Poetic Asides with Robert Lee Brewer - Sestina--6x6+3=39 (that's math)

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Thursday, January 17, 2008

Sestina--6x6+3=39 (that's math)
Posted by Robert

So yeah, I've been meaning to post something about the poetic form known as the sestina for quite some time. It's actually one of my favorite forms. You pick 6 words, rotate them as the end words in 6 stanzas and then include 2 per of the words per line in your final stanza.

Let's pick 6 random words: bears, carving, dynamite, hunters, mothers, blessing.

Here's how the end words would go:

Stanza 1
Line 1-bears (A)
Line 2-carving (B)
Line 3-dynamite (C)
Line 4-hunters (D)
Line 5-mothers (E)
Line 6-blessing (F)

Stanza 2
Line 7-blessing (F)
Line 8-bears (A)
Line 9-mothers (E)
Line 10-carving (B)
Line 11-hunters (D)
Line 12-dynamite (C)

Stanza 3
Line 13-dynamite (C)
Line 14-blessing (F)
Line 15-hunters (D)
Line 16-bears (A)
Line 17-carving (B)
Line 18-mothers (E)

Stanza 4
Line 19-mothers (E)
Line 20-dynamite (C)
Line 21-carving (B)
Line 22-blessing (F)
Line 23-bears (A)
Line 24-hunters (D)

Stanza 5
Line 25-hunters (D)
Line 26-mothers (E)
Line 27-bears (A)
Line 28-dynamite (C)
Line 29-blessing (F)
Line 30-carving (B)

Stanza 6
Line 31-carving (B)
Line 32-hunters (D)
Line 33-blessing (F)
Line 34-mothers (E)
Line 35-dynamite (C)
Line 36-bears (A)

Stanza 7
Line 37-bears (A), carving (B)
Line 38-dynamite (C), hunters (D)
Line 39-mothers (E), blessing (F)

While many poets try to write sestinas in iambic pentameter, that is not a requirement. Also, when choosing your six end words, it does help to choose words that can be altered if needed to help keep the flow of the poem going. For instance, take a look at the six end words chosen above:

Bears could be the noun or the verb and singular or plural; it could also be modified to bares, and I could possibly even get away with changing it to beer or beard.

Carving could be made plural and be a noun or verb; it could also be turned into craving or cravings--maybe even caving.

Dynamite has less potential for change; or does it? Dynamite could be used as a noun, verb or adjective. It could also be changed into dynamo or possibly even be changed to mite, miter or might.

And so on. I think you can see what I'm getting at.

*****

I got into sestinas as a result of taking a creative writing: poetry course at the University of Cincinnati taught by sestina master craftsman, James Cummins.

I'm going to go ahead and humiliate myself by posting one of my first ever sestinas (possibly, THE first ever sestina I've written). I was 18 at the time, so it truly is horrible.

"Senor Eastwood"

I can hear your blood
It's making noise
It is celebrating
The way you took that man down
With the guns in your hands
Now you can finally breathe

You begin to breathe
When you notice the blood
You cover with your hands
Your mouth mumbling noise
As your knees drop down
No more celebrating

The mortician is celebrating
As your lungs hypobreathe
He'd like to lower you down
After you run dry of blood
And run void of noise
He'd like to cross your hands

All a result of the man's hands
Not quick enough for celebrating
He didn't get any of that noise
He didn't get to hypobreathe
And he didn't notice any blood
He just went down

He got to take you down
With him and his hands
Just quick enough to draw blood
You didn't get much celebrating
As now you don't have to breathe
And you're deceased of noise

And now do you hear noise
Did you go up or down
Does it hurt to not breathe
Are you still trapped with your hands
Is there any celebrating
Is there any blood

I really would like to know about the blood and noise
For though the celebrating has all calmed down
I'm old and my hands are shaky as is the way I breathe

About the only thing going for this piece is that I did keep the end words in the right order. Outside of that, I picked horrible end words. Beyond that, I was still writing very, very, VERY abstract. Oh yeah, and there's like totally no punctuation. O, am I blushing!

*****

Here's a little more on sestinas from around the Web:

* Wikipedia entry

* The Sestina Verse Form, by Ariadne Unst

* McSweeney's Internet Tendency sestinas page featuring several examples by many, many writers (including Professor Cummins)

*****

Check out Poetic Forms archive.

