Poetry exercise: writing a sestina

FinsburyParkCarrots

The invention of the sestina form of poetry is often attributed to the twelfth century mathematician and troubadour Arnault Daniel. The sestina comprises 39 lines of unrhymed verse separated into six stanzas of six lines (sestets) each followed by a concluding stanza of three lines known as an "envoi". What is striking about its form is that it makes use of repetition.

Have a look at the form of "Sestina" by the American poet Elizabeth Bishop. I have indicated where end-of-line words repeat throughout the poem:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


The last triplet is unrhymed but, if you notice, all six line endings from the previous stanzas are repeated: three embedded in the middle of lines, three featured as line endings.
Here's a typical Sestina formation using a different triplet structure:


A
B
C
D
E
F

F
A
E
B
D
C

C
F
D
A
B
E


E
C
B
F
A
D

D
E
A
C
F
B

B
D
F
E
C
A

B E
D C envoi
F A

I hope you have enough material to attempt your own! Have fun doing this difficult poetry exercise.

Kwyjibo

wow.

complicated.

FinsburyParkCarrots

This is a recent sestina by cassia, a published poet who once upon a time used to post here:



KELP

Cast up like glistening seaweed,
we begin our beaded journey.
All through the landscape birds flicker
their star-bright colors in blonde wheat,
sweep by the blossoming rose
and rise again to the fall of waves.

The soft blue crush of the waves
makes tawny ripples in the seaweed,
bending the foam like a white frothed rose
lifting our spirits’ long journey.
We rejoice–our bellies full of wheat
as the stars poke out and flicker.

The morning dew-prisms flicker
through our hearts to the waking waves;
they roll amber in the sun’s wheat,
curving, backs laden with seaweed,
seeming to enjoy their journey,
soft-swept as an ocean rose.

Our feet dance where the sun rose—
the quartz grains’ sparkling flicker
adds to the sand’s chance journey.
The dunes swirl in small arched waves,
the short grass resembling seaweed
or the early tufts of winter wheat.

The sun rolls in fields of wheat
then lingers on the new red rose,
dries tobacco-like the seaweed
and causes diamonds to flicker
on the long watery backs of waves,
glinting the path of this journey.

Kwyjibo

that doesn't fit the format you posted though.

FinsburyParkCarrots

You're right! You're the kind of writer a teacher needs to keep them on their toes.

Here's some doggerel of mine just to demonstrate the form:

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.

___

But the alternation of line endings is up to you as long as it works out.

olderman

ok ok ok fun fun fun.. i will put on my thinking cap, grab my old calculus text book and i will torture myself and write a sestina.. someway, somehow, someday, over the rainbow... i think i'll use a wizard of oz theme.. that's a start anyway... *drinks another toast to Pearl Jam's next record*

EvilToasterElf

In my mind I float above a chasm (A)
filled with memories of only smell (B)
the pictures here elude the other senses (C)
and life seems but a toil to build the bridge (D)
but I am no architect, my hands can only write (E)
these aromas leave me with dawn's vacant light (F)

I toil in this office, under flourescent light
that shines into my coffee cup, that chasm
fueling the typed reports I'm forced to write
connected to the circuits, with that electric smell
from those wires clogged like rush hour on the bridge
crossing endlessly, like habits dull the senses

On my rides home, I shut off all my senses
there is no existence between these traffic lights
the void fills the jumper's thoughts, between the water and the bridge
at home I change the channel to fill that chasm
the flickers across white walls, and the smell
of plastic flowers and the checks I never write

to those who'll never read what I write
until my obituary brings them to their senses
and they'll remember my plastic flower smell
and they'll see my life in rose colored light
which they will shine into this word filled chasm
and through hell of darkness I'll have finally built my bridge

the hymms of gospel choirs carry them across my bridge
built apon this translation of my soul, write
your signature across this stone slab, this six foot chasm
the final sextet of my minds decaying senses
where the earth has finally stole my from these lights
that spear across my vision, in this box that fills with smell

Oh how grass above must smell
this field of death cut short above the bridge
of life, and few who pray still beneath the lantern light
my name will find its way into the journals they will write
about the time they see is wasted, how their senses
devieved them into ignoring the enclosing chasm

That papery smell, on condolensces they write
bridge the fear, that consumes the senses
no light is needed, all life can smell that chasm


Wow Fins, this is pretty difficult, and I trapped myself with the abstractions, but I think this kind of repitition will grate on any poet while they're in the process of writing, just because of the nature of modern poetry. But I gave it a shot

ETF

DopeBeastie

lol... okay, so I messed up. I thought I had to end each stanza with one of my line-endings from the first stanza, and use all six line endings in the envoi. I figured that out four stanza's in and couldn't bear to change what i'd already done.

cheers,


A refridgerator door hangs open.
Open hands jar, fist and toss
last week's left things yet uneaten
to the trash, the dish to sink
Filling up with fresh hot water
Bubbles making dry meringue.

