A Slice of Life While Creating a Sestina

Slice of Life on TwoWritingTeachers.org 1 June 2021

Have you ever written a sestina?

This weekend I wrote a tritina because of Liz Garton Scanlon’s Poetry Friday post. It was there she mentioned the sestina, as well.  I had heard of this 39-line French form with six stanzas, and the same six words rotating at the end of each stanza, but I didn’t have much confidence or interest in trying one myself. After trying a tritina, though, I thought I’d give it a go. I started a list of favorite words, trying to decide which six to use. I wrote hope, launch, and cry on my list.

Why cry? I thought. Because I need some sad words in my poem too, I answered myself.

Then I realized what an impossible task it would be to pick the right six words. I need a topic, I thought. So I started brainstorming: family, pandemic, food, vacation, etc.

Instead of continuing with my sestina drafting, though, I decided to go to bed. Before I slept, I sent a last-minute appeal text to my family WhatsApp group:

I woke up in the morning to these words, two from each family member. (Are these really favorite words?)

dappled
germinate
turpitude
exhume
zenith
rambunctious
bizarre
delicate
kindness
non-anxious

and my own:

hope
launch

With bizarre, turpitude and exhume, I figured I didn’t need any sad words, so I left cry off my list.

So now the challenge begins. First of all, I only need six words for my sestina, but I gave myself a bit of a buffer zone by asking for two words. I can choose from these twelve–the six I will use for my end lines, for they will be repeated seven times each. And the other six words I will try to fit in one time anywhere in the poem.

When I looked at these words, no subject jumped out. That’s for sure. So I went to read the newspaper,  actually The Washington Post, online version. When I read this opinion piece by Jonathan Capehart, “Kamala Harris Speaks the Truth About Race Unafraid,” I thought, Ah-ha. Here is my subject. Living overseas, I see all the -isms and -phobias that the U.S. has, plus some. The world has systemic injustice and inequity issues, and America is part of the world. I don’t understand how some people in the U.S. argue that America does not have a problem with racism (or any other -ism or -phobia) (e.g., one hundred years ago today) Do others want to immigrate to the U.S. because it’s perfect and their country isn’t? No, they can see the truth. But at least we say there is liberty and justice for all. With every generation, in every century we have to go “further up and further in” to a just nation, a union becoming more perfect. Speaking the truth–admitting, repenting, and repairing problems–is what makes America good.

I was thinking of these things when I drafted my first sestina:

Speak the Truth: A Sestina 

America: It is sunlight and a future, but dappled,
Still needing to exhume the tangled turpitude
Of isms: racism, sexism, anti-Semitism. The zenith
Of America will near as it produces its delicate
Song of the ages. It will usher in inclusive kindness
And bring forth a love song of rambunctious hope.

Over the past eight years I have met people of hope
In this country of invited workers sweetly dappled
From all over the globe. We’ve met many in kindness,
Sometimes coming from countries where the turpitude
Of governance makes their citizens retreat to this delicate
Pearl in the Gulf. For them, Bahrain is the zenith.

Thankful their career brought them to earn in this zenith,
They send money home to their families in hurting hope.
We’ve met people from 131 nations here in this delicate
Population of one-and-a-half million. The light is dappled
Across the land as people are launched from turpitude
And given a renewed promise to germinate kindness.

When people find that we are from America, kindness
Rises. “Tell us more.” Many long for the ultimate zenith
Of their immigration–to move to America. Moral turpitude
During the past few years, notwithstanding. They hope.
America the Beautiful is beautiful, even though dappled
With phobias–gay, trans, Asian, Islam. Speak the truth–delicate

Harsh, truth–not an attack on the U.S. We aren’t delicate.
America dares to weed out -isms and -phobias, choosing kindness.
Look at the color and fearlessness of the current dappled
Administration. America is not yet perfected to its zenith.
Let us not go back to when America was “great,”  but hope
That, in the future, we will continue to uproot turpitude.

All people are created equal, and it’s turpitude
That bizarrely distorts equality all over this delicate
Earth. No matter how great Bahrain is, people see more hope
Where a Black woman with Asian roots takes her power. Kindness
In America, land of the free; liberty and justice–the zenith.

It is hard, but America faces unafraid our history dappled

In non-anxious, bold turpitude; Yet, at times we choose kindness.
We battle to help the delicate soul of America reach her zenith. 
Hope like Kamala brightens the complexion of America dappled.

