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Creative Writing: Poetry, Lesson Five

Wednesday, November 30, 7:00PM FST

[Professor Chaucer is sitting behind his desk with his feet up. On a table to the side of the classroom are a large coffee pot and a plate of cookies.]

Since several people were nice enough yesterday to bring me coffee to my office hours, I've decided to share the love with all of you. Help yourself to coffee and cookies -- don't worry, I didn't bake them myself.

[Lecture] Today we'll be covering a form of poetry called sestina. The sestina is a highly structured form of poetry, perhaps the most complicated of all medieval styles, dating back to the 12th century. A French form, the sestina was syllabic originally but is often adapted to accentual-syllabic lines in English verse. It consists of 39 lines
divided into 6 sestets and one triplet, called the envoi. It is normally unrhymed--instead, the six end-words of the first stanza are picked up and reused as the end-words of the following stanzas in a specific order. In the envoi, one end-word is buried in each line, and one is at the end of each line. Lines can be of any single length.

Each stanza repeats the end-words in the order 615243. The easiest way to describe the repetition is through a list; the actual reason or meaning of the repetition has been lost. The end words repeat as follows (numbers are the lines of the poem, and capital letters stand for the six end-words).

ABCDEF

FAEBDC

CFDABE

ECBFAD

DEACFB

BDFECA

(envoi)
B E
D C
F A

An example of the way in which a sestina's end-words shift can be found
in the first two stanzas of a sestina by Dante Alighieri.

I have come, alas, to the great circle of shadow,
to the short day and to the whitening hills,
when the colour is all lost from the grass,
though my desire will not lose its green,
so rooted is it in this hardest stone,
that speaks and feels as though it were a woman.

And likewise this heaven-born woman
stays frozen, like the snow in shadow,
and is unmoved, or moved like a stone,
by the sweet season that warms all the hills,
and makes them alter from pure white to green,
so as to clothe them with the flowers and grass.

The 12th century Provençal troubadour Arnaut Daniel is credited with having invented the sestina form. The oldest British example of the form is a double sestina, "You Goat-Herd Gods," written by Philip Sidney. Writers such as Dante, A. C. Swinburne, Rudyard Kipling, Ezra Pound, W. H. Auden and Elizabeth Bishop are all noted for having written sestinas of some fame.

Your end of term assignment is to write your own sestina. Assignments are due before December 18, and may be handed in either in class or at my office hours.

[Discussion] I'm going to give you some time today to begin work on your original sestinas. Also, since we have just a couple of classes left, I'd like to know if there's anything you would like to cover before the end of term. Next week we'll discuss your reading assignment from last class.

The following students have more than one unexcused absence. I allow one unexcused, any more will have to submit makeup work. Please see me during class or at my office hours to discuss. Also, a note to all students: please remember that if you don't participate in class discussions, you will only get partial credit for attending.

scissors___

death_n_binky

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Ask questions about the lecture here.

Lee is absolutely fascinated by this type of verse. "Can you show us more examples, please?"

"I'd be happy to, Lee."

Sestina
by Elizabeth Bishop

September rain falls on the house.
In the failing light, the old grandmother
sits in the kitchen with the child
beside the Little Marvel Stove,
reading the jokes from the almanac,
laughing and talking to hide her tears.

She thinks that her equinoctial tears
and the rain that beats on the roof of the house
were both foretold by the almanac,
but only known to a grandmother.
The iron kettle sings on the stove.
She cuts some bread and says to the child,

It's time for tea now; but the child
is watching the teakettle's small hard tears
dance like mad on the hot black stove,
the way the rain must dance on the house.
Tidying up, the old grandmother
hangs up the clever almanac

on its string. Birdlike, the almanac
hovers half open above the child,
hovers above the old grandmother
and her teacup full of dark brown tears.
She shivers and says she thinks the house
feels chilly, and puts more wood in the stove.

It was to be, says the Marvel Stove.
I know what I know, says the almanac.
With crayons the child draws a rigid house
and a winding pathway. Then the child
puts in a man with buttons like tears
and shows it proudly to the grandmother.

But secretly, while the grandmother
busies herself about the stove,
the little moons fall down like tears
from between the pages of the almanac
into the flower bed the child
has carefully placed in the front of the house.

Time to plant tears, says the almanac.
The grandmother sings to the marvelous stove
and the child draws another inscrutable house.

