#sestina
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academic-vampire · 1 day ago
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(Inspiration^)
I wrote a Sestina today for an assignment, and I’m curious to hear what anyone thinks about it. I think it’s definitely heading in the right direction, although it’s not perfect. :) But I’d love any feedback you guys can give me! For example, I haven’t picked a title yet. Do you have a preference to any of the titles listed up top? (See poll)
The Sestina structure is very rigid and interesting, so I added the explanation of how it works at the bottom of this post. But long story short, the words at the ends of the lines repeat through the entire 39 lines of the poem, but they alternate and swap positions every time. It’s a fascinating form.
(So sorry if there are any errors—it’s my first draft and I wrote it in like 15 minutes ahah)
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Sestina Structure explanation:
The sestina follows a strict pattern of the repetition of the initial six end-words of the first stanza through the remaining five six-line stanzas, culminating in a three-line envoi. The lines may be of any length, though in its initial incarnation, the sestina followed a syllabic restriction. The form is as follows, where each numeral indicates the stanza position and the letters represent end-words:
1. ABCDEF
2. FAEBDC
3. CFDABE
4. ECBFAD
5. DEACFB
6. BDFECA
7. (envoi) ECA or ACE
(The envoi, sometimes known as the tornada, must also include the remaining three end-words, BDF, in the course of the three lines so that all six recurring words appear in the final three lines. In place of a rhyme scheme, the sestina relies on end-word repetition to effect a sort of rhyme.)
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theriverspath · 24 days ago
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First Night's Hunger
A sestina* written using prompts provided by @whickberstreetwriters and @ineffablyruined.
To paper I touch ink, Scribbling words feral, Fierce with hunger. My brow blossoms dew, Betraying memories wanton, A heart unraveled.
A heart unraveled And writ upon with fiery ink Casts down thoughts wanton. The deed recorded feral As the first day's dew, The first night's hunger.
The first night's hunger, Angelic restraint unraveled. Loss of it slicked my face as dew. Gluttony painted in gristled ink Summoned from you a look feral, Ignited in me a flame wanton.
Ignited in me a flame wanton, A temptation stoked eternal hunger, Caused cravings feral. Divine bonds unraveled. A new concord would itself ink Across my spirit as covering dew.
Across my spirit as covering dew Blossomed a blasphemy wanton. Beside Her name, 'nother in blazing ink Engraved by indelible hunger. The shame of it proved me unraveled. I feared myself a Fallen feral.
I feared myself a Fallen feral. Tears shed, a mourning dew. Terror showed my Faith unraveled. Then, comfort from source of appetite wanton. Crowing not for kindling hunger, A confidant scribing secrets in lemon juice ink.
I now ink this ancient hunger to a page, as wanton As 'twas that burning night you unraveled my feral greed. As the dew yet clings to Eden's walled-in green, it shall never dry.
~~~~~~~
*A sestina is a poem that dates back to twelfth century Europe. It has a strict form, involving the repetition of six words in a specific rotating order over six stanzas. It's often written in iambic pentameter and ended with a three-line stanza containing all six words. This was a new form for me, and I may have played fast and loose with the meter and the last stanza.
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asolareclipses · 8 months ago
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So I wrote this poem in my writing class, and I, obviously, wrote about Solangelo. I’m not really good with poetry so it’s probably not great, it’s in the format of a Sestina (it’s what the professor wanted) so I hope it makes sense. It’s pretty much my first actual attempt at writing a poem, so don’t judge too much. Anyways it’s in Nico’s POV and I haven’t decided what to name it.
Hair that shines the color of gold,
matched with watercolor eyes so blue.
He is to me the sun,
that dispells the depths of my shadows.
No longer am I lost in a world so alone.
For where I go he follows, now I know love.
Before him I had feared the word love,
to me it was no treasure, no ruby or gold.
I hid from all I lost, I was best alone.
Until I met an ocean and drowned in its blue.
Thrust out of my home, deep in the shadows,
I began to look up and face the sun.
