Sestina Sestina by Bruce W Niedt
A sestina can include everything, even the kitchen sink.
(After all, Bishops had a grandmothers stove.) I think
to be different, Ill even make this one rhyme,
which makes it more of a challenge, but Ive got the time,
and each stanza will a have a new scheme anyway;
I just hope the narrative wont fall in disarray.
I could make this a poem about my brother Ray,
but thats a lie I have no brother Ray. Would I sink
to fabricate a story, to stretch my credence any way
I could? If I plied you with tall tales, what would you think
of me? Fiction often has the luxury of time;
the older, the more removed from reasoned rhyme.
And what about this form? Like the Rime
of the Ancient Mariner, could it be an albatross, arrayed
around my neck, a burden for all time?
Would I be bogged down with words, and begin to sink
into a quicksand of lockstepped verse? Id like to think
myself a master of the pen, plowing awkward from my way.
And what of rhythm? Dare I bend the beat any way
I want, invoke iambic, dancing up to every rhyme?
Sometimes the thing takes on a shape, doesnt care what you think,
becomes vampiric, sucks creative juices, avoids rays
of morning and the wood stakes of closure, till it sinks
into the coffin of your dresser drawer, waiting for a better time.
There, wasnt that a good metaphor? Ive got no time
for a poem without one. And yet, they never should weigh
the whole piece down, heavy-handed hyperbole to sink
your ship that plies the sea of creativity, whitecaps of rhyme,
or even worse, the critics, bloodthirsty blackguards on a pirate raid
to your integrity. Ah well, who really worries what they think?
Then I wonder: if not a poet, what would I be? Some liberal in a think-
tank, or a master chef, whipping up a specialty, chopping thyme
and rosemary? Or a sports hero, making the winning score, hearing Hooray!
ring in his ears? This has become a ramble; the poem has lost its way.
I see an envoi in our future, and some closing lines of rhyme.
And after six verses I still havent worked in a kitchen sink.
I think Ill have to cash in anyway.
I no longer have either time or rhyme.
Ill call my sister Desirée and wash up in the sink.
05/06/2004 Posted on 05/06/2004 Copyright © 2024 Bruce W Niedt
Member Comments on this Poem |
Posted by Chris Sorrenti on 05/06/04 at 08:04 PM Sestina or not, this is certainly entertaining Bruce, kitchen sink included. No need to poetry channel surf while reading this jem. Kudos! |
Posted by Michelle Angelini on 05/07/04 at 04:28 AM Entertaining poem - kitchen sink and all! No wonder Don Campbell uses your poems as examples in workshops. Also, I think you've taken the sestina to a new high. ;-) |
Posted by Mary Ellen Smith on 05/07/04 at 05:28 AM Very clever poem. The form is accentuated by the rambling! |
Posted by David R Spellman on 05/08/04 at 05:45 AM What a ramble! But in such a cleverly and humurously fashioned way... Marvelous!!! |
Posted by JD Clay on 05/09/04 at 01:35 PM Your competent pen and resourceful mind have again merged with an ingenious notion to exploit the boundries of poetic form. Quite refreshing, Bruce, and very impressive. You have obviously poured some time and effort into this dynamic piece while splashing it with your humor.
Pe4ce... |
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