Personal Updates | Poetic Forms | Poets

Thursday, January 17, 2008 6:35:34 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

Comments [33]

Friday, January 18, 2008 3:04:37 AM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

Another way you choose words for your sestina is to play off the sound of the word. For instance, you might choose "ate." The possibilities are nearly unlimited as you could use versions of longer words that end with those three letters, such as:

hate
skate
vituperate
migrate

or use words that sound like ate, but are spelled differently, such as

weight
Haight-(and enjamp Ashbury on the next line)
fait

You can see where I'm going. I love the sestina too!

Allen Taylor

Friday, January 18, 2008 2:55:39 PM (GMT Standard Time, UTC+00:00)

Yes, definitely. The form can definitely get addicting.

Robert Lee Brewer

Tuesday, April 28, 2009 1:42:51 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)

Sestina to a Dawn Death

Over the dawn lake, the college seniors rowed.
Susan tells me it's a fluke
that she joined the group. Never intended be at the bow,
paddling, stronger than her brother Joe. The sound
of her alarm clock at five
am bringing her closer

to God. She was raised close
to a Christian summer camp, but her family had a row
with them when she was only five.
One of the pastors threw his fluke
too far and it bottomed out the sound
they both shared. There's no repairing that with a bow

or a prayer. Her family became atheists, bowed
only to the morning sun, and she closed
her door to the dawn until twenty. Her snores sounded
like ships off shore, her brother told me once, rowing
and splashing and mourning, a whale fluke
in their shared bedroom. Never awake before five

after twelve on the weekends, five
minutes after lunch was over. Not even her brother's bow
and arrow with the rubber cup fluke
tip could come close
to getting her up early. Row
after row of wrinkles on her sheets, sound

asleep. Now the sound
of early sparrows gets her up at five
after four each morn. Rowing
is what keeps her going, tying bow
knots and pulling rigging. Closing
fish heads around the fluke

accidents of an awkward oar that, by fluke,
killed it dead. The sound
of her mom calling brought themall closer
together after their dad died. Five
tumors, all together, bowed
under the weight of each other.
Each other's voices on the phone rowed

them through the fluke of five
years of sound, bowing
grief. Closer than ever to life, the ultimate row to hoe.

Miriam Hall

Tuesday, April 28, 2009 1:47:44 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)

... and we seem to have a choice of end-stanza patterns:
http://geocities.com/suzstina/sestina.htm

Could this be more fun than the Villanelle? Let's rock :)

Anders Bylund

Tuesday, April 28, 2009 1:49:15 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)

... and we seem to have a choice of end-stanza patterns:
http://geocities.com/suzstina/sestina.htm

Could this be more fun than the Villanelle? Let's rock :)

Anders Bylund

Tuesday, April 28, 2009 3:57:05 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)

Poet Challenge # 28 April 28

Thank the Lord this is Tuesday,
As I get a second choice.
I must study sestina
To give it a proper voice.

Confusions ring through my mind.
I thought I had it at first,
Then I read your second part:
Bearing different words with verse.

So I opt for second choice
And thank God it's an option,
But I'll ponder sestina
For possible adoption.

Maybe resubmit later,
After I can digest it.
In the meantime, here this is;
No sestina? You guessed it.

Sandy Dickson

Sandy Dickson

Tuesday, April 28, 2009 4:08:27 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)

Sestina Stuff

Robert, the deed's been done
You've sucked out all the fun
"Sestina" I'm to write
The rules are far too tight

I choose not to conform
And will not thus suborn
The premise that I might
Enjoy this form to write

My mood this style wrecks
A Sestina so complex
Though it pains my heart
This task I will not start

Ray Alkofer

Tuesday, April 28, 2009 4:20:31 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)

okay, a sestina:

dreams in nights of silk and wool

The sweetest thing in springtime is the nights
Light lasts later and the darkness settles soft
More like silk around the shoulders than wool
Intense, the perfume of opening flowers
Spring calls you from sleep that you may dream
On a window seat, the lawn below spread with moonlight

What else is it for, the moonlight
But to weave its way through the nights
To turn the harsh shadows of daylight soft
And in winter, spread its beams over blanket wool
Perhaps to bring the memories of flowers
To someone tucked up tight and set to dream

There is no springtime softness in wool
But yet it can be softened by the moonlight
Coarseness turns to petal-softened flowers
In long and cold winter nights
Snowflakes seen from windows may look soft
But daytime comes and soon destroys that dream