By Denise Krebs

Postscript: Poetry gives heart and soul to numbers and patterns. I love to puzzle words, syllables, and meter together to fit poetry forms. However, after being in this process for a while today, wrestling with the six words at the end of each line, I couldn’t also think about iambic pentameter. I can’t even manage consistent meter in a short poem. After counting the syllables in the first few lines, I stopped! I’m publishing this draft without worry of iambs and meter. At least for now. I’ve learned that sestinas are a challenge!

Here is a Sestina generator to help you make a template with the word order for each stanza. I discovered it after I made mine.

If you’ve written a sestina, please share a link in the comments. I’d love to read it.

An Ovillejo Poem About the Pandemic

Today I wrote an Ovillejo poem about the pandemic, as our numbers here is Bahrain are skyrocketing and strict new bans and lockdowns began this weekend.

Case numbers have escalated
Hope deflated
Businesses and malls are all closed
So exposed
Vaccination sites ramping up
Don’t let up
Immunity rate speeding up
Battling new variants, a quest
From the hands of cold death to wrest
Hope deflated, so exposed. Don’t let up!

Carrying Home and #MayPoems for Poetry Friday

Things We Carry on the Sea
By Wang Ping

We carry tears in our eyes: good-bye father, good-bye mother
We carry soil in small bags: may home never fade in our hearts
We carry names, stories, memories of our villages, fields, boats
We carry scars from proxy wars of greed
continue…

I have never had to carry things as heavy as Ping describes here, things which refugees throughout history and today have to bear. This poem is heartbreaking and inspires empathy, and hopefully it will inspire me to take action. Please read the rest of her words, along with a lesson plan to teach it, at Poets.org: Teach This Poem: “Things We Carry on the Sea”.

We will be carrying some things home when we leave Bahrain, but chances are good because of our privilege we will fly in a jet across the ocean with a few suitcases of our special possessions to bring home. My May Poem for today is about my present and future homes inspired by Michelle Kogan. I love the words she creates and chooses, as she did on this post (rose-tipped and gypsy-stemmed), this post (cone-wove and beak-fluff), this post (ginger-spice-edged) and this comment (flicker-orange and tee-root). And on today’s post (poppiness and banana boats and strawberry spice). Such sweet words!

Because of Michelle, I wanted to try words with hyphens and also paint my own picture for today. I drew and painted a Kingdom of Bahrain door leading to my “magical” place inspired by the guided imagery on this episode of Art Date with Miss Kate.

When drawing with Kate, I thought of our home in Joshua Tree, California, where we will hopefully move at the end of 2021. Here is my painting and related poem. (I’m not sure if mine is considered an ekphrastic poem because I didn’t really describe the painting, but it surely inspired my words.)

Into the Door

The here-to-there Door
Where we will say our
Teary-faced, hug-full
Ma Salama مع السلامه
To two-Waters warmth,
Our hospitable Haven,
Uncovering our
Marhaba مرحبا
To sweet-hope Home
Wide open to where
Whispers-from-God Joshuas
Point to Life-drenched Promise

I decided on May 1 to write some #MayPoems, not knowing if I would do it for three days or further into the month. Well, so far I have written and posted each day in May with a different prompt, inspiration, or a response to some treasure I found while reading or observing. This Poetry Friday community has encouraged me and provided nourishment as you have read and commented on some of my May Poems. Thank you.

Here are each day’s posts in one index:

Today’s Poetry Friday roundup is hosted by Michelle Kogan at her blog. Happy birthday and thank you, Michelle!

Desert scene in California with Joshua trees
Our backyard

Today’s Poem of a Photo

Today’s inspiration came from Margaret Simon’s “This Photo Wants to Be A Poem.” Margaret shared this Instagram photo by Hope Dublin:

 

View this post on Instagram

 

A post shared by @hopesview2021

Our final rest is
elsewhere, but
among the dandelions
and wanderers
you are welcome,
where lichen
makes its home
on our headstones.
Sit here with them a while.
Read your magic, but also
study their history.
Listen to their hush.
They have stories to tell.

November 22, 1963

I was inspired by a Slice of Life I read last week on Kathleen Neagle Sokolowsk’s blog. She wrote a poem about a special place as a model for her students. She chose to write about her grandparents’ home on Dianne Street. In addition, I had also just read a prompt post by Christie Wyman about a similar memory poem that ended with “But mostly, I remember…” so I used that, as well. It is amazing how you can be given a gift of memory through the right writing prompt. This day and idea came to the top of my list when I thought about my elementary school. I didn’t as much remember the place as the experience, but I did try to focus a bit on where the memory happened as well.

