Sestina Challenge

[Juniper]

I'm currently writing an essay on "Sestina" by Elizabeth Bishop.

In the process, I'm learning a lot about this very cool poetry form. If you like structured poetry like haikus, limericks, sonnets, etc. you might have fun writing a sestina.

It's new to me so forgive me if I'm telling you something that EVERYBODY knew except me, the lunkhead. So you take six words related to a theme, and stick them at the end of each line. A sestina is 6 stanzas of 6 lines each, and the end words get scrambled according to a pattern, followed by a tercet at the end that includes all six words, one buried in the middle, one at the end...gosh, this is complicated. Here's the poem I'm writing about:

Sestina by Elizabeth Bishop

September rain falls on the house.
In the failing light, the old grandmother
sits in the kitchen with the child
beside the Little Marvel Stove,
reading the jokes from the almanac,
laughing and talking to hide her tears.

She thinks that her equinoctial tears
and the rain that beats on the roof of the house
were both foretold by the almanac,
but only known to a grandmother.
The iron kettle sings on the stove.
She cuts some bread and says to the child,

It's time for tea now; but the child
is watching the teakettle's small hard tears
dance like mad on the hot black stove,
the way the rain must dance on the house.
Tidying up, the old grandmother
hangs up the clever almanac

on its string. Birdlike, the almanac
hovers half open above the child,
hovers above the old grandmother
and her teacup full of dark brown tears.
She shivers and says she thinks the house
feels chilly, and puts more wood in the stove.

It was to be, says the Marvel Stove.
I know what I know, says the almanac.
With crayons the child draws a rigid house
and a winding pathway. Then the child
puts in a man with buttons like tears
and shows it proudly to the grandmother.

But secretly, while the grandmother
busies herself about the stove,
the little moons fall down like tears
from between the pages of the almanac
into the flower bed the child
has carefully placed in the front of the house.

Time to plant tears, says the almanac.
The grandmother sings to the marvelous stove
and the child draws another inscrutable house.

The end words are repeated like this:
ABCDEF
FAEBDC
CFDABE
ECBFAD
DEACFB
BDFECA

You take the last three letters, say, DEF, flip them around FED, put the F first, then the first letter of the other set of three, A, second letter of the flipped-around last three, E, second letter of the first set, B, third letter of the last three, D, third letter of the first set, C...etc.

So now go here and use this nifty end-word generator so you won't have to think that hard:
http://dilute.net/sestinas/

And write one. I'm going to try it later, perhaps after consuming some adult beverages.

[Sundae]

I've been slowly sidling up to writing a sistina for ages. I won't write it quickly, but you have inspired me to start putting pen to paper rather than just musing on useful words when I'm on the bus.

On this page is Saul's Death Joe Haldeman, which Urbane Guerilla posted, and I then followed up with IVF Kona MacPhee, (at a time when Clodfobble had had to jump through some terrible hoops before her first pregnancy).

[BigV]

(marks thread for future reference)

[sestina]

ABCDEF
FAEBDC
CFDABE
ECBFAD
DEACFB
BDFECA

[/sestina]



Ok! That sounds pretty cool.

[Juniper]

I know...this is not a small undertaking. I wasn't sure if I'd get any bites, but it sounded fun, I guess, in a perverse way.

(yeah, this post would sound odd out of context...)

[monster]

why do I feel I need to write a Sestina about scrip....? shoot me now... Juni, I may come to hate you..... it's long story.

[Ibby]

sometimes i'm afraid when i sleep
i think that my heart's going to break
twain when i wake, never again to heal
and like a sad, sad, bitter dream
that you can't let go of, i fight
waking away, as if in waking i'll find death

but what of this supposed death
that i fear waits when i leave sleep
for the embrace of day? that i fight
my hardest not to feel, but always, at day break,
i find intruding on my dream?
i feel like i wont ever heal

from it. but how could e'er i heal
from fear, from fear of fickle death?
but as i sleep, and as i dream
i realize, it isn't waking, but sleep
i fear, and bonds i can not break
from a world where i need not fight

against the monsters of the world that fight
against man, and joy, and will never heal
the soul of man, that spirit of every heart break,
that monsterous evil of pain and death
and hate, and i just want to sleep
and dream forevermore, just to dream

until theres nothing left outside the dream,
until i no longer have to fight
to stay in bed, fight to sleep,
until i can stay forever, until i heal,
until i nevermore fear hate and death,
until these things are gone, and i break

with reality, break with life, break
from everything except the dream
and in this dream i will find death
or not death, the life without the fight,
the death that is life that will heal
and keep you from hate in eternal sleep

but i can't fight without a break
i can't just dream and never heal
i fear not death... i leave this sleep.

[Ibby]

im actually thinking about turning this one into a solo theatre piece...

edited:

sometimes i'm afraid when i sleep
i think that my heart's going to break
'part when i wake, never again to heal
and like a sad, sad, bitter dream
that you can't let go of, i fight
waking away, as if in waking i'll find death

but what of this supposed death
that i fear waits when i leave sleep
for the embrace of day? that i fight
my hardest not to feel, but always, at day break,
i find intruding on my dream?
i feel like i wont ever heal
from it. but how could e'er i heal
from fear, from fear of fickle death?
but as i sleep, and as i dream i realize, it isn't waking, but sleep i fear, and bonds i can not break from a world where i need not fight

against the monsters of the world that fight against man, and joy, and will never heal the soul of man, that spirit of every heart break, that monsterous evil of pain and death and hate, and i just want to sleep and dream forevermore, just to dream

until theres nothing left outside the dream, until i no longer have to fight to stay in bed, fight to sleep, until i can stay forever, until i heal, until i nevermore fear hate and death, until these things are gone, and i break with reality, break with life, break from everything except the dream and in this dream i will find death - or not death, the life without the fight, the death that is life that will heal and keep you from hate in eternal sleep


but i can't fight without a break
i can't just dream and never heal
i fear not death... i leave this sleep.