All through the heat of summer one might dream
Of snowy nights and blankets made of wool
But springtime’s nights are altogether soft
shot through with silver threads of moonlight
the sweetest thing in springtime is the nights
perfumed with riots of newly blooming flowers

late summer brings a fading of the flowers
and somehow even brighter beams of moonlight
as if someone is telling us that nights
may soon forgo the silk and call for wool
still as with every season we will dream
in sleep with breaths of slumber ever soft

the nights of spring and summer, although soft
and heavy with the redolence of flowers
filled with gold and silver shades of moonlight
each person calls upon their dream
whether they are silken threads or wool
dreaming’s how most humans spend their nights

may dream filled nights all be soft
May gathered wool be sweet as gathered flowers
May you always dream in the magic of moonlight

halfmoon_mollie

Tuesday, April 28, 2009 5:06:31 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)

Woman and Beast

by Therese Haberman

She wanted to follow his lead
Blushing like a newly opened flower
Her eyes sparkled with magic
Blush from her cheeks did not drain
She was a lovely young woman
Playing games with a true beast

He was not always a beast
To entice her he would lead
Enraptured by this woman
He would love to de-flower
His thoughts were like a sewer drain
He pulled rabbits from his sleeve as cheap magic

The beast had lost he real magic
And so became this beast
All of his goodness had drained
Now only his evil could lead
From his black sleeve came a flower
Meant to distract this young woman

But she was more than a child, this woman
Possessing some magic
Of her own, she looked beyond his flower
Into the true heart of the beast
Her eyes did lead
Down his naked drain

Oh such pain deep in his drain
She took pity, did this woman
She sought to lead
Him into the good magic
To make him a beast
No more, but a flower

Again he offered his flower
Which she threw down the drain
And evil was defeated within the beast
He had found a true woman
Who saw through his false magic
And took the lead

They would lead their lives to flower
Using magic only for good, his pain did drain
Life was good for the woman and her man, the former beast.

Therese Haberman

Tuesday, April 28, 2009 5:30:00 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)

key to success

Don’t ever give up on your hope
Because that’s the winnings of fear
Stick it out for your dreams
And allow yourself to succeed,
If you ever feel like crashing
Hold on, remember that’s the art of passion.

Concentrate on your passion,
Let it thrive off hope,
Drive so fast you can’t crash,
Cause you can’t feel the fear,
That’s the main key to success,
Chasing after your dreams.

God thanks for my dreams,
May you let me follow my passion.
My goals in life are to succeed
While believing in faith and in hope.
Show me how to be fearless
Even if my feelings get crushed.

A comet out the sky is how I’m crashing,
When I’m chasing my dreams.
Holding back no kind of fear,
Since this is my passion.
Running off of plain hope,
Im promised to succeed.

It’s a well achievement to succeed,
And still okay to unfortunately crash.
But the real fire is the hope,
To keep alive the dream.
That’s when you consider it a passion,
In witch knows no meaning of fear.

You will not beat me fear,
I know I will succeed.
Since this will always be my passion,
The blood that runs it doesn’t allow crashing;
I could never give up on my dreams,
There’s way to much promise and hope.

The hope will never let me fall to fear,
I will always dream of goals and push forward to success
No mistakes for crashing on the road to my passion.

Rick

Tuesday, April 28, 2009 5:36:57 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)

Sestina to Nature

I watch the brown rabbit.
as his whole body stretches.
to reach tasty green leaf.
Above him in the tree.
A creature of nature.
obeying his instincts.
.
We follow our instincts
and run like a rabbit
before the fury of nature
as it storms and stretches;
bending supple tree
until it has lost each leaf.

The land turns over a new leaf
commanded by ancient instincts
to renew and repopulate each tree
with growth and birds, so rabbit
returns and once again stretches
to embrace his nature.

Calm or wild, it is still nature
for vegetation to again leaf
as for the sky it stretches.
Does it grow from habit or instincts?
Or just to feed a little rabbit
as it extends its body up to the tree?

The zephyr breeze stirs the tree.
It sways and bows as is its nature.
Haven for bird and food for rabbit.
Hiding nest behind curtains of leaf.
Shielding nestling following instincts
as for food its open mouth widely stretches.

Then dry, dusty land stretches
around and beyond each tree
awakening survival instincts
of man and all of nature
when all that remains is brown leaf
and rain has fled from land and rabbit.

Arid stretches destroy much nature.
No longer does tree put forth a leaf.
All instincts dead, just like the rabbit.

Two For Tuesday

Two for Tuesday has been such fun.
Twice as much as only one.
Until today’s sestina I tried
Leaving my brain completely fried.
Slowly I will recover, I’m sure,
Just in time to write some more.