Never did I think I could know the Sun,
nor did I believe it was him I could love.
When he did not run so far from my shadows,
I realized his heart was truly that of gold.
Now I can imbrace this sky of blue.
Now with him I am no longer alone.
For most of my life I lived so alone,
hiding from the world and its sun.
I feared to let myself fall into the blue.
I feared it could not accept my love.
Still I reached out to touch hands more than gold,
afraid to be consumed once more with shadows.
This life of mine has been completely in shadows.
A solomn existence, fearing to be forever alone.
In those dark halls, I never found gold.
In those dark halls, there was no sun.
A loss all consuming, I couldn’t fathom love.
With an oceans rejection, I despised that blue.
Yet still my true love transformed from his blue,
ridding the darkness of my following shadows.
My life knew pain but now there’s love,
with the truth that im no longer alone.
I walk now with, alongside the sun,
into a world that wishes us gold.
Incomprehensibly accepting and loving its gold.
For who would think a star could love the sun?
These blue eyes and shadows, no longer alone.
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berrystrawbs · 5 months ago
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sestina 02
Three street corners down a boy is hilarious and the laugh in his chest feels something like fate. He chokes over the sound of his father, axed timber, shuts his eyes and dreams of life. Another new beginning. A mouth opens in his chest, cavernous urge to clarify because running cannot be the only option, safety is not a lost, lonely option. Because children find cowardice hilarious with eyes black and empty to clarify  that some shut-eye on tree bark is certain fate. The goodness is coming. Don’t stop beginning. He cries wax tears and ignores father. Timber- wood falls in the forest and anyway "Timber!" will cover a sound, if there is one, (an option to end or keep living), a beginning,  unkempt and he’s heavenly, hilarious.  Scream and the echo crawls back, slow fate muddled touch. He’ll beg: "Answer me. Clarify." He joins Mama in the kitchen, early morning to clarify (wear a lie) he wasn’t out kissing boys last night, just timber like daddy, machine-cog turned eye-to-eye back to fate. “You’d say, Mama, if there was another option?” She laughs and he smiles but it’s not hilarious  and there’s a new feeling like a disease beginning, huddled deep in his chest and it’s only just beginning to rain. When the water’s gone, fog-windows will clarify what it is to ache when a boy calls him hilarious with a smile in his eyes, sunlit dark timber  or similar. To wonder if this is an option, for a boy to look like he’d swallow down fate, like he’d exhale it through a sigh and fate would see to it that he leapt, ending beginning. To test if he’d do it all over, given the option. Or if he’d be honest with one chance to clarify  that forest-felled favor splinters into ax-hewn timber. And he’d laugh like this boy was someone hilarious. His voice fighting fate, two-to-two to clarify: this is his beginning. Silent fallen timber  will scream an option. He’ll smile. Hilarious.
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alwaysbemybae · 9 months ago
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SESTINA FOR GOOD OMENS FANS
Let’s peek at our happy ending. A cottage
in the South Downs. A midday bubble bath
for two, who chortle now at their dates gone wrong,
at the shenanigans this ineffably matched
couple get into, like after dinner,
when—surprise!—it’s a double proposal!
How do they get to this double proposal,
warmly ensconced in their cozy cottage?
It’s a wondrous, dangerous route: a dinner
of ox-rib, a bullet-catch, hellfire, a bath
in holy water. Dark wings unfurl, a match
for white ones. A serpent teaches right from wrong.
Heartfelt confessions go horribly wrong.
They wonder what the Almighty proposes,
creating such a blasphemous match
made in heaven and hell. Their cottage
awaits. But it’s not yet time. An angel is bathed
in sorrow, missing candlelit dinners,
amber eyes that devoured him for dinner,
a sardonic voice teasing him for wrong
vernacular. For millennia they’ve bathed
in each other’s auras. His demon’s proposed
escaping to safe haven, maybe a cottage
in the star system whose name matches
theirs, A and C. But heaven’s ignited a match.
The angel knows they’ll be eaten for dinner,
live, by overseers who’ll set fire to their cottage
dreams, who’ll never stop berating wrong, wrong, wrong.
