Fool and Angeline

[Angeline]

are writing a sestina in this thread.

We don't know what we're writing about or even what we're doing. But why should that stop us, right Fooly?

And I gave you top billing. See? Even if A does come before F.

So here's the form:

In a traditional Sestina:


The lines are grouped into six sestets and a concluding tercet. Thus a Sestina has 39 lines.

Lines may be of any length. Their length is usually consistent in a single poem.

The six words that end each of the lines of the first stanza are repeated in a different order at the end of lines in each of the subsequent five stanzas. The particular pattern is given below. (This kind of recurrent pattern is "lexical repetition".)

The repeated words are unrhymed.

The first line of each sestet after the first ends with the same word as the one that ended the last line of the sestet before it.

In the closing tercet, each of the six words are used, with one in the middle of each line and one at the end.

The pattern of word-repetition is as follows, where the words that end the lines of the first sestet are represented by the numbers "1 2 3 4 5 6":

1 2 3 4 5 6 - End words of lines in first sestet.
6 1 5 2 4 3 - End words of lines in second sestet.
3 6 4 1 2 5 - End words of lines in third sestet.
5 3 2 6 1 4 - End words of lines in fourth sestet.
4 5 1 3 6 2 - End words of lines in fifth sestet.
2 4 6 5 3 1 - End words of lines in sixth sestet.
(6 2) (1 4) (5 3) - Middle and end words of lines in tercet.



Sestina

Are we ready? We can write about jazz and blues if you want--we both love them. And you have that Langston Hughes cd, I remember.

 

[The_Fool]

Blues works for me, baby....

Note to the readers. Sestinas typically generate a great deal more head scratching for the writer (especially me) so it may take a little longer and may require more edit.

C'mon Angeline, lets do a little boogie chillin' with some down and out syncopation. I gots my whiskey, I gots my smokes, I gots my shades on and I'm a ready to groove....

So lead me to the promised land, baby, lead me home. Kick it up and kick it out, c'mon honey lets see ya strut yo stuff.

 

[Angeline]

Blues works for me, baby....

Note to the readers. Sestinas typically generate a great deal more head scratching for the writer (especially me) so it may take a little longer and may require more edit.

C'mon Angeline, lets do a little boogie chillin' with some down and out syncopation. I gots my whiskey, I gots my smokes, I gots my shades on and I'm a ready to groove....

So lead me to the promised land, baby, lead me home. Kick it up and kick it out, c'mon honey lets see ya strut yo stuff.

You want me to start it, baby? We'll have to use the six words I pick yknow? I'll get a stanza on here sometime in the next day or so (might be two days, tomorrow being Christmas Eve), and you can see what you think. K?

 

[HomerPindar]

oooh, sestina's are fun (Ang can kick my butt for that later )

A thought for you two to play with, one of you picks the words, the other gets to start.

See, now ya both wanna kick my butt!

 

[The_Fool]

You want me to start it, baby? We'll have to use the six words I pick yknow? I'll get a stanza on here sometime in the next day or so (might be two days, tomorrow being Christmas Eve), and you can see what you think. K?

Works for me....

 

[The_Fool]

oooh, sestina's are fun (Ang can kick my butt for that later )

A thought for you two to play with, one of you picks the words, the other gets to start.

See, now ya both wanna kick my butt!

Carefull Homer. You just might be volunteering for the next challenge.

 

[champagne1982]

remember the bluesy challenge?

The Little Boy Blues

He burned with the notes of a melody,
And hoped that maybe this time,
Perhaps he'd find those wished for riches,
Great cities his to plunder.
He laughed as he thought about the blues,
And bid his momma goodbye with a kiss.

One day he hoped to feel a kiss,
Like the notes of a melody,
In the voice of a woman who sings the blues,
In a bar forgotten by time,
His lips hers mercilessly plunder,
In their love, they find their riches.

Maybe love will provide life's sweet riches,
Or maybe wealth's not found in a kiss,
To survive need a man seek plunder?
Death waits its turn in a melody,
It seeks those lovers forgotten by time,
And teaches them the blues.

With the lessons he'd learned he wrote the blues,
His song earned well deserved riches,
His friends had said 'twas a matter of time,
For fortune to grant him a kiss.
It came on the notes of his melody,
A talent was his to plunder.

They made their music and love was their plunder,
The boy kept makin' the blues
The lady sang the notes of a sweet melody,
The wealthy showered them in riches,
Each morn, they retired with their lovers' kiss,
Two souls mated through time.

Would they love forever, to the end of time?
Could wealth and success be their plunder?
Were they satisfied with true love's kiss?
Was happiness found in the blues?
Did they spend their time best with life's great riches?
Did they sing a timeless melody?

A sorrowful melody floats across time,
The sought for riches just empty plunder,
And he found the blues in a woman's kiss.
___________________________________________

I just had to dig it out...

 

[Angeline]

Well

if we're pulling out our old "blue" sestinas:

Ocean Sesto

It's cold tonight at water's edge.
Beyond the horizon lies everything.
I've heard an ocean can carry blues
in waves catapulted by the wind
to whisper faith or sigh of loss,
echoed in whorls of hollow shells.