Wanda Gray

Tuesday, April 28, 2009 5:56:43 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)

This will definately take some time for me to work out...
it is 9:52 am I will leave this open all day so write in bunches.
But I did figure out my words, and they are: liberty, travel, people, September, avenue and sugar.
Not sure how I will feel about this (sestina) I am anxious.

Sometimes I feel that people
eat too much sugar
I walked down the avenue
On a beautiful day in September
thinking about lady Liberty
What a wonderful day to travel

How I love to travel
My favorite month is September
How I adore walking down that avenue
Checking out all of the snazzy people
With their different choices of sugar
Going to visit lady Liberty

Lady Liberty
Sweet like sugar
Large amounts of people
Will travel
In September
Down that avenue

Third Avenue
I travel
like many people
take for granted, the liberty
like confectionate sugar
in September

My birthday is in September
I eat the sugar
for liberty
the travel
down that favorite avenue
all types of people

People
make us believe in liberty
and travel
in September
that famous avenue
with all types of sugar!

Oh, would you notice the time. I did have a few issues
(the poem wasn't one of them like I thought!)
My air condidioner leaked, then the floor got saturated
and I got hungry...but I finished!
A personal triumph!

Yvonne Wills

Tuesday, April 28, 2009 6:39:42 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)

An Evening in Santa Monica

Amy mistook Jay’s signal and placed her hand
in his, and as he was a kind, gentle sort of man
he let her walk like this until the evening light
had changed. The end of the day was the regular
time they set out together, and how Amy loved
the way the summer sunset lit Jay’s long face.

When it was turning dark, Jay did an about face,
began walking back the way they came, his hand
removed from Amy’s as he didn’t know she loved
him. She knew he was a very private, quiet man,
the type of man who needed to keep to a regular
schedule, and this knowledge made her feel light.

When they were standing under Amy’s porch light,
Jay noticed how the frosted bulb made Amy’s face
look soft and young, her skin bright like any regular
teenager’s, and he decided suddenly to take her hand
in his. He kissed her then. She knew he was the man
for her by the firmness of his lips, and she also loved

his wet, searching tongue. Jay decided that he loved
her, and so he pressed Amy to his body with a light
grasp, and Amy said, “How does it happen that a man
like you is so slow in lovemaking?” Then Jay’s face
turned red, and he pulled his arm off her, and his hand
also. “I wish I had an answer other than I am a regular

guy. I didn’t realize how much you felt.” In her regular
fashion, Amy invited him in, but this time Jay loved
that she did. He said yes, so Amy took his damp hand
while she found her key. Inside, she turned on a light
in the living room, and when she saw that Jay’s face
was alive with interest, she said, “Come, sweet man,”

and she pulled him in the direction where any man
might want to go. He was happy to see there a regular
room, not some girlish space where he may have to face
outgrown memories. Amy undressed. Jay instantly loved
the way her waist curved inwards, hips jutting in a light,
hourglass figure. He moved towards her, put his hand

around her waist, the other up to her Greta Garbo face,
which he caressed with his light fingers, then a regular
kiss, soft. Amy loved the slow, shy ways of this soft man.

Julie Mahfood

Tuesday, April 28, 2009 7:02:16 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)

walk, talk, air, energetic, poetic, writing

how about a walk

once a day I go for a walk
with a friend and we talk
we get some fresh air
it makes us feel energetic
after that I get more poetic
in my writing

then I get into writing
but I think about the walk
I ask myself how to get poetic
instead to write I think about the talk
and soon I stop feeling energetic
I get up and open windows to get some air

I breathe in cool air
and feel ready to start writing
go to my desk felling energetic
but then I think about the morning walk
and think about the morning talk
I wish to start to feel poetic

but I don’t feel poetic
I can’t write songs that a radio could air
I call my sister and we talk
instead of writing
I try to make my sister go with me for a walk
I tell her that afterwards she will be more energetic

she asks me why I don’t feel energetic
and very poetic
after my morning walk
she asks if I didn’t get enough fresh air
since instead of writing
I called her and we talk

what is wrong with that, that we talk
and yes I do feel energetic
but I can postpone my writing
a look at the lake would make me write more poetic
I get inspired by the color of the lake and of the air
so she should go with me for a walk

she gives in and we walk, we talk
we breathe in deep the fresh air, we get energetic
I start feeling poetic, I go home and start writing

Bozena Intrator

Bozena Intrator

Tuesday, April 28, 2009 7:12:07 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)

One Gorgeous Fabric

You will find that certain fabrics
are just too gorgeous for cutting
into tiny pieces to make a quilt,
adding one color to another for a pattern.
There really should be no competition
between the objects of your admiration.