Sestina: Altaforte
by Ezra Pound

Damn it all! all this our South stinks peace.
You whoreson dog, Papiols, come! Let's to music!
I have no life save when the swords clash.
But ah! when I see the standards gold, vair, purple, opposing
And the broad fields beneath them turn crimson,
Then howls my heart nigh mad with rejoicing.
II
In hot summer have I great rejoicing
When the tempests kill the earth's foul peace,
And the lightnings from black heav'n flash crimson,
And the fierce thunders roar me their music
And the winds shriek through the clouds mad, opposing,
And through all the riven skies God's swords clash.
III
Hell grant soon we hear again the swords clash!
And the shrill neighs of destriers in battle rejoicing,
Spiked breast to spiked breast opposing!
Better one hour's stour than a year's peace
With fat boards, bawds, wine and frail music!
Bah! there's no wine like the blood's crimson!
IV
And I love to see the sun rise blood-crimson.
And I watch his spears through the dark clash
And it fills all my heart with rejoicing
And pries wide my mouth with fast music
When I see him so scorn and defy peace,
His lone might 'gainst all darkness opposing.
V
The man who fears war and squats opposing
My words for stour, hath no blood of crimson
But is fit only to rot in womanish peace
Far from where worth's won and the swords clash
For the death of such sluts I go rejoicing;
Yea, I fill all the air with my music.
VI
Papiols, Papiols, to the music!
There's no sound like to swords swords opposing,
No cry like the battle's rejoicing
When our elbows and swords drip the crimson
And our charges 'gainst "The Leopard's" rush clash.
May God damn for ever all who cry "Peace!"
VII
And let the music of the swords make them crimson!
Hell grant soon we hear again the swords clash!
Hell blot black for always the thought "Peace!"

[And one more, because they wouldn't all fit.]

Sestina
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

I saw my soul at rest upon a day
As a bird sleeping in the nest of night,
Among soft leaves that give the starlight way
To touch its wings but not its eyes with light;
So that it knew as one in visions may,
And knew not as men waking, of delight.

This was the measure of my soul's delight;
It had no power of joy to fly by day,
Nor part in the large lordship of the light;
But in a secret moon-beholden way
Had all its will of dreams and pleasant night,
And all the love and life that sleepers may.

But such life's triumph as men waking may
It might not have to feed its faint delight
Between the stars by night and sun by day,
Shut up with green leaves and a little light;
Because its way was as a lost star's way,
A world's not wholly known of day or night.

All loves and dreams and sounds and gleams of night
Made it all music that such minstrels may,
And all they had they gave it of delight;
But in the full face of the fire of day
What place shall be for any starry light,
What part of heaven in all the wide sun's way?

Yet the soul woke not, sleeping by the way,
Watched as a nursling of the large-eyed night,
And sought no strength nor knowledge of the day,
Nor closer touch conclusive of delight,
Nor mightier joy nor truer than dreamers may,
Nor more of song than they, nor more of light.

For who sleeps once and sees the secret light
Whereby sleep shows the soul a fairer way
Between the rise and rest of day and night,
Shall care no more to fare as all men may,
But be his place of pain or of delight,
There shall he dwell, beholding night as day.

Song, have thy day and take thy fill of light
Before the night be fallen across thy way;
Sing while he may, man hath no long delight.

"Thanks!" Lee says, studying the poetry with great interest.

Angela chews on her pen. "it sounds almost like math," she says. "I mean, isn't it challenging to be creative in such a constricted form?"

"I agree with you, Angela, it is challenging to work with such specific constraints. I think that's why the form is so interesting -- you really have to work at it, to find the right subject, the right words, and make it flow without seeming constrained."

Is it possible to create a poem and then worry about the structure of it later?

"That...depends. Mostly on the structure you're trying to use. In this particular case, I'd say you'd be likely to run into some trouble -- simply because the structure is so strictly defined. But...if by creating the poem first you mean putting down the idea of it, the story you want to tell, then I would say yes. Get your thoughts down, choose the words you want to use, then approach the structure. And that goes for any style of poetry. You can't begin to put the words together until you know what you them to say."

"Are there any rules concerning meter or line length?" Kiki asks. "Can it be completely free, or should it stay consistent through the poem?"

"You have all the freedom you like as far as that goes. There are some common conventions -- for instance, most English-language sestinas are written in iambic pentameter. But that's a convention, not a rule. Feel free to be creative."