The angel says yes but to heaven’s proposal,
The demon warns of impending bloodbath.
So now we wait for months, for years, bathed
in breathless anticipation. We’re match-
less in number of stories told, theories proposed,
worlds built where angels and demons dine
in bliss, engage in mischievous wrongs,
move books and plants into their cottage.
We dream of the double proposal at dinner,
of baths that heal the hurts and wrongs,
of matching souls safe, at last, in their cottage.
*
Scribbling Vaguely Downwards Valentine’s Day prompts: dinner, date gone wrong, bubble bath, matchymatchy, double proposal, South Downs cottage
A sestina is a poem with six stanzas of six lines each and a concluding triplet. The stanzas have the same six words at the line ends in a fixed pattern and the six words all appear in the final three lines.
My Good Omens Valentine’s Day poems: https://archiveofourown.org/series/3978853
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ecc-poetry · 2 years ago
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TERF WARS
I wrote JK Rowling a letter when I was a little girl, asking to play Hermione in the Harry Potter movie. The nerdy witch. Justice-monger. Shame and self-doubt had started to snake their way through me, but weren't yet my veins. It was safe then to beg boons of St. Joanne. Mother Christmas. "Miracle" wasn't a slur–hadn't she taught us to be plucked from obscurity? Hadn't she made magic real?
Unplucked, I hit high school, where despite owls and broomsticks, the reality was that I wasn't the right kind of girl: Awkward. Too smart. Too angry. My body clung to me like a slur, meanwhile Joanne SPEWed her punchlines: A witch who believes in sharing power?! I had no power. I only felt safe while shrinking. I shed baby fat like the skin of a snake,
and couldn't think who taught me the trick. My mind writhed like a snake. Hermione got a makeover to ready her for love, her worth made real. Joanne said: at my age, she could've been conned to seek a safety only gettable in the body of a boy. Not me. I was indelible. I'd die of girl before I stopped being one, like the girls who were told which they were and rebelled. Like the boys Joanne slurs
as lost girls. Joanne's three-quarter prose drowned Hermione in a slurry of girlboss: memory-muddler. Perfect prime minister. A snake licked my ears since 11, and now in the base of my brainstem, a witch peddles poisons. Joanne says the things in your head aren't real just because you know them. She says struggling. That girls are at risk of erasure, because it's un-safe–
and worse, unpopular–to be one. St. Joanne wants a safe world for women, so she causes with people who think I'm a slur. She says, "The system, surgery, easy fix, poor girls who do not conform." She parcels her tongue, snakelike, each poison pill small and swallowable. She knows 'real' lies between my legs. She thinks she is only burning witches;
but her cruelties sear me too. Don't you get it? Hurt one witch and her sisters scream. Joanne says protect, but I've never felt safe in her sanctum. I keep smelling flames. I run to my real coven, my story-slurred sisters. Joanne says that bigot's a slur, but to her it's a badge. It admits her to the parliament of snakes. All in the name of protecting 'real' girls–
Well, spare me your cherishing. My witch-womb rejects you. I pronounce your sanctimony slurred,
your safe, a stake to the heart. You think we're the same, but Joanne: I don't caucus with snakes. You made magic
once, but what you call love isn't real. It's a nuclear bomb, shedding ash through the years onto all us wicked girls.
-Elisa Chavez
(Notes and recs)
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eeriemilyworlds · 26 days ago
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isawhitney · 6 months ago
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Anti-sestina
In essence, a sestina is an act of constant motion.
What sort of motion? Well, you stay
in the same place, repeating every word
six times [and then again, one other time]
at the end of your lines. Definite.
Of course, it's difficult to be so definite. Poets
always try and cheat a little. Staying the same
gets monotonous, so their words break
off or add on jarringly to the motion. Duck.
Enjambment. Clothes-horse. In time, the
reader loses their wits. Words, wisdoms, blur
a little, muddied in that staid mellow rhythm
that means nothing. Staying still, they wonder:
Am I in a time loop? All meaning disintegrates,
Lost in the definite whirlpool, moving on.
