Hi Barb -

Thanks for joining in. This one is filled with angst. Such sorrow often 'feels uncommon', but is common to us all.

My greatest peace came when I finally understood that no one could be a 'husband' to me except for Christ. I think I used to believe that one man could be "like God" and keep me company. No one can do that... because God has been diced up into bits and scattered over the earth! I hope you don't mind the personal commentary on the content of your poem.

I'm like Solomon who had many wives (except I have many husbands, i.e. people who are precious to me). I think my husband is a certain part buried inside of every man (person). Admittedly, sometimes that precious pearl is so covered with mud that I cannot find it! Gosh, I bet I sound like a werido! Oh well. Just felt like telling you these things.

I don't think I like the sestina as a poetry form all that much. I've never read one that I thought was an awesome piece of poetry. Perhaps there's one hidden somewhere that I just haven't laid my eyes on yet. But I have my doubts http://www.ablemuse.com/erato/ubbhtml/smile.gif To have 6 repeated words spread over 6 stanzas often comes off as sounding rather monotonous (IMO). This comment is toward sestinas in general, not yours specifically.

Grace and peace to you -
Anne

We talked about sestinas with Rhina on Mastery a good while ago. I posted this. Lo, I don't see why it's harder to use meter in a sestina than anywhere else.
This is written about women who were left without men because of wars. I knew many in my childhood. They became feminists and had careers and fun.
And nearly all sestinas are dull. I remember we found some which were anything but. This isn't anything special just an attempt to write one of the jolly things.

To Maiden Aunts


Too glib, to condescend to maiden aunts
who saw the world at war, as all at once
their world went mad and robbed them of their chance
to live their lives. No whisper or response
to make them feel like flowers. No romance
to sing their hearts into a fervent dance.

And if fate toyed with them, and at some dance
they met a boy who charmed them, maiden aunts
were far too frightened to believe romance
could promise them a future. Never once
did they entrust their youthful heart’s response
to love. It was too great a loss to chance.

They saw life as a brutal game of chance
where happiness was like a firefly’s dance,
elusive and capricious. Their response
was frozen. Thus the girls turned into aunts
before their beauty faded. All at once
they turned to books and study for romance.

The scholar aunts were teachers and romance
for them was knowledge. They gave girls the chance
to own their lives. They told them all how once
girls had no freedom, and their eyes would dance
when Eliot (George not Tom) spoke well of aunts
and Woolf (Virginia) wrote their response.

They saw their younger sisters’ vain response--
new furniture, designer clothes--romance
had trapped them in domestic dullness. Aunts
had independence. They each seized the chance
to travel. Correspondence traced their dance
through fabled cities, loving more than once.

They knew where history and drama once
enacted out a passionate response,
and on exotic tombs their spirits danced
to unfamiliar music. A romance
that echoed through the universe. A chance
to travel with the Bodhisattva aunts.

My favourite aunt once said that real romance
was more than a response to casual chance,
but rather freedom’s dance for captive aunts.

Theft

They left when no guard saw them go
And took with them the Diamond Heart.
This theft we all would later know
As why the Diamond War would start
When death removed the gorgeous glow
From bodies dumped inside the cart.

The bodies dumped inside the cart
Had nowhere else where they could go.
They lost the life that made them glow.
You cannot warm a stiffened heart.
Though no one thought this war would start,
It did, and now that's all we know.

It started, and that's all we know.
I see your head rest in the cart.
They stop, reload, and then they start.
I cannot go where you will go
At least until my weakened heart
Goes stiff and loses all its glow.

It's stiff and lost all of its glow.
The thieves escaped, but they don't know
What happened to the Diamond Heart
When you were placed inside the cart.
This one must stay, but some must go,
And further warfare needs to start.

As further warfare wants to start,
The Diamond Heart will cease to glow,
At least for those who have to go,
Who never more will need to know
The others lying in the cart
Are still just like the Diamond Heart.

They're still just like the Diamond Heart,
But did their beating ever start,
Or were they always in the cart,
And did some ever see them glow?
The thieves confuse all that we know,
Except we also have to go.

It is the heart that makes one glow,
But when we start, we soon will know
Into the cart, we all shall go.

Janet,

I find your poem fascinating as one who has been both delighted and perplexed about the role of being a female in this world. I'm continually intrigued and annoyed by human sexuality. It seems to be at the root of everything both good and bad!

Thanks for posting one! Not bad. :)
Anne

Frank -

Yours is interesting. The talk of theft and Diamond wars reminded me of Africa and the hellish problems going on there.

I'm wondering whether you and Barbara and Janet randomly chose 6 words and began writing, or if you thought about what you'd like to write about and then chose 6 words? The one I posted here was the result of choosing 6 words and just beginning to write, not knowing where it would take me.

Thanks for the fun :) It makes me happy when people come out to play poetry games with me.

***Smiles***
Anne

Dear Anne,

In reply to your earlier post, I agree that no one's love could replace God's, but it's hard to be rational about love sometimes... I can't say I ever expected a guy to be like God, but I did hope he might stick around. Ah well. I like the idea of a pearl covered with mud. Of course, it does rather remind one of the advice not to throw pearls to swine.

In answer to your question, as I wrote each line of the first stanza I thought about whether I could repeat the end word and I tried to choose ones that were easily repeated. 'Made', for that purpose, was probably a mistake.

Barbara

Barbara -

Interesting to know how you approached your sestina. You knew what you wanted to write about and in writing the first stanza chose the words. Perhaps I'd have more luck writing a sestina if I knew what I wanted to write about before-hand. As I said, I picked six words randomly and just dove in with no idea where I'd go...probably not the best approach for writing a sestina or any other form.

My apologies if my personal comments came across as sounding insensitive. They were not meant to be and what I was trying to say probably made little sense.

Should you decide you want to do a very challenging exercise, we could swap end words from the sestinas we've posted here and try to write another using each others six words. If you're not interested, I totally understand. But I think I will collect all of the end words from yours and Janet's and Frank's poem and try to write my own 3 sestinas with them just to make sure I don't like writing in the form. This will take me some time - I can't just spit one out in 30 minutes.

:)
Anne

Dear Anne-

No worries. I appreciated your comments a lot actually. And you're on for the exercise of swapping end words. Not sure when I'll get mine up, but should be before Tuesday anyhow.

Ciao,
Barbara

A poem that sends up the form beautifully is “Bob”:
http://www.pshares.org/issues/articl...ArticleID=4668

Also see this earlier Erato thread on “The Art of the Sestina”.
http://www.ablemuse.com/erato/ubbhtm...ML/000469.html

[This message has been edited by Henry Quince (edited April 20, 2008).]

I wanted to remove this sestina for something else.



[This message has been edited by Barbara Godwin (edited June 03, 2008).]