So, why do we hold such admiration
for just one piece of gorgeous fabric?
Certainly others could compete.
Somehow you always end up cutting
all the other prints into patterns
but you can’t make this one into a quilt.

Are you really sure you need a quilt
to lay on your bed and admire?
Perhaps you could choose a dress pattern
to use with this gorgeous fabric,
but that too requires pinning and cutting
so is there really any competition?

It’s all in your head this competition.
This fabric will never be sewn into a quilt.
It will never be laid out for cutting.
It was only meant for your admiration,
for your love and comfort this magical fabric.
So just stand in awe of it’s fabulous oriental patterns!

Touched with gold and silver threads the patterns
in print are without equal, have no competition
from any other brand or style of fabric.
As haiku to the poet, so is oriental fabric to the quilter –
a thing of beauty, commanding admiration,
soothing the soul, not meant for cutting.

Why would anyone think of cutting
these delicate flowers and free flowing patterns.
Just look at the ladies who stop to admire
then glance despairingly at the competition.
These ladies who measure and cut their quilts
have fallen in love with this one gorgeous fabric!

This fabric that never was meant for cutting,
perhaps for a backing, but not for patterns.
has no competition here, just glowing admiration!

Ruth Y. Nott

Tuesday, April 28, 2009 8:05:35 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)

Is it me?
or is this the most
complicated form of poetry
you've ever come across?
I have now failed
in my quest
to write one poem
a day
for the month
I am so sad...

Julie Achterhoff

Tuesday, April 28, 2009 8:16:05 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)

A lesson in today's poetry writing.

Never heard of a sestina,
never wrote one til today.
I had to try it out,
although at first I felt dismay.

Well here it is,
I hope I got it,
If it's a problem
Then a sestina it's not- ah.

This took a bit of work!

Here is my sestina.

Chef’s Finger

There was only one chef
performing the carving
of well over 20 roasts,
for hundreds of students
at this celebration dinner,
with a deep cut on his finger.

A heavy towel wrapped around his finger,
he now felt as an awkward chef,
and bleeding, as he served dinner,
performing clumsy maneuvers while carving
portions of meat to hungry students
hankering for a few slices of roast.

The chef felt he was going to roast,
from the pressure on him with the injured finger.
The line in front still forming more students.
He felt more of a juggler then a chef,
holding the top of the roast while carving,
trying to maintain a grip to serve dinner.

While many were now seated for dinner
enjoying the succulent roast,
the injured chef was still carving,
the towel showing red from his finger,
expression of pain showing on the chef
and noticed, within the line of students.

Moments of concern were expressed by students
that this could be a tainted dinner,
where the roast had some blood of the chef’s,
you can not differentiate blood of chef from roast.
Is there a piece of meat recognized as finger
on someone’s plate which had been carved?

The chef only wished he was done carving,
as the line seemed to only form more students
which only created more pain in his finger.
If only there was an end to this dinner,
for behind him waited five more roasts,
which he wished were five other chefs.

But the chef continued carving
while the roast fed students,
who wondered, did the dinner include chef’s finger?

Sharon Chaffee

Tuesday, April 28, 2009 10:47:57 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)

The weight of weather

It broke my heart in February to see
the branches broken from my apple tree -
split through the trunk – plainly it couldn’t bear
the weather’s weight. Perhaps I shouldn’t dare
replace it with another, let it grow
only to lose it in a fall of snow.

There’s no avoiding falls of winter snow:
each year it shocks afresh each time I see
the drifts pile up remorselessly and grow
high by the driveway and bow down each tree.
Great clumps make boughs hang low – I hardly dare
to look at what white winter fruit they bear.

We’re not in the wild woods – no wolf or bear
will howl at us behind the driving snow -
but in the depths of winter there are deer
that forage in my yard; they come to see
if there are withered apples on my tree
too high for me to pick, and left to grow.

When the whole world is white the landscape grows
alien to life: when all the garden’s bare
and like a statue every barren tree
is sculptured in tormented shapes there’s no
escape from death, but underneath I see
fresh signs of hope if only I can dare

reach out for them, can keep in mind the dear
thought that beneath such surfaces may grow
a hidden life that now I cannot see.
I know that even though these boughs are bare
and broken with the winter weight of snow
there is a life beyond one apple tree.

