Golda Grais

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Villain-elle: Nosferatu
Nosferatu (film, 2024)

I am not a man. I am
a carnal bag of bones with a memorable quote,
my blood red as cherry jam.
 
A murmur which roars into bedlam
of pitch dark and minor, recondite notes.
I am not a man. I am

the whisper which leeches from Potsdam
to Constantinople, passed between men who wrote
my blood, read as cherry jam.
 
She’s the nip of an indignant lamb
who knows its purpose: to offer its throat. 
I am not a man. I am

gnashing hands slipping like grogram
fastened to her pearled clavicles in a coat
of my blood, red as cherry jam.
 
I am the surge of the damned,
the ravenous gut and open gloat. 
I am not a man. I am
my blood, read as cherry jam.

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Villain-elle: Griffith
Berserk (manga, 1989-Present)

If I heard
my name from the babel of pleas, cackles of glee, and their spilling blood of my sacrifice,
I did not say a word.

If I purred
my grand ambitions into every mercenary ear, I led them here. They never grumbled twice
if I heard.

If I spurred
my complexion to survive bludgeon, erection, rapier and rumor, I remained pale as edelweiss 
I did not say a word.

If I lured
my soldiers into this perdition with eagle eyed ambition, they might as well be startled mice
if I heard.

If I blurred
my sights to the two who ever looked me in the eye, caught glimpse of any potential paradise,
I did not say a word.

If I preferred
my name spoken with worried ruth, ungritted tooth, I would not have paid the grisly price.
But if I heard,
I did not say a word.

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Villain-elles and the Horror Genre: A Conversation with Golda Grais
Interview by John T. Leonard


J: The Villain-elle series uses one of poetry’s most formal structures to frame pop culture horror icons. What drew you to using the villanelle for these subjects (apart from the amazing play on words)?

G: My interest in villanelles began during the advanced poetry workshop I took during the fall 2024 semester, where the professor assigned “One Art” by Elizabeth Bishop and “Parsley” by Rita Dove as readings. While I had typically gravitated towards free verse in the past, I found that the villanelle hit a sweet spot between formal limitation and potential for play. I was compelled by how the repetition lends itself to the subject of obsession, forming a mantra or insistence upon a certain idea which can be recontextualized over the course of the poem. After jotting the pun “Villain-elle” in the margin of my notebook during class, (blame my improv comedy background,) I recognized an intuitive link between the form’s fervent nature and a villainous perspective. How might a villanelle expose the core motivations for these characters? How might they speak to themselves? How then, do they speak to us? Along with that, I wanted to demystify formal poetry’s stuffy reputation by blending it with a recognizable subject matter. Maybe a fan of vampire fiction who never fancied themselves a poetry enthusiast could find an entry point into that world through my work on Nosferatu.


J: Do you see these poems becoming part of a larger project or meant to stand alone?

G: I’ve written 14 “Villain-elles” so far and hope to expand the collection to chapbook length in the near future. The subjects range across genre and medium, from Gollum to Regina George to Grendel’s mother from Beowulf.


J: How does horror, as a genre, open up possibilities for you that another genre might not?

G: I love the freedom the horror genre provides. It’s singularly adept at putting language to societal anxieties, examining taboos, and proving a productive outlet for the darkness we’re all capable of holding within ourselves. There is so much compelling imagery and emotion to dissect when writing poetry within that space.


J: What advice would you give poets interested in experimenting with traditional forms in nontraditional ways?

G: When trying out a traditional form, it takes time to get used to the tools and limitations at your disposal and develop the instincts that will make for writing satisfying poems. I wrote and revised a lot of villanelles before I ever arrived at my first “good” villanelle. I try to honor tradition while providing my own spin on it in pursuit of a certain theme or idea, remembering that poetry is never static. Villanelles originated as pastoral dance-songs before they took on the structure we know today, and contemporary poets have been modifying that structure in intriguing new ways for years. It can be challenging, gratifying, and above all else fun to join in on that legacy.


J: What’s a hidden gem in the horror genre that you wish more people knew about? What’s the guilty-pleasure horror story or film you always come back to?

G: My horror hidden gem is the Chilean stop-motion film La Casa Lobo (or The Wolf House.) The film delves into a young woman’s psyche in the aftermath of her escaping a cult, physically distorting the comfort of fairy-tale imagery and domestic spaces with jaw-dropping animation. As for my greatest horror-adjacent guilty pleasure, that has to be the early seasons of Supernatural. Despite the show’s many flaws, the spooky early 2000s aesthetic is deeply nostalgic to me.


J: What drew you to Griffith as the focus of your Villain-elle? Was it his role in Berserk’s story, his betrayal, or something more symbolic?

G: I first binge-read nearly 300 chapters of Berserk in my freshman year of college, during a week of self-quarantine after both my roommates got COVID. (Miraculously, the only thing I contracted during that time was an ongoing obsession with Berserk.) When we first meet Griffith in the manga, he’s outwardly charismatic, always saying just the right thing to inspire devotion from those who follow him into battle. Then, in the infamous “eclipse” sequence, he gruesomely sacrifices his loved ones to obtain godlike power. What stuck with me the most about those chapters was how Griffith is predominantly silent as the action comes to a head. In my villanelle, I wanted to illuminate what could lie behind Griffith’s inability or refusal to speak in these moments, hence the lines “If I heard / I did not say a word.”


*As seen below, Golda was kind enough to share her annotated workshops notes with Rawhead and our readers. Thank you, Golda!

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Banner Art:
from Head (Bruno Aspelin), Magnus Enckell, 1894, National Library of Finland