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lovesdisrepute · 4 months ago
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sestina 01
his starlight reminisces a foreign skyline buoyed by salination: seaside boy glances up from a computer and the library windows are dark now, it’s too late for a boy of your age to fall out of words sink beneath midnight canopies, to  fade into azure, too early to  learn something new – fear the foreign! isn’t it true the sooner wretched ships sink  the more glass there is for you to pocket by seaside weeping bells in the stagnance, your mother for  your locked doors of the library  you are His, not this library  no books, shelved spines cracking to  attention, ink pressing forward an aria for a dictionary, translation: the foreign  act of admitting there’s life past our seaside there’s more to the world than toy ships in our sink  and you, do you sink? you, boy of the library  with shells in your marrow from her seaside life lived of knowledge, what is it to  dream? is joy such a raw foreign  thing spoken in darkness entombed for  overused ecstasy, melancholic for  melodrama, boy it’s easy to sink into spaces frightened and foreign  run now! you can escape this library  clear your mind of all He attends to  draw stick-shapes in sand at the seaside crack your nails into chipped rocks of seaside  whispers, easily it’s lost, for  your carrion fields are closer to  bile diluted in a public restroom sink  blink and he’s back, blue-lit in the library  how does familiarity manage to be foreign  little deaths by the seaside, blow a candle ‘til i sink  come forth for getting this library  boyhood: a lapse to become, unto himself, foreign
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apathyislikeawoundedsoul · 9 months ago
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Ever Companionless
They call me Kind as Summer
With the wisdom of one with grayed hair,
The strength and beauty of starry space.
They think of me as a gentle season,
A flowered garden
Bathed in sunlight of gold.
But the tempermant of gold
Is one of summer,
So kind to gardens
For a moment, just a hair's
Breadth before it burns. Everyone has their seasons.
For my life, I've been kind for a beat of space.
That is to say, even a Lord will need space.
Most see their memories bathed in gold,
A nostalgic season,
Warm as Summer.
My nostalgia is lackluster with grayed hair
In a sad, brown garden.
How to care for a garden
That's been left in a lonesome space?
So I cared for others, brushed back their hair,
Made them shine like gold
Companionless, until the Summer
That became my happiest season.
She stayed for many a season,
Planted a garden,
Made every day Summer,
Brightened and warmed the whole space,
Shimmering like gold
With silver-shined hair.
"Silver Lady," They called her, for her hair.
But she tempered my season
And to me she was made of the kindest gold.
Young green and gold was her garden,
Bathing my gray and silver space
Once again in a kind Summer.
But even Summer has its seasons and she was taken from us, tormented in a dark space and with the apathy of her wounded soul, there was no joy left for her garden. Red tarnished green, and so my golden woman entered myth. Far away, she heals and waits, until the hours run dry.
I will see my silver lady again.
I challenged myself to write a sestina for Elrond and Celebrian! @runawaymun ty for letting me run a draft by you ♥️ it took me a while to decide I liked enough to actually post it 😂
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eliotrosechild · 1 month ago
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Pigeon Pomp
The park and bus platforms are, at midday, same
as a walk by the seaboard rushed with breeze,
or the cranny grandstands hours after a game.
There, where hunger begets the fever for seed,
you find my head, sullen, with social ease,
chomping, stomping, pigeon pomping through need.
Man asks Pigeon: How does pomping suit your need?
Pigeon tells Man: Suits are pompous, needs are same.
You and we, bound by blood, cloaked with disease,
envy and pride, form graceless chords to the breeze,
mar the tokens of Regality’s seed,
and rake life’s contract with our pompous game.
By our sails, we are greatness in sport, a game
we love and hate. We fly and fie by need.
We take by want. We rape to spread our seed.
Dear murderous man, our pomp suits you the same.
Yet we are innocent when we yield to the breeze,
Juxtaposed, fat bellies of crumb fed ease.