Although I’ve lost for good one lovely tree
there will be more if only I can dare
to plant once more and care not if the snow
will fall on it again. I’ll watch it grow,
watch in the spring the blossoms it will bear
carpet the ground just like a snowy sea.

In summer I will see my apple tree
start to bear fruit, as long as I can dare
to let it grow despite the falling snow.

Jenny Doughty

Tuesday, April 28, 2009 10:58:50 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)

Argument

Really, I am not stupid.
Stupid, I am not – really.
Am I really stupid? Not.
Really stupid? Not am I.
Not stupid? Really, I am.
Please forgive me.

Please forgive me.
Really, I am not stupid.
Not stupid? Really, I am.
Stupid, I am not – really.
Really stupid? Not am I.
Am I really stupid? Not.

Am I really stupid? Not.
Please forgive me.
Really stupid? Not am I.
Really, I am not stupid.
Stupid, I am not – really.
Not stupid? Really, I am.

Not stupid? Really, I am.
Am I really stupid? Not.
Stupid, I am not – really.
Please forgive me.
Really, I am not stupid.
Really stupid? Not am I.

Really stupid? Not am I.
Not stupid? Really, I am.
Really, I am not stupid.
Am I really stupid? Not.
Please forgive me.
Stupid, I am not – really.

Stupid, I am not – really.
Really stupid? Not am I.
Please forgive me.
Not stupid? Really, I am.
Am I really stupid? Not.
Really, I am not stupid.

I am not stupid nor do I really
feel I ever was – Not! I am – I
swear I am. Please forgive me.

S. Thomas Summers

Tuesday, April 28, 2009 11:47:49 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)

Space Sestina

They prepared and fortified the rocket
For the trip into space
The astronaut focused his gaze
On the distant star
And the steady beam
That reigned down with the light.

The ship took off as the sky grew light
And they began to rocket
Into the sky like a wooden beam
The military escort gave them space
So the astronauts could become the stars
To those below who gazed.

The pilot monitored the controls as he gazed
Into the field of light
Made by the blaze of stars
As they sped along in the rocket
Bound for deep space
On a straight shot like a beam.

When they reached orbit the planet decided to beam
A fellow astronaut down to where they gazed
As the ship came to a stop in deep space
The pilot made sure all was silent in the rocket
Before they sent down their new star.

The astronaut made his way down through the stars
On the beam
Looking up at the rocket
That was locked in his gaze
He soon looked down and into the light
Of the large planet, which had plenty of space.

Then, without warning, the rocket was hurled into space
The pilot gazed up as it hurtled into the stars
It was the last thing he saw before being struck by a beam of light.

Mario

Tuesday, April 28, 2009 11:57:38 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)

About the Sestina

Certainly the biggest challenge
Of the challenge so far
Writing a sestina
Is a draining experience.

First, you need six strong words
Words that can be interchangeable
Malleable for multiple use
Then you must put them together in a coherent story.

Otherwise, you'll get no glory
No poem worth its weight
A sestina is certainly difficult
For a novice poet to grasp.

Yet as challenging as it may seem
Like most hard work, the outcome feels good
A sestina is something
One can get used to after many tries.

Mario

Wednesday, April 29, 2009 2:23:33 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)

Confusion:
At first, when I looked at it,
The words were jumbled.
They made no sense, just
Danced around my page in a salsa.
Tempting and teasing me,
But taking so long to move into focus.
I take a deep breath and try to think,
Clear my mind of obstructions,
Negative energies,
And tangent memories.
Then, I see how it will work,
How I could compose a sestina,
My first,
And, perhaps,
My last.

(That's my poem about a sestina, in case I fail to write one :P)

Kyhaara

Wednesday, April 29, 2009 3:16:37 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)

Marriage Storm

it is but sand,
they are but coconuts
and I am left holding the bag
shall I throw it over the boat
or hold to toss into this street
to be run over by a car?

it won't be the yellow car
buried in blown sand
piled onto the street
bombarded by coconuts,
nor the landlocked boat
filled with another unpacked bag.

dare not call me an old bag
or it will be me who drives the car
or pilots the boat
across rivers of sand
over speed bumps of coconuts
along the now deserted street

once lined with palms, this street
is no more than a ripped trash bag
spilling its garbage to mix with coconuts.
you wait for a brave soul to hire a car
to traverse the water soaked sand
to carry your heart to the love boat

but will you board the boat
or head down the street
to bury your head in the sand
leave me holding the bag,
to pay for either the car
or a lovely bunch of coconuts?

yes, without you, it may be coconuts
of which I sing from a chartered boat
or another man's sporty car
cruising along nature's fir lined street
your cash in my alimony bag
time running more like mud than sand

yes, this storm blew sand and coconuts,
will one hold the bag or both catch a boat?
I'm hoping for same street, different car.

