An old sestina of mine
FinsburyParkCarrots
Seattle, WA Posts: 12,223
Two taps, then three more. I thought that tap mine,
unique to me. The knocking taps again.
That's Freudian uncanniness, the strange
in what's familar or what's home
in what is strange. That knock again. I'll go
and get the door, see who the knocker is.
"How are you doing, fella? Well this is
a mighty place you have! Your door's like mine:
Art deco glass. Edwardian. You go
and make a pot of tea. Yes, back at home
I have a coat rack just like that. Again,
I have a mirror like that too." This strange
old man who in my mirror's not so strange;
I feel he knows me. So, I speak: "What is
your name, sir? Make yourself at home,
please do. Come through. So far you're quite a mine
of revelations." There's that tap again:
He taps my kitchen table. "What would go
with tea? I have these biscuits here, they go
with anything. Well, do you know, that's strange
that you don't know me. Ah well, then again
I've been away. I guess what happens is
a long lost cousin's like a buried mine
that gets forgotten, and a brand new home
gets built above it. But one day the home
begins to throb and tick, and it will GO!!!
I'm Joe, your cousin; unexploded mine."
(The way he drags his similes is strange:
that's just what I would do. Perhaps this is
a cousin, not a chancer.) "Thanks again
For this good cup of tea. I'll call again,
I'm only passing. Please call at my home
number. here's my card." This stranger is
just like me, to come and then to go
through people's lives, not stopping, always home
to strangers yet to those at home, quite strange.
"I'll call again." I watch him turn and go,
Home-strange, strange-homely. Homebombs range, hit home.
I'm all this stranger is. And nothing's mine.
unique to me. The knocking taps again.
That's Freudian uncanniness, the strange
in what's familar or what's home
in what is strange. That knock again. I'll go
and get the door, see who the knocker is.
"How are you doing, fella? Well this is
a mighty place you have! Your door's like mine:
Art deco glass. Edwardian. You go
and make a pot of tea. Yes, back at home
I have a coat rack just like that. Again,
I have a mirror like that too." This strange
old man who in my mirror's not so strange;
I feel he knows me. So, I speak: "What is
your name, sir? Make yourself at home,
please do. Come through. So far you're quite a mine
of revelations." There's that tap again:
He taps my kitchen table. "What would go
with tea? I have these biscuits here, they go
with anything. Well, do you know, that's strange
that you don't know me. Ah well, then again
I've been away. I guess what happens is
a long lost cousin's like a buried mine
that gets forgotten, and a brand new home
gets built above it. But one day the home
begins to throb and tick, and it will GO!!!
I'm Joe, your cousin; unexploded mine."
(The way he drags his similes is strange:
that's just what I would do. Perhaps this is
a cousin, not a chancer.) "Thanks again
For this good cup of tea. I'll call again,
I'm only passing. Please call at my home
number. here's my card." This stranger is
just like me, to come and then to go
through people's lives, not stopping, always home
to strangers yet to those at home, quite strange.
"I'll call again." I watch him turn and go,
Home-strange, strange-homely. Homebombs range, hit home.
I'm all this stranger is. And nothing's mine.
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Comments
The sestina form was originally used by troubadors, and it was usually all about carousing and shagging. The subject matter was bawdy, and boundless in its potential for ribaldry, and the regimented patterns of its discourse only heightened the freespirited nature of its subject. And sestinas were sung: the humour of the theme undercut the formality of the metre, and the ever alternating rhyme scheme showed a wit at work.
People tend to write sestinas about anything, these days. But maybe Holey Ghost should be true to the spirit of the French, and write a bawdy piece. Remember the rules about how the same line endings must appear in each stanza, in a different order; keep to pentameter (though it doesn't have to be iambic all the time, I'm not a sadist); and remember the tercet at the end!
The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
Nah, everyone do their own. It'd be an exercise in sustained practice in poetic form, then. Everyone doing a stanza each would be too easy.
The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
We could play around interactively later, but I think it's best to build up the skills to try one alone, first!
There is a "me" though.
The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
But the thing is, once you get good at it, with practice, you can say anything you want, and not hindered by the form. It's like learning fingerpicking style. You're only working out how to alternate picking six (or twelve) strings. The first exercises are tedious. But once you're away, you can play, and say, what you like, with the form. Use your imagination as your fretting hand!
The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
Analogy:
Technique = your picking hand, working over combinations of limited choices, to creative effect
Imagination = your fretting hand, taking ideas like a vast range of notes
THats shakespeare to you college readers,...pass that one on to your prof.:)
A whisper and a chill
adv2005
"Why do I bother?"
The 11th Commandment.
"Whatever"
PETITION TO STOP THE BAN OF SMOKING IN BARS IN THE UNITED STATES....Anyone?
A night long ago in Jersey
I drove on the highway with friends.
We listened to Bruce Springsteen songs
and ate bags of small candy bars.
The steering wheel turned neon orange,
and highway streetlights turned it gold.
We created stories of gold
and pirates sailing to Jersey
on board ships of black and bright orange
so bright they scared away their friends,
and enemies, and those in bars
drunk on beer singing Springsteen songs.
And, while the drunks were singing songs
and trying to sell dirt as gold
others sang stories of bars'
chairs found in schoolyards of Jersey
that were chopped down by groups of friends,
nailed into squares and painted orange.
Once these chairs of squares painted orange
were covered in silk squares of songs,
and during holidays some friends
would travel wearing hats of gold
setting chairs on streets of Jersey
into lines like raised music bars.
The chairs were then nailed high on bars
in schoolyard playgrounds colored orange
like many seen in New Jersey
as referenced in local songs
bound in books with glittering gold
shared and enjoyed among old friends.
If we meet strangers, call them friends
waiting for drinks in outdoor bars,
and show them the bound books of gold
first found on ships of black and orange;
books of stories, journals, and songs
based on villages in Jersey.
Then call your friends to drinks of orange
only in bars pulsing with songs
and mined gold from streets of Jersey.
The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
I like what you've done; I'm interested to see how some wordplay might make the piece richer.
The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
It's good. I caught the different uses of "bars". I think it would be fun to work on this piece, some more!
The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
Up to you, Ms Haiku! But shall we see if anybody else wants to have a crack at a full sestina first?
I'm thinking I might give it a try tonight.
Village on a hill
They were sitting over there, the
couple so happy, and not-too-old
it surprised a smile from the waitress to see
the way their heads were inclined and their hands
were moving as they were reading
she brought the fruit, coffee, and tea silently
Their first pick for sightseeing was old
an abbey, complete with bones to see
creatively arranged in the dank basement, the
monks were artists needing to keep hands
busy and helpful when they weren't silently
doing their chores, singing, or reading
Up the hillside they climbed, silently
awed by the steep slope, they held hands
though locals weren't impressed, there was lots to see
around a bend, a sign needed reading
it was partially graphic, so the
dictionary wasn't needed, yet it was old!
They knew this place was what they came to see
it smelled musty, they didn't stop, but the
darkness required them to touch the walls with their hands
the tunnel was made for small people, silently
bending their heads in prayer and old-
fashioned Guidonian-hand reading
Outside the tunnel, the sun shined for all the
plants in a garden of herbs so old
a close kitchen, clean as the cook's hands
was swept and orderly for the visitors to see
they hoped for lunch and menu-reading
but they curiously looked around, too silently
By the time lunch was cold and old
with book and score-filled hands,
they were ready to be alone--but not silently
The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
Ugh! I didn't realize that!
Yep, they do. But you can tweak it.