If these pigeon thoughts offend your Gentle ease,
perhaps you ignore the pomp of man’s game,
where pride, envy and other chords hang the breeze:
man wakes to tame the day, anticipates need
and takes without remorse or shame. This same
taking is as common to hand as beak to seed.
We come to the ripe ground to eat the seed
en masse. Tireless at work, but sporting an ease,
in Congress we hoot, peck, hoot. While sesame
slips from our tongues, we’re coy to rethink this game—
“Could life, without competing, unscratch our need?”—
but the words taste dry as cotton-curled breeze.
Will we forever fly in a waking breeze?
Will we yield to the best the ripest seed?
Are we damned to hoot and peck the pomp of need?
An unsettled beak and neck finds no ease
competing in an uncompleting game:
these pompous virtues make man and pigeon, same.
At ease, my sweet, fat, pigeon man, you need
the man-bird to study its game and learn, same
as I, how pompous seed breeds a foul breeze.
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home-of-the-fly · 2 months ago
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The Harbor
Clang! Clang! The farrier's handiwork pounds the ground,
Each hoofbeat shattering air and crushing leaves.
My breath forms ghosts that shiver in the cold
And I watch as each succumbs and is lost.
Slam! My boot heel commands a charge.
Nightfall is come, and I am far from the Harbor.
Oh, woe be unto the man ignorant of the Harbor!
The Holy God surely smiles upon that hallowed ground.
Yes, Holy God, to be embraced as your charge!
How joyous a sight when a martyr leaves;
Cast from the dock into your arms and lost.
Lost only to us, the men that remain in the cold.
Mercy! Mercy! I yearn to be free of the cold!
I have begun to fear I may never see the Harbor,
Never feel its warmth as I'm reunited with what I've lost.
Hurry, damn you! I hear the undertaker breaking ground!
Oh, Holy God! I beg thee be merciful to the leaves,
The leaves that scream and bleed under my charge.
Your honour, your Holiness, I am innocent of your charge.
I swear on my faith that in my heart I am not cold,
Nor unfeeling, for I wept as I crushed the leaves!
Each stride broke my heart, but I had to reach the Harbor.
Have to still! You seek to detain me, but on what ground?
You heathens! Release me at once, for you have lost!
Faster! Faster! May you be swift; hope is not yet lost!
If boot and spur be insufficient, let my words charge:
My loyal steed, your heart must soar above the ground!
Think only of warmth, as death follows thoughts of cold.
Look! See the light through the branches and behold the Harbor!
Faster! Faster! The light will soon drown the sounds of leaves!
Praise be! Such beauty, such glory! Damned is the man who leaves,
And damned is he who dares forsake this eden of the lost!
And lo! The trees are naked of leaves in the Holy God's Harbor.
Yet their memory leaves red stains on my love, my muse, my charge.
I walk the scarlet streets, yet still shiver with cold,
And soon see why: frigid waves crash upon the Harbor's ground!
Of course! The Holy God was never the martyrs' charge!
Nor was it the lost or the leaves; the martyrs worship the cold!
And so, as I weep, my tears flood the Harbor, washing clean the bloodsoaked ground.
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betweenthetimeandsound · 1 year ago
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--prompt from @nosebleedclub "crows and ravens" (1 October)
Crows and ravens take flight in overcast skies, unwary of the leaves following them, colored with gold. Unraveling threads accompany a violent wind, which whip the innocent into submitting into time's embrace, with scarred cheeks and flying hair.
Charmed and beautiful, I revel in my curly hair, covering my eyes and grazing my soft cheeks. But when I wander outside, a mourning wind conquers a zephyr and leaves it yearning, submitting to the quickly disintegrating autumn skies, only a trickle of sunlight gives out some gold.
I bartered your soul for maidens' hearts of gold; they glimmer in the dusky skies; with time, only sodium lamps are submitting to the ugliness of day, shining on tangled hair. Contemplating on the ruddiness of your cheeks, I hold myself and wait for the wind.