Marcia McLees Bogaert

Wednesday, April 29, 2009 4:26:11 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)

Was It Love

She thought it was love
She questioned her heart
Although she felt broken
She was neither naive or blind
As others are when love is new
She just needed a start

A night on the town an eight o'clock start
He treated her to dinner, red roses a sign of love
He touched her, hand, her mind, her heart
The other walked in the conversation broken
A deliberate attempt to disguise,she wasn't blind
The introduction of the two, just a friendship, someone new

She recognized the face, her profile, fresh and new
Another relationship, another start
Yet she wanted to be loved
He had stolen her heart
Who was this woman, so lonely and broken
She should have known, was she blind

She stood waiting for a reason, did he think she was blind
Dinner for two, it was always the same nothing new
Stopping her from speaking before the tears would start
Yes he was in love
She was indeed a part of his heart
He was sorry their life, their love was broken

She sat wondering would she be next, as the intruder's pain broke
She could see he played on her emotions, hoping she was blind
She had become a replacement, his trophy, so new
This was not how it was to start
Was this revenge, was this love
Who could really hold the key to his heart

It was about him, this woman was a part of his heart
He had cheated and now she stood saddened and broken
How could she have been so blind
How did she think this game was new
This was a repeat of the old nothing new
She still didn't know anything about true love

She felt no love, she felt empty in her heart
They both were now broken and blind
As he left both the old and the new, for another start

I think I did this right.....

Nanette M. Buchanan

Wednesday, April 29, 2009 4:39:10 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)

My journal
By Othello Gooden Jt.

I woke up today with the aid of technology
My alarm played an annoying tune
I turned on my computer
I began writing
The more I write—my determination
Becomes the reason

As I begin to reason
In the age of advanced technology
The issue of making a living off composing many tunes
A secret passion of creating something extraordinary on the computer
My own experiences are written
Into a story that I am now determined

As long as it makes me and others happy determines
Whether or not the reason
People will read a story about a girl living in a society advanced in technology
Her struggle to making a living off playing tunes
Those after her do not know of this thing she programmed on her computer
I continue writing

Drawing influences from what others are writing
Some do it for the shear enjoyment—that too counts as determination
Don’t we have a reason
To continue in our endeavors with the aid of technology?
Some are inspired by old tunes
While others draw from something found through the internet on a computer

I sit at my computer
This poem I’m writing
I reflect on my determination
To get published is my reason
So people will see my work with the use of medium technologic
They’ll hear of my other work in composing many tunes

In a wide genre of tunes
Composed on my computer
Skills learned from the high school where music writing
For a grade was my determination
To get a diploma was my reason
Or was it just to survive in this world of advanced technology?

With the aid of technology, one can make many tunes
On the computer, this is the universe I have solely written
My determination to finish my story and get published is my reason.

Othello Gooden Jr,

Wednesday, April 29, 2009 4:43:45 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)

Hope

Every day he picked a flower
for his love
during Spring
trying desperately to change
her empty season
devoid of hope.

All he could do was hope
that she would flower
just like the season
and from his enduring love
she would change
before the end of Spring.

What was it about Spring
that drained her hope
and caused such change
in her desire to flower
and experience the love
he showed from the start of the season?

Maybe it was not her season
to spring
into love,
to embrace hope,
and to accept his daily flower
and no matter what this would not change.

Perhaps change
is not synonymous with the season
and perhaps not every flower
is born in Spring
full of hope
ready for love.

Real love
doesn’t force change
but keeps hope
that as the season
passes, water from the spring
helps to grow the flower.

So the day he didn’t bring a flower to his love,
he saw her by the spring and noticed a sudden change.
In her eyes, he saw hope for the coming season.

Tracy Chiles McGhee

Wednesday, April 29, 2009 6:47:21 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)

Apples of My Eye!