More Dawn to Dobie Sponge and squeeze
An open hand jars, fists and rolls
circles over food-stuck plates
straight lines jerking dirty knives.
To the left sink, soapy, clean,
Until it's full and then more water.

Dishes done, now to the oven
Take the baking to the rack
Pie crust, gold and to perfection.
Sweet, tart custard, next in line.
Lemons peeled against a grate
for zest, the rest to be uneaten

Scrape the spoon against the bottom
of the copper, stove-top pot
three minutes of some dedication
now to crust, the custard, pour.
This is when you use your fingers,
tasting. Then the pot to sink.

Crack six eggs, but save the yolk
adding the wierd Creme of Tartar.
With the wisk, make your arm tired
ferverently beating whites
stiff peaks, kitchen queen, Behold!
Manificent Meringue!

Pile it on, bake it brown.
You may now too, beam with pride
while you put away the dishes
clean and dried. The family gathered.
Reprimand the children's fingers.
Catch the kiss the man would toss.

Open your mind to love at the sink.
Toss out what has not been eaten.
Bake a meringue pie. Use water.

FinsburyParkCarrots

Wow. I wake up in the moring and this thread has been busy overnight!

olderman

i am working on the six words .. forget about the wizard of oz theme.. that was Bombay Sapphire talking

blackoceans929

dude, that's awesome, but there is no way in hell that I could do that. when I write it's more of words flowing out of me. there's too much thinking in that. that's still awesome though.

Ali

olderman wrote:

i am working on the six words .. forget about the wizard of oz theme.. that was Bombay Sapphire talking

I screwed up the villanelle on one glass of wine, and you think I'm going to attempt this?

Thank you anywho for your knowledge finns....

Kwyjibo

god dammit finsbury. that about killed me. It barely works in some places, but I did it.


Brilliant moonlight shivered across the snow.
Rivers of footprints rippled from door to door,
imprints of children’s feet, only inches deep.
Air between our shoulders; thousands of frozen flecks.
Never did we say a word, as we blindly walked to fate,
nor could I look at you. The air froze my every word.

Everywhere they dropped and shattered. Word after word
splintering on the sidewalk, unsoftened by the snow.
And with our destination fast approaching, our fate
would soon be known. When we finally reach your door,
will I have anything to say? Will I be only a silent fleck
of snow to be brushed away? Or will our kiss be deep?

violently I want to shake you–to break from this deep
spell of silence. Yet my steps remain rigid, no word
can yet release our frozen forward motion. Each fleck
we squash seems to doom us to forever walk in snow.
And every time we pass some friendly old oak door,
I think about how close we are to the terrible fate.

Saturday I’ll leave this place, and my fate
is never to return. Always I’ll remember this deep
snow and the creeping sense of dread, and your door.
This perfect shining moment was not ruined by words,
It was ruined by their utter disappearance, as if they were snow
melting into nothingness, and my love in every fleck.

I can feel my heart disintegrating into fleck upon fleck,
and I know that this bitter end cannot be my fate.
Some expression can be found, in these walls of snow.
My lips start to move, only frozen mist escapes to the deep
night sky. A groan freezes in my throat, but still no word
is released. We’re there at last and I stand and block the door.

I cannot move, but I cannot speak. An ice statue at your door!
You reach up and wipe the precious fleck
of frozen tear! But still, we can’t seem to say a word!
It seems we’re doomed to stand here forever! It is our fate!
Suddenly you step so close and you kiss me, softly, then deep
and with power! And there we stand, eternally lost in falling snow!

We freeze there at your door, ice statues embracing their fate.
But into your eye falls a single fleck, and you disappear into some deep
dream. I’m trapped forever with no word, lost in the innumerable walls of snow.

Kwyjibo

man, I think I picked too hard of words to repear

ps.

WISH ME LUCK

tommorow I'm going in to submit poetry and my short story so I'll hopefully get accepted into the upper division creative writing classes

eek!

FinsburyParkCarrots

Kwyjibo wrote:

god dammit finsbury. that about killed me. It barely works in some places, but I did it.


Brilliant moonlight shivered across the snow.
Rivers of footprints rippled from door to door,
imprints of children’s feet, only inches deep.
Air between our shoulders; thousands of frozen flecks.
Never did we say a word, as we blindly walked to fate,
nor could I look at you. The air froze my every word.

