Poetry exercise: writing a sestina
FinsburyParkCarrots
Posts: 12,223
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.
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.
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complicated.
I write down good reasons to freeze to death in my spiral ring notebook. But in the long tresses of your hair--I am a babbling brook.
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.
I write down good reasons to freeze to death in my spiral ring notebook. But in the long tresses of your hair--I am a babbling brook.
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.
As she slams the door in his drunken face
And now he stands outside
And all the neighbours start to gossip and drool
He cries oh, girl you must be mad,
What happened to the sweet love you and me had?
Against the door he leans and starts a scene,
And his tears fall and burn the garden green
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
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.
As she slams the door in his drunken face
And now he stands outside
And all the neighbours start to gossip and drool
He cries oh, girl you must be mad,
What happened to the sweet love you and me had?
Against the door he leans and starts a scene,
And his tears fall and burn the garden green
she lived like a murder...but she died. just like suicide...
"if you love someone, set them free. if someone loves you, don't fuck up."
Thank you anywho for your knowledge finns....
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?
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.
I write down good reasons to freeze to death in my spiral ring notebook. But in the long tresses of your hair--I am a babbling brook.
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!
I write down good reasons to freeze to death in my spiral ring notebook. But in the long tresses of your hair--I am a babbling brook.
That's bloody good. You should easily get into the upper division. I say good luck but I think your talent covers you.
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
I write down good reasons to freeze to death in my spiral ring notebook. But in the long tresses of your hair--I am a babbling brook.
it is very good... i am still working on me own sestina.. senoritas and hot sand will be prevelant..
excellent work kwyjibo..
As she slams the door in his drunken face
And now he stands outside
And all the neighbours start to gossip and drool
He cries oh, girl you must be mad,
What happened to the sweet love you and me had?
Against the door he leans and starts a scene,
And his tears fall and burn the garden green
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.
I write down good reasons to freeze to death in my spiral ring notebook. But in the long tresses of your hair--I am a babbling brook.
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.....
the very best part of the wasteland is the end.
I promise you will retain it:
Shantih shantih shantih
well worth checking the footnote on that one!
Good luck!!
ISN: I reworked an old poem for this sestina
you can find the original here:
http://forums.pearljam.com/showthread.php?t=108235
I write down good reasons to freeze to death in my spiral ring notebook. But in the long tresses of your hair--I am a babbling brook.
here's my effort
faggots are drawn on a cart by horses
and I reach to the left to kiss my child
after feeding on spuds for Winter
we are home once more in Spring's new joy
the sticks will be fed into hungry fire
we are home, we are home once again
we made our abode in the cup of Winter
and we drank from his frosty fire
there was sorrow and weeping, and joy
disappeared for a season, but again
it grows in the face of my child,
in her ruddy cheeks as she rides the horses
all around me the fields are crackling with fire
as the mice and the insects scurry in joy
I gather the reins which are holding the horses
awaiting the moment I kiss bye to Winter
and chivvy them on with ayes once again
as I lovingly look at the face of my child
forsake not your husbands, in joy
or in sorrow, and though you'd not wed them again
the heart has its temper, my child
it will pull you hither and tither on horses
but your father went hunting in dark light of Winter
and left me to you and cold's dampened fire
so grasp life (and love), for you won't live again
and the seasons roll on from Fall to Winter
leaving the meek in their wake, like a fire
is your heart, you are young yet, my child
and like the curious foal of two horses
you'll stamp and you'll rear for joy
come to me, my darling, my baby, my child
and take yourself down from those horses
we've reached home, and miles, and miles again
have been travelled by us in uncertain joy
we'll just get some charcoal to light up the fire
and burn from the house that harshest foe Winter
I worried my child not warmed by the fire
might shrivel again from no joy
but the horses, they've pulled her from Winter
How do I express elation?
iiiiii!!!!!!
(it'll have to do)
ISN, that's beautiful.
it is lovely