Filippa, Gala, Ariane, Falstaff, Gavin - Apples,
One of which you ought to take each day
To send the doctor on his way, and fast
And make sure he keeps on going,
Because you’re not sick, you’re well
Apart from hay-fever caused by orchard flowers,

Holstein, Orkney, Dawn, and Empire flowers
Scented blooms of mellifluous names of Apples
Drinking nectar and ambrosia from the bottomless well
Blessing the earth with their beauty, day after day
Whichever way the market for them is going.
And farmers hoping their crops will sell fast

Better than cereals to break the fast,
Perfect for pot-pourri, the dried flowers
Containers of apples, to the markets going
First in the list, A-is-for-Apples
Give me an Esopus Spitzenberg, any day.
And maybe a Lord Lambourne and a Rajka as well.

Lore says eating apples will keep you well,
Or if you’ll sick, they’ll cure you fast.
I’d attest to that theory, any day
Despite my allergy to apple flowers,
There are hundreds of varieties of Apples,
Which ones you choose, depends upon where you’re going.

Eating raw, pureeing, or stewing, was what I meant by “going”
By the way... you can bob for apples, at festivals, as well...
But, for your teeth’s sake, steer clear of toffee Apples
Because gone the doctor, come the dentist, and fast!
You can make a tisane from the flowers
To soothe you ate the end of a tiring day.

So you see, this fruit is useful, night and day,
It would be good to keep the tradition going,
Whether for the fruit or for the flowers,
Or for the shade the trees give, as well....
It’s good to get the word around, and fast
For mind, body and soul, the best fruits are Apples.

The well fills, and quenches the thirst of Apples,
And always their flowers turn night into day
Making times of sadness go by fast, and urge them to keep going.

Tanja Cilia

Wednesday, April 29, 2009 5:15:40 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)

There was a Sestina

There was a Sestina from he_ _,
(Perhaps I’d prefer villanelle?)
I rearranged lines
And tried to refine,
But admitted defeat with a yell.

Jeanetta Chrystie

Wednesday, April 29, 2009 5:29:47 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)

A sestina
never heard of it
never had formal poetic education
but did as I was told
looked up the links
checked out the formula
started to write one
thought I had it figured out
but it didn't work for me
so I filed it away for future contemplation
and possible succes
and decided to take the
second choice
for now.

W. Yvonne O'Neill

Thursday, April 30, 2009 3:54:16 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)

(This was REALLY HARD - my first one ever and it's pretty bad...I sound like I crazy person. Maybe that should be in the title :) )

Lost

I'm worried I might be lost
I don't recognize anything I see.
I'm worried it's starting to get cold
I can even see my breath.
Good thing I remembered my coat
I may be here a long time.

Before I left I should have checked the time
And a map so I wouldn’t get lost.
At least I remembered my coat
And my glasses so that I can see.
I need to keep taking deep breaths.
I hope out here I don’t catch a cold.

My fingers are starting to get cold.
Gloves help with that most of the time.
Perhaps I can warm them with my breath
Because I’m pretty sure my gloves are also lost.
At least they aren’t anywhere I can see.
I should have kept them with my coast.

I really do love this coat.
I wear it even when I’m not cold.
If you were here you could see
How it looks so good all the time.
I guess if you were here I wouldn’t be lost.
I probably shouldn’t hold my breath.

I can tell I’m nervous by my shortness of beath
And my palms that my sweat coats.
It’s pretty scary to be lost
All alone outside in the cold.
I wonder if I’ve been lost a long time.
There’s still nothing and no one I can see.

If you were me right now you would see,
If you blinked my eyes and breathed my breath,
You too would be worried all this time
If you wore my shoes and my coat.
You too would have hands in the cold
If you too were outside lost.

So now that I’m lost and I’m here outside I can see
Since I don’t like cold or my scared shallow breaths,
I should keep a map in my coat all the time.

Megan Jensen

Thursday, April 30, 2009 8:24:19 PM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)

I don't think the poem is half-bad Robert! And wow whats wrong with abstract ai? he he...or no punctuation....
"Beyond that, I was still writing very, very, VERY abstract. Oh yeah, and there's like totally no punctuation. O, am I blushing!"

Sascha Aurora Akhtar

Friday, May 01, 2009 8:45:14 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)

I can't get my mind around this form.
My words won't jumble into this ill fitted dress.
It doesn't feel natural.
I can't conform to it this time.
It will have to conform to me.

Ivy Merwine

Friday, May 01, 2009 8:49:07 AM (GMT Daylight Time, UTC+01:00)

I can't get my mind around this form.
My words won't jumble into this ill fitted dress.
It doesn't feel natural.
I can't conform to it this time.
It will have to conform to me.

Ivy Merwine

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