fandomhigh | Creative Writing: Poetry, Lesson Eight

[Professor Chaucer is again sitting quietly at his desk. He looks pretty much the same as he did yesterday, although possibly a little more worn.]

Welcome to your final poetry class of the term. I want to tell all of you how much I've enjoyed this class. Teaching it has been an incredible experience, and you have all been a joy to get to know. I wish you all well during your holiday and with whatever you move on to next term.

[Final Project] Please present your sestina to the class, and then hand in the written copy before leaving today. Final grades will be posted tonight.

[OOC: I'm against a deadline, folks. I need your projects posted here no later than midnight tonight EST. Grades will go up at some ungodly hour after that. It's been fun, guys! Thank you!]

FINAL GRADES for Creative Writing: Poetry

leeadama: A+

lisacuddy: A

scissors__: A

chasingangela: A+

the4thsister: A+

positive_angel: B-

rory__gilmore: C+

death_n_binky: A-

ihatedenmark: A

swerval_zero: A-

kikidelivers: A+

sheltered_texan: A

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Sestina

There's something magical about an island.
No other meets the feeling, quite serene,
of walking on a quiet beach of white sand
and skipping stones across the liquid blue.
The solitude is seen in wandering footprints
and heard in whispering leaves of nearby trees.

The kingbird and the bluebird perched in song trees
bring music to the silence of the island,
and chipmunks on the ground leave tiny footprints.
The flight of gulls above is so serene.
The flowers in the meadow, bells of soft blue,
and daisies spring up sweetly from the sand.

The dune is but a mountain made of beach sand.
Its borders are made green with cedar trees.
The green appears more bright against the sky's blue
to compliment dune's bleakness on the island.
The dune crest, place for resting, so serene,
gives way in gentle servitude to footprints.

A blowout in the dune is crossed by footprints.
One dancing in delight across the sand
falls silently to sand and rests serene
beside decaying trunks of cedar trees
and feels the peace of being on an island,
while gazing up at skies of brilliant blue.

The dune slopes down to meet the water's blue.
The water fills small craters left by footprints.
Footprints trace the border of the island,
leaving peaceful stride marks in the sand;
and inland from the beach, the whispering trees
still sing a gently melody, serene.

Is there a place on earth that's more serene?
A place where there's no cause for feeling blue?
If they could speak, these solid, stately trees,
of past explorers who have left their footprints,
what messages would they write in the sand,
of solitude discovered on an island?

Creative Writing: Poetry, Lesson Eight

Re: FINAL PROJECTS