[Ibby]

sometimes when i feel the wind
i think of how it blew her loose clothes
around her, and what i've lost
in my life, just to the march of time
and how i'd sometimes sit in the dark
and feel that all i have is my room

but lying alone in my room
hearing, howling at the window, the wind
blowing through the trees, stained dark
with the smoke of progress, her clothes
again blow through the mists of time
and into my head, and i don't feel lost,

cause who can ever feel lost
when they know that their room
is the same room that, time
and time again, through wind
and rain, they spent nights tangled in the clothes
of their lover, bodies pressed tight in the dark

of the room, dark of the night, dark
of love and secrets kept, lost
in eachother's eyes and, now, clothes
forgotten, we make the whole room
our own as rain pelts and wind
howls, and as we talk it seems time

loses all meaning, and then time
comes back all at once as the dark
lifts and the sun rises, wind
dead, rain stopped, and we feel the time we lost,
wasted, in that dark and stuffy room,
and we grab our things, our clothes,

and go out into the world, clothes
messy and wrinkled, like the old and time
ravaged, and as we strike out from our room
we know we no longer need the secret dark
and we know we've gone and almost lost
the race against time and the race against the wind...

but as we pick up our clothes in the secret dark
we fear not all the time we feel we've lost
spending time in love in the wind-battered old wooden room

sometimes when i feel the wind, i think of how it blew her loose clothes around her, and what i've lost in my life, just to the march of time, and how i'd sometimes sit in the dark and feel that all i have is my room. But lying alone in my room hearing, howling at the window, the wind blowing through the trees stained dark with the smoke of progress, her clothes again blow through the mists of time and into my head, and i don't feel lost, 'cause who can ever feel lost when they know that their room is the same room that, time and time again, through wind and rain, they spent nights tangled in the clothes of their lover, bodies pressed tight in the dark of the room, dark of the night, dark of love and secrets kept, lost in eachother's eyes and, now, clothes forgotten, we make the whole room our own as rain pelts and wind howls, and as we talk it seems time loses all meaning, and then time comes back all at once as the dark lifts and the sun rises, wind dead, rain stopped, and we feel the time we lost, wasted, in that dark and stuffy room, and we grab our things, our clothes, and go out into the world, clothes messy and wrinkled, like the old and time ravaged, and as we strike out from our room we know we no longer need the secret dark and we know we've gone and almost lost the race against time and the race against the wind...

but as we pick up our clothes in the secret dark
we fear not all the time we feel we've lost

[Juniper]

Very nice work, Ib. I like the second one better.

[Ibby]

I like them both better as poems rather than poetry, though.
i think i'm going to try to stage them as solo pieces, or a series thereof.

[Ibby]

some say there's something in the lake
that comes up close to the boat
(but only in the darkest part of night)
and quietly does swiftly swim
under twinkling, flashing summer stars
and the light of a summer moon -

the kind of shimmering moon
that you only find above a lake
on those night you can see all the stars
glittering like so many gems over the boat -
on these nights the creatures swim,
our lake's own dragons of the night,

or even, more like, dolphins of the night,
the way they jump into the light of the moon,
and the sheer joy with which they swim
like faries or even butterflies of the lake,
swimming along with almost every boat,
like every boat is their own friend under the stars.

and one of those nights, under the stars -
oh, i will always remember that night,
the waves slowly rocking her father's boat,
the two of us alone with the moon
floating, in love, on the still lake -
around us lovers they started to swim,

slowly at first, but then began to swim
faster and faster, indistinct shapes like stars
glittering under the water of the dark black lake;
and a hum arose, a song, a low sweet drone in the night,
the creatures singing their song to the moon
and to the two lovers floating in the stolen boat.

and oh how we loved eachother in that boat,
watching eachother, and watching the creatures swim.
and as we laid there, waiting as the moon
set on the horizon, as the stars
faded into dawn, and as that heavenly night
ended, the creatures sank silently back into the lake.

the next day on the lake, her daddy found us in his boat
and made sure that night was our last chance to swim
together with only the stars, in love under the summer moon.

some say there's something in the lake that comes up close to the boat (but only in the darkest part of night) and quietly does swiftly swim under twinkling, flashing summer stars and the light of a summer moon - the kind of shimmering moon that you only find above a lake on those night you can see all the stars glittering like so many gems over the boat - on these nights the creatures swim, our lake's own dragons of the night, or even, more like, dolphins of the night, the way they jump into the light of the moon, and the sheer joy with which they swim, like faries or even butterflies of the lake, swimming along with almost every boat, like every boat is their own friend under the stars. and one of those nights, under the stars - oh, i will always remember that night, the waves slowly rocking her father's boat, the two of us alone with the moon, floating, in love, on the still lake - around us lovers they started to swim, slowly at first, but then began to swim faster and faster, indistinct shapes like stars glittering under the water of the dark black lake; and a hum arose, a song, a low sweet drone in the night, the creatures singing their song to the moon and to the two lovers floating in the stolen boat. and oh how we loved eachother in that boat, watching eachother, and watching the creatures swim. and as we laid there, waiting as the moon set on the horizon, as the stars faded into dawn, and as that heavenly night ended, the creatures sank silently back into the lake.

the next day on the lake, her daddy found us in his boat
and made sure that night was our last chance to swim
together with only the stars, in love under the summer moon.

[Sundae]

I'm still trying.
But what I've done so far is just use the same words in the same context each time.

The form is completely dictating the meaning, and that's just a silly word puzzle, not a poem.

I hope to dazzle you one day, but not soon.