I've scanned shores for perfect shells,
sinistral curved with fluted edge
like porcelain treasures hiding loss,
beautifully bereft of everything,
but faintly singing like the wind
blows depths of boundless blues.

I've seen the world as seas of blues,
and brasses, woodwinds all as shells
that float their minor notes on wind,
and echo past a night's belled edge,
filling the heart with everything
that's fragile beauty tinged with loss.

A starless night embraces loss
as empty hearts fill up with blues,
denying naught but everything;
illusion overflowing shells
like Trompe l'Oeil tricks vision’s edge,
or breathless echoes ape the wind.

Perhaps distant shores blow wind
in constant faith construed as loss,
and traveled too far dull the edge
of understanding, blurred like blues
mute harmony and moan from shells
in rhythmic slurs, obscuring everything.

So sad songs seem like everything
on empty nights that sing with wind,
sighing through our echoing shells,
conducting symphonies of loss
or simply sounding wordless blues
that drown beyond illusion's edge.

Why do shells sing everything
the ocean's edge carries on wind?
Why must I love this loss, these blues?

 

[The_Fool]

I really liked the title for this one

Hey Bartender, Pour Me Another Sestina

That upright piano sings out its tinny song
An old black man lends to it his whiskey voice
A half drank beer holds his sheet music in place
A cigarette, half ashes, makes him a wreath of smoke
His eyes, half closed see only far away
The music that he makes can only be called the blues

I listen to him play, I know all about them blues.
I hear what he's a singin', but already know that song.
I wish this bottle of whiskey would help me get away.
The singing that I hear is not that haunting voice,
The tears that fill my eyes are not because of smoke,
What makes me want to cry is no one in this place.

She left me. She left me an empty place.
"She left me, She left me longin' for the blues.
I look around and see her face in trails of smoke.
She left me. She left me singin' a sad, sad song.
I'm haunted. I'm haunted by her sweet, sweet voice.
I done said it, whiskey, take me far from here, take me away.

I've thought hard, I don't know why she went away.
Travelin', I've gone from place to place.
Every place I stop I keep listening for her voice.
Listenin' all the time, for a voice tuned to sing the blues.
The tears begin to flow, when the radio plays our song.
I just keep a dreamin', but my dreams scatter in the smoke.

Reaching for my cigarettes, I light me up a smoke.
A woman comes on by and takes my bottle away.
I'll stay here just a little while, I'll stay for one more song.
There's nothing for me here, there's nothing for me any place.
There's nothing for me anywhere, There's nothing for me but blues.
I can't hear no music, no matter how good the voice.

I've heard that call from that silent voice.
I've seen the words written in smoke.
I've felt in in my bones, that rhythm in the blues.
It's time for me to leave. It time to go away.
Its time to find me another place,
Its time to find another bar that plays a different song.

Blues help me hear her voice.
Song sung far away, hard to catch as smoke.
Away from here I'll travel, to find another lonesome place.

 

[BooMerengue]

I'm hiding in the corner... just watching... in awe!

Popcorn, anyone?

 

[Angeline]

Blues works for me, baby....

Note to the readers. Sestinas typically generate a great deal more head scratching for the writer (especially me) so it may take a little longer and may require more edit.

C'mon Angeline, lets do a little boogie chillin' with some down and out syncopation. I gots my whiskey, I gots my smokes, I gots my shades on and I'm a ready to groove....

So lead me to the promised land, baby, lead me home. Kick it up and kick it out, c'mon honey lets see ya strut yo stuff.

You close your eyes to miles of blues,
bassed, brushbeat to another world.
The sidemen don't see you, just play,
take a solo, meander down higways
of soul, looking down, away and within.
That music is sin, the old men say

It's all yours for a stanza dear fooly.

Merry Christmas.

 

[The_Fool]

You close your eyes to miles of blues,
bassed, brushbeat to another world.
The sidemen don't see you, just play,
take a solo, meander down higways
of soul, looking down, away and within.
That music is sin, the old men say

It's all yours for a stanza dear fooly.

Merry Christmas.

You close your eyes to miles of blues,
bassed, brushbeat to another world.
The sidemen don't see you, just play,
take a solo, meander down highways
of soul, looking down, away and within.
That music is sin, the old men say

It don’t matter what anyone’s got to say
When you’re buried in the blues.
‘Cause words that count, come only from within.
Through dark-tint glasses, you look out at the world
Down country roads, down lonesome highways.
The object of your journey, the next place that you play.



Right back at ya, baby...

 

[Angeline]

You close your eyes to miles of blues,
bassed, brushbeat to another world.
The sidemen don't see you, just play,
take a solo, meander down highways
of soul, looking down, away and within.
That music is sin, the old men say

It don’t matter what anyone’s got to say
When you’re buried in the blues.
‘Cause words that count, come only from within.
Through dark-tint glasses, you look out at the world
Down country roads, down lonesome highways.
The object of your journey, the next place that you play.