November 22, 1963

I remember walking down the hallway at Grove Avenue Elementary School on the concrete, smooth and worn. The paint was mostly removed and the surface polished by decades of saddle shoes and loafers padding through the corridors.

I remember arriving at the library with the welcoming smell of old books and happier times. Normally this was the place to sit on the carpet and hear the teacher read us a story of conjuring and castles, of dragons and dreams, of enchanted fishes and wishes granted or denied. One time I even got to sit in the teacher’s chair and turn the pages of the big LP storybook every time Tinker Bell rang her little bell on the record player. Not today though.

I remember Mrs. Leuer leading us into the library with her commanding presence, where wordlessly she told us to sit crisscross applesauce on the floor. Her black soft curls were like Elizabeth Taylor’s.

I remember the sad realization that there was no story today.  We sat in front of the big, black box of a television on a stand.

I remember the tears raining down my teacher’s cheeks. She removed her glasses and wiped her eyes while she watched the news on this brisk fall day.

I remember feeling worried, with my fellow kindergarteners, as we looked on in confusion at the adults who should be in control but weren’t.

But mostly I remember learning that Caroline and John-John didn’t have a dad any more.

Poetry Friday for Marvelous Mary Lee

Mary Lee Hahn, whose sweet Twitter profile says, “5th grade teacher, reader, blogger, poet-in-training,” is retiring. Congratulations, Mary Lee! Thank you for all the beautiful poetry “training” you share publicly. Children and teachers alike have been blessed with  your learning, writing, and teaching through poetry.

Recently Mary Lee wrote an onomatopoeia poem called “Sleigh Ride.” Here is the first stanza:

shhh
say the runners
sliding through the snow

It is a great form for using as a mentor to write about the sounds in a setting, so I share this poem in honor of Mary Lee; I wrote it today while my husband tinkered and made noise in the kitchen.

Keith Makes Healthy Pudding

Whoosh, pop
Says the refrigerator door
Opening for ingredients sweet

Burble, splish, splash
Says the water
Cascading over coming treats

Rattle, clash, grind, hum
Says the blender
Pulverizing nuts and berries

Rap, tap, clackety clack
Says the stainless steel dish
Filling with the dessert it carries

Slurp, yum, delicious
Says watching-and-listening me,
Fortuitous beneficiary

All the best to you, Mary Lee, in your retirement. Of course, I know you will continue your poetry training, writing and sharing, as the lifelong learner, creator and contributor that you are. Here are Mary Lee’s blogs: A Year of Reading and Poetrepository.

Thank you to Christie Wyman for hosting Poetry Friday today, a party honoring Mary Lee Hahn, at her Wondering and Wandering blog. And happy birthday to you today, Christie!

Happy Anniversary, Katie and Thomas!

A Blessed Day in May,
A Pantoum

Kat and Tom Get Married
Sweet news for the ages
A blessed day in May
Filled with love and spirit

Sweet news for the ages
Come to Joshua Tree
Filled with love and spirit
Overflowing into a lifetime

Come to Joshua Tree
Engagement with the bees
Overflowing into a lifetime
Of nectar fun and flowers

Engagement with the bees
Memories to bear the night
Of nectar fun and flowers
So many chapters unwritten

Memories to bear the night
Will sustain a life of laughter
So many chapters unwritten
For this Howlett Home

Will sustain a life of laughter
Of faith, hope, joy and love
For this Howlett Home
Then and now and into the future

Of faith, hope, joy and love
Kat and Tom Get Married
Then and now and into the future
A blessed day in May

Here is a tool to help create your own pantoum.

This Photo Wants to Be Poem

Lately I’m enjoying writing #PoemsofPresence with Margaret Simon and others on her Wednesday posts called “This Photo Wants to Be a Poem.” I anxiously wait for Wednesday morning, Eastern time in the U.S., which is afternoon for me. Today’s post has this picture of a dragonfly taken by teacher Lory Landry. You are invited to go and add your own poem!

 

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A post shared by Lory Frioux Landry (@loryla63)

In my Blackjack poem with 7-7-7 syllables, or also called a septercet, I imagine the dragonfly is on a hunt for its next meal.

Caution-tape tail gives warning
Skeletal wings bowed in wait
Eyes focused on its supper