Everywhere they dropped and shattered. Word after word
splintering on the sidewalk, unsoftened by the snow.
And with our destination fast approaching, our fate
would soon be known. When we finally reach your door,
will I have anything to say? Will I be only a silent fleck
of snow to be brushed away? Or will our kiss be deep?

violently I want to shake you–to break from this deep
spell of silence. Yet my steps remain rigid, no word
can yet release our frozen forward motion. Each fleck
we squash seems to doom us to forever walk in snow.
And every time we pass some friendly old oak door,
I think about how close we are to the terrible fate.

Saturday I’ll leave this place, and my fate
is never to return. Always I’ll remember this deep
snow and the creeping sense of dread, and your door.
This perfect shining moment was not ruined by words,
It was ruined by their utter disappearance, as if they were snow
melting into nothingness, and my love in every fleck.

I can feel my heart disintegrating into fleck upon fleck,
and I know that this bitter end cannot be my fate.
Some expression can be found, in these walls of snow.
My lips start to move, only frozen mist escapes to the deep
night sky. A groan freezes in my throat, but still no word
is released. We’re there at last and I stand and block the door.

I cannot move, but I cannot speak. An ice statue at your door!
You reach up and wipe the precious fleck
of frozen tear! But still, we can’t seem to say a word!
It seems we’re doomed to stand here forever! It is our fate!
Suddenly you step so close and you kiss me, softly, then deep
and with power! And there we stand, eternally lost in falling snow!

We freeze there at your door, ice statues embracing their fate.
But into your eye falls a single fleck, and you disappear into some deep
dream. I’m trapped forever with no word, lost in the innumerable walls of snow.

That's bloody good. You should easily get into the upper division. I say good luck but I think your talent covers you.

burtschips

Very enticing, is it torture or pleasure Kwyjibo?

Kwyjibo

"a mix of pleasure and pain" as my drummer was fond of saying.


Thanks finsbury, I'm pretty sure they only do this so that english majors have to stress once and a while like everyone else.

ugh, I've got a busy week. Gotta read 'Walden' by Thoreau and "The Waste Land" by Eliot by tommorow.

seeing the decemberists tuesday night. Test wednesday morning

FinsburyParkCarrots

http://www.english.uiuc.edu/maps/poets/a_f/eliot/composition.htm

olderman

FinsburyParkCarrots wrote:

That's bloody good. You should easily get into the upper division. I say good luck but I think your talent covers you.

it is very good... i am still working on me own sestina.. senoritas and hot sand will be prevelant..

excellent work kwyjibo..

Kwyjibo

thanks guys, and thanks for the link, it will help in the discussion tommorow.

I'm barely into Walden by Thoreau right now. I'm not enjoying it very much, and I'm really crawling at a snails pace here. I read a page, and then it's like "wow! I didn't retain ANY of that!" then I read it again, and again. ugh.

what a longwinded bastard thoreau can be.

this could be an all-nighter. Better crack another mountain dew.

ISN

Brilliant moonlight shivered across the snow.
Rivers of footprints rippled from door to door,
imprints of children’s feet, only inches deep.
Air between our shoulders; thousands of frozen flecks.
Never did we say a word, as we blindly walked to fate,
nor could I look at you. The air froze my every word.

Everywhere they dropped and shattered. Word after word
splintering on the sidewalk, unsoftened by the snow.
And with our destination fast approaching, our fate
would soon be known. When we finally reach your door,
will I have anything to say? Will I be only a silent fleck
of snow to be brushed away? Or will our kiss be deep?

violently I want to shake you–to break from this deep
spell of silence. Yet my steps remain rigid, no word
can yet release our frozen forward motion. Each fleck
we squash seems to doom us to forever walk in snow.
And every time we pass some friendly old oak door,
I think about how close we are to the terrible fate.

Saturday I’ll leave this place, and my fate
is never to return. Always I’ll remember this deep
snow and the creeping sense of dread, and your door.
This perfect shining moment was not ruined by words,
It was ruined by their utter disappearance, as if they were snow
melting into nothingness, and my love in every fleck.

I can feel my heart disintegrating into fleck upon fleck,
and I know that this bitter end cannot be my fate.
Some expression can be found, in these walls of snow.
My lips start to move, only frozen mist escapes to the deep
night sky. A groan freezes in my throat, but still no word
is released. We’re there at last and I stand and block the door.

I cannot move, but I cannot speak. An ice statue at your door!
You reach up and wipe the precious fleck
of frozen tear! But still, we can’t seem to say a word!
It seems we’re doomed to stand here forever! It is our fate!
Suddenly you step so close and you kiss me, softly, then deep
and with power! And there we stand, eternally lost in falling snow!

We freeze there at your door, ice statues embracing their fate.
But into your eye falls a single fleck, and you disappear into some deep
dream. I’m trapped forever with no word, lost in the innumerable walls of snow.

didn't you write a very similar poem before, about a couple walking in the snow.....I remember one quite vividly.....it had the same feeling in it.....