All the world's a stage. The thing's the play
that bumps from town to town and say
amen somebody for the jukes behind highways
that dip to hollers where nights sweat blues,
where you lose your lonesome cares. The world
outside chirps and croaks. You rock slow within.

 

[minsue]

I'm hiding in the corner... just watching... in awe!

Popcorn, anyone?

I'll share my popcorn if you'll share your corner, Boo

http://addis-welt.de/smilie/smilie/essen/popcorn.gif

 

[Angeline]

I'll share my popcorn if you'll share your corner, Boo

http://addis-welt.de/smilie/smilie/essen/popcorn.gif

sits with Boo and Sue to wait while fooly writes his stanza.

hi.

can i have some popcorn?

 

[minsue]

sits with Boo and Sue to wait while fooly writes his stanza.

hi.

can i have some popcorn?

Of course, milady! I've a ne'er ending popcorn tub for just such an occasion.

http://addis-welt.de/smilie/smilie/essen/lurk.gif

 

[Angeline]

Of course, milady! I've a ne'er ending popcorn tub for just such an occasion.

http://addis-welt.de/smilie/smilie/essen/lurk.gif

And I've been eating stuff that's bad for me all day. Cheesecake, gingerbread, chocolate, homefries.

Tomorrow. Salad and broiled chicken.

 

[The_Fool]

You close your eyes to miles of blues,
bassed, brushbeat to another world.
The sidemen don't see you, just play,
take a solo, meander down highways
of soul, looking down, away and within.
That music is sin, the old men say

It don’t matter what anyone’s got to say
When you’re buried in the blues.
‘Cause words that count, come only from within.
Through dark-tint glasses, you look out at the world
Down country roads, down lonesome highways.
The object of your journey, the next place that you play.

All the world's a stage. The thing's the play
that bumps from town to town and say
amen somebody for the jukes behind highways
that dip to hollers where nights sweat blues,
where you lose your lonesome cares. The world
outside chirps and croaks. You rock slow within.

You let the world see you cool, while you burn within.
The only way you give it up, is when you play.
When you lay it out, where you play is your world.
When you play it out, they know what you got to say.
Don’t matter if you sing or dance, you got to live the blues,
Every blues song sung is trip down memory’s highways.

 

[The_Fool]

Ange we are gonna need a real sharp knife.....

 

[Angeline]

Ange we are gonna need a real sharp knife.....

Well, editing is all part of it, right?

This process is a little like getting dressed in front of an audience (not that I would know, lol). Everyone sees all the flaws we make--but then everyone makes them and if this thread helps at all, it's because it shows how we edit to make a better poem.

And I need to sleep more before I can edit or write the next stanza.

 

[Angeline]

Well my dear Fool, I took liberties. Many liberties. What do you think? (Feel free to prune or whatever further...)

You close your eyes to miles of blues,
dive brushbeat to another world.
No sidemen see you; they just play,
take solos, walk it down highways
of soul that step aside, within.
That music's sin, the old folks say.

(No nevermind in what they say.)
Your heart is buried in the blues,
and voiceless words speak from within,
past dark-tint glasses to a world
that wanders down lonesome highways.
What is this journey but where you play?

The world's a stage. The thing's a play
that bumps along from town to town. Say
amen somebody for jukes, highways
that dip to hollers and sweat-stained blues
to lose your lonesome cares. The world
croaks without. You rock steady within,

act cool as gin, yet burn within,
and set your sin free when you play,
lay out the chords that paint your world,
howl lyrics that you can not say,
but sing or dance to live the blues,

and riding rails past ghost highways,
stir secrets that you hide within
the twists of days. Your bleakest blues
sing these truths in steel-wrung play:
the trembling whispers you do not say
but sing or dance your scars of world.

 

[The_Fool]

You close your eyes to miles of blues,
dive brushbeat to another world.
No sidemen see you; they just play,
take solos, walk it down highways
of soul that step aside, within.
That music's sin, the old folks say.

(No nevermind in what they say.)
Your heart is buried in the blues,
and voiceless words speak from within,
past dark-tint glasses to a world
that wanders down lonesome highways.
What is this journey but where you play?

The world's a stage. The thing's a play
that bumps along from town to town. Say
amen somebody for jukes, highways
that dip to hollers and sweat-stained blues
to lose your lonesome cares. The world
croaks without. You rock steady within,

act cool as gin, yet burn within,
and set your sin free when you play,
lay out the chords that paint your world,
howl lyrics that you can not say,
but sing or dance to live the blues,

and riding rails past ghost highways,
stir secrets that you hide within
the twists of days. Your bleakest blues
sing these truths in steel-wrung play:
the trembling whispers you do not say
but sing or dance your scars of world.

Living in an ever changing world
Without changes, only desolate highways.
I’ve said all I’m going to say,
No other meaning than the one within.
There’s nothing you can do but play,
There’s nothing you can play but blues.

 

[BooMerengue]

you guys rock...

 

[The_Fool]

*knock, knock*

Where are you Ange. We need a tercet, baby....

 

[The_Fool]

Hey Ange,


You still owe me a tercet baby.....