Out on the sidewalk, I face the wind, but it only accepts those who are submitting to the falling odds, with open palms and falling hair. I remember when you gave kisses on my frozen cheeks, and then lit a candle to bring some gold to the silvery overcast skies.
When will I wake up to pure, turquoise skies, and have only delicate rays caress my cheeks? I hide myself, making a veil out of my hair, and only offering a hand out for gold. Accepting your loss is submitting to a last gust of hurricane-like wind...
..which throws me off balance, a bastard wind. The soul would know better not to trust the skies; to accept the constellations as they are is submitting to a fate so wretched, it could even tarnish gold. You would recognize me by my raggard hair, but the crows and ravens cannot kiss my cheeks;
instead, they arrive and peck at your cheeks, relishing the fleshy and raw gold which is only revealed in the winter skies. --Elda Mengisto
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goodvibesatpeace · 8 months ago
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Body Positivity
In a world obsessed with physical perfection,
We're bombarded with unattainable ideals,
But it's time for a new kind of reflection,
One that embraces all shapes, sizes, and feels.
Body positivity is the call,
A movement to accept and love us all.
No longer should we hide or be ashamed,
Of the curves, lines, and angles we possess,
For our bodies are unique and untamed,
And it's time to embrace, not suppress.
The media may try to define beauty,
But it's time to reclaim our autonomy.
The road to self-love may be complex,
But we're on this journey together,
With every step, we learn to flex,
Our confidence and self-love forever.
It's not about what the scale may say,
It's about embracing who we are today.
It's time to shed the negative thoughts,
And replace them with words of empowerment,
For every body is a work of art,
And it's time to give ourselves that acknowledgment.
We are more than just our outward appearance,
Our worth lies within, not in adherence.
The sestina of body positivity,
Echoes through every inch of our being,
For it's not just about superficiality,
But rather, accepting and freeing.
Our bodies from the chains of society,
And learning to love our unique identity.
It's time to redefine what beauty means,
It's not just about fitting into a size,
But about loving ourselves in all our scenes,
And seeing the beauty in all our highs.
Our bodies are our vessels to thrive,
And it's time to embrace and to revive.
So let's embrace our scars, stretch marks, and all,
For they tell a story of our journey,
Our bodies, big, small, short, or tall,
Each one a masterpiece of diversity.
We are more than the sum of our parts,
Let's celebrate our bodies and our hearts.
This sestina may come to an end,
But the message of body positivity,
Will continue to spread and transcend,
For in every body, there is beauty.
So let's uplift one another,
And embrace the beauty in every body, brother and sister.
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hitawall · 11 months ago
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Two Sides, Three Angles
The almost maiden hopes to forget
The angst she feels about the lack of coin.
Her dreams go up in smoke,
Fading tendrils of half truths and lies,
Even as she tries to count her blessings,
Pinning them down in a blushing notebook.
The steady lines of the notebook
Allow the almost maiden to forget
How she brought about those blessings
To the partner so unconcerned with coin.
Now that timeless lover holds her lies.
Where there is fire, there is smoke.
Catching in her throat like wildfire smoke,
All that naivety penned into her notebook
Is free from any half truths or lies.
The insatiable lover wishes to forget.
He turns his attention to his coin.
He struggles to remember his many blessings.
Known to him is the fickle nature of life’s blessings
Together with the dangers foretold in smoke.
He wishes enough could come of coin
To right the wrongs written in her notebook,
To give her what she needs to forget,
Even if he had to feed her lies.
Two sides of the same coin, they cling to lies.
To count someone among your blessings,
You must be prepared to never forget,
Even when their hopes vanish in smoke,
Even when they cry only into a notebook,
Even when they’ve spent up all the coin.
The importance of coin
Cannot be diminished by lies,
And so plans fill the notebook
For how to bring back blessings
That have nearly smoldered into smoke.
Such a partner refuses to forget.
The little blushing notebook binds the blessings.
The almost maiden overlooks the coin and the lies.
She chooses to take in the smoke to forget.
