it. I am glad you let your coon go.
Thanks so much for your comments! I was kind of nervous about trophy covert, since it kind of messes up the rhyme scheme and was not the original in the first draft of the poem. I appreciate the input :).
There's a sense of denial running through your verse with expression of opposite outward signs "like a trophy convert". Also the inference that it's not the subject's responsibility, "it runs in my genes like my eye color". I like also your use of "like-a feral pet", suggesting the subject was once tame, but has been led astray, with a sense of realization just at the end.
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