Dear God, why does it have to be so structured??

Paige leans in a little, "I know you'd think creativity would allow a little more...freedom."

She sighs and if anyone's listening carefully they'd hear her mutter "I'm screwed" to herself

"Sometimes, creativity can benefit from a little structure. Having a required framework within which to work pushes you to be more creative, to find ways to use that structure to your advantage. I'm confident you'll both get the hand of it soon enough."

She looks up and gives him a weak smile, well sure if I could think straight for more than ywo seconds maybe! "yeah I'm sure we will," she lies

*DEATH is wearing what appears to be spandex leggings and a rather tight fitting t-shirt, with the words "Jazz Hands!" printed on it. The rubber duck is back, sitting on top of his desk. It periodically quacks, which, if the tones were strung together, just, might, sound like a verse from "Pippen".*

Paige sees death and smiles, it's actually quite disturbing how DEATH cheers her up sometimes.

"Looking good DEATH!" she says with a grin

*DEATH stops to pose with jazz hands*

"The sestina began as a type of romantic lyric verse, so traditionally the topics would have tended to stick to those associated with 'romance': love, beauty, pastoral scenes, and so on. However, the popularity of the form has grown so that really any topic can be found now. Don't feel that you have to stick to a traditional subject if you don't want to."

*DEATH nods thoughtfully*

"Um, yes, that would be fine. Any topic you like."

Lisa looks a little freaked by the assignment. Her poetry, she feels, sucks. A lot.

"Ummm, do you have any suggestions for us who are not so, errm, poetically inclined?"

"There are some good resources (http://www.ehow.com/how_16712_write-sestina.html) available that will walk you through step by step. The best suggestion I can give you is don't try to overdo it. Choose a topic you feel comfortable writing about, don't try to get too elaborate. It may not turn out to be the best poem ever written -- it may not even turn out to be a good poem. But this is a difficult form to attempt, so any finished product is going to be something to be proud of."

He smiles reassuringly. "If you find yourself having trouble, bring your work by my office hours next week, and I'll go over it with you, see if I can give you any suggestions."

*Hamlet takes notes on the lecture, finding the assignment interesting.*

Sir, roughly how long does our sestina need to be? Must we make them as long as the samples you have provided?

Ask questions about your end-of-term assignment and/or make suggestions for the remaining class topics here.

"Sir? Can i speak with you for a moment?" Edward says, as he walks into class, looking around him with a somewhat panick-y expression

((dear god yes, i was Not Around for a while, and contacted only the teachers of my other chars :S))

"Grab a seat, Edward, and don't look so panicked. I don't give detention unless you do something really horrible." He grins reassuringly. "What can I do for you?"

"Oh, good, good. Detention sounds scary" Ed says, and shifts a bit in his chair. "I just wanted to apologize for not being in you classes lately, i had a bit of a...rough time. Do you want me to do extra work to make up for the missed classes?"

"I'm really sorry to hear that, Edward. You can make up the assignments if you like, or you can bring me a note from a parent, guardian, or the clinic. The note will get your absences excused, the makeup work will get you a grade for the class. It's up to you."

"Hmm, oh, okay. I'll do the makeup work then, that's no problem. Thank you sir" Edward stands up and smiles, glad he doesn't have to go into detention.

"Get the lecture notes from one of your classmates, and you can hand in the writing or discussion assignments. If you'd like to do some extra credit work to bring up your grade for the missed classes -- because I can't grade you higher than a B for the makeup work -- then just let me know."

"Maybe we could have classes devoted to specific poets? Like Sylvia Plath, or Edgar Allen Poe."

"Please, can we have an assignment to write a ballad?" Kiki asks. "All the internal rhyming is really neat."

Need to talk to Chaucer, or to your classmates? Do it here.

"Sir, I remembered I've not chosen a piece for Western Lit, or I thought I could do Dante's Purgatorio if that's okay?"

"That's fine, Paige. I'll mark you off my list of unknowns."

She smiles a little, "thanks, sir," then goes back to the set work that was frankly giving her a headache and making her wish she'd got a little more sleep the night before

For Ten, to post his class assignments, even though he's a professor and doesn't attend. Or, for anyone else who has something OOC to add.

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Creative Writing: Poetry, Lesson Five

LECTURE

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DISCUSSION

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CHATTING

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OOC