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funky-fox-fics · 1 month ago
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Prompt: band
Late at night; Impulse and Skizz’s motley band (the ZITS band, they say) is practicing rhythm— staying in tune. Tango strikes the chord. Drums now; Impulse comes in quick. Their friendship is young. Zed comes in with vocals, strong, laughs a little as he sings. Skizz on bass. The music
quickens as they enter the chorus. It’s fast, their music— two line chorus, then straight back into verse. Their band began in the band room—Impulse remembers their laughs as they’d planned it all out; voices, hearts in rhythm as they’d woven together the future of their friendship. The chorus ends; Impulse picks up the pace, drums
faster (to pick up the tempo; it’s lead by the drums). Skizz hadn’t been good at bass, but his music had sharpened into mastery, and their friendship had forgiven it. There stood their band; both Skizz and Impulse keeping the rhythm, Four verses and a bridge. Zedaph laughs;
that’s just how he sings. Impulse likes it—his laughs soften each word he sings, unlike Impulse’s drums. In show he’ll be stoic, but here, their easy rhythm forgives him. It adds a sort of beauty to the music— that’s the important bit. Unprofessional, but this is a band which forgives these kinds of things—this friendship
forgives many things. This is a friendship which is somehow so young—Impulse laughs to think about them in that room, planning out the band. Tango’d walked in on him drumming, and still those drums keep them going. The beating heart—the music wouldn’t be the same without him, the sort of rhythm—
in both the band and the friendship, he’s the rhythm. While Tango’s the impulsive of their friendship— or mostly—Impulse keeps to the rules, keeps the music steady, keeps the tempo. And Skizz keeps, too, their laughs warm and kind. Another heart, in a way. Impulse drums on. And Zedaph leads them all, this wonderfully motley band.
Slowly, carefully, the band ends the song; Impulse’s rhythm on the drums ends too as they begin to talk. Their friendship is upheld as Skizz, talking, laughs. It sounds a lot like music.
(below the cut; an earlier, failed sestina that switched scheme halfway through, and a link to the site i used to determine the scheme of a sestina!)
(i used classicalpoets.org to figure out the scheme of the poem!)
(in this one, i switched to a circular sestina partway through. i also ended this one with a purist envoi rather than the more common envoi above.)
Late at night; Impulse and Skizz’s motley band (the ZITS band, they say) is practicing rhythm— staying in tune. Tango strikes the chord. Drums (Impulse’s) come in quick. Their friendship is young. Zed comes in with vocals, strong, laughs a little as he sings. Skizz on bass. The music
quickens as they enter the chorus. It’s fast, their music— two line chorus, then straight back into verse. Their band began in the band room—Impulse remembers their laughs as they’d planned it all out; voices, hearts in rhythm as they’d woven together the future of their friendship. The chorus ends; Impulse picks up the pace, drums
faster (to pick up the tempo; it’s lead by the drums). Skizz hadn’t been good at bass, but his music had sharpened into mastery. He laughs if you ask how he did it. He keeps the rhythm, the two of them do, in this cobbled-together band. Keeps the rhythm, too, in their friendship.
Impulse thinks about the start of the friendship; Tango’d nosed in while Impulse was playing drums and Skizz had been an acquaintance. The rhythm he’d practiced had spurred them to make a band since all of them were friends, all of them made music and here’s the bridge, slow, soft. Zedaph still laughs—
that’s just how he sings. Zedaph laughs like a bell. He’d been the last in the friendship, since they’d needed vocals and he’d liked the band— the idea of it, and the band itself. Liked making music. The bridge ends, they leap into chorus. Impulse drums like a beating heart, drums, keeps the rhythm
steady. So that’s his role? He keeps the rhythm— the beating heart. Skizz is the one who laughs and keeps them kind, Zed leads the music, Tango’s the smart one; but he is the heart, the drums that keep the song going, keep the friendship on beat. The tempo of the song, of the band.
The song ends; the rhythm slows. Impulse quietly laughs. The friendship still strong, despite the quiet of the drums. The band begins to talk, and it sounds a lot like music.
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