Persimmons become sestina:
October's the season for persimmons._______________
Heavier and brighter becomes the tree
As its roots absorb the burrowing rain
And life and color pervade the garden,
Everything jubilating in the sun
Under a vibrantly sheltering sky.
Sometimes lightning troubles the booming sky,
And ominous clouds hide the persimmons
Utterly from any warming rays of sun,
And every plant and bush and seed and tree
Established in the folds of our garden
Feel the cold overabundance of rain.
But not forever ever falls the rain.
Suddenly the delight of open sky
Returns hallelujahs to the garden,
Even to worms caving the persimmons
And birds eyeing them from within the tree,
Now bathed again in salving rays of sun.
And if you wonder why we poem the sun,
Why we write about worms and birds and rain,
Shape metered words for an unbalanced tree
Under either sheltering or threatening sky,
And phrase sentences about persimmons
In our endlessly entertaining garden,
It was that André admired our garden
While out with us one day under the sun
And asked, "What is that fruit there?", "Persimmons,"
I said, "coming early this year. The rain
Has fallen optimally from the sky
For the perfect benefit of our tree."
Said André, "It does seem a blessed tree.
You know, there's another kind of garden,
Arched over by imaginary sky,
Energized by metaphorical sun,
Watered by fantasy of verbal rain,
Whose harvest is lovely persimmons
"In sestina joining the tree with sun:
A poem garden with repeating rain
And sky, and figurative persimmons."
Note: As of today, almost 50 ripening persimmons remain to be harvested. Looks as though "the season for persimmons" might be better identified as November, as I had always thought when we lived in Chapel Hill. The early ripening of a good number of persimmons in Mebane may have misled me.
Copyright © 2012 by Morris Dean
You all have crafted a fine poem, a minimalistic tour de force.
ReplyDeleteNeophyte, y'all's compliment is much appreciated, especially seeing's that it's the only one so far received (in public, at any rate; André of course thinks it's a worthy effort, and he's at work on his own sestina, which we hope to publish in due course).
DeleteBut, aside from André's continuing support for sestina (and triptina) writing, until your kind comment came along, the author (that would be me) was amazed at the extent to which his efforts had been falling with a thud on Moristotle's readers and (I have to say) on the other members of its editorial staff.
Newly encouraged by you, tomorrow I will publish with even more confidence another triptina, this one a thank-you to our daughter for coming all of the way across country to help us manage things during the first days of her mother's being on crutches after her knee surgery.
And, you'll be the first to know (unless someone else reads this comment before you do), I'm also thinking of writing a quartina, which would of course use a set of four end-words across four four-line stanzas, with, I think, a terminal couplet, since it would be difficult to fit four words into a ten-syllable line serving as the poem's title.
I thought of a quartina in the course of contemplating what I to write for this coming Thursday's "Thor" column. I suppose that the four end-words could be Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John!
Or Judaism, Christianity, Islam, and Hinduism or Buddhism.
Or perhaps, Father, Son, and Holy and Spirit? Or Father, Son, Holy Spirit, and Satan?
Or perhaps the names of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse: Conquest, War, Famine, and Death?
Or something not especially associated with Christianity or even with religion, the four elements: earth, water, fire, and wind. That set much appeals.
Actually, though, looking around for religion-oriented sets of four words reminds me that I've never looked around for such sets of three: faith, hope, and charity, for example. Or Father, Son, and Holy Spirit (or Holy Ghost).
Nor have I yet attempted to construct a joke using the triptina form, and many jokes involve three individuals. For example, a salesman, a farmer, and the farmer's daughter.
Or three people go into a bar, such as a Rabbi, a Catholic priest, and an Evangelical preacher.
Or someone reaches the Pearly Gates: the man who just died, St. Peter, and Jesus.
Neophyte, two or three weeks ago, while I was still writing "Persimmons in Sestina," I got the idea to tell a detective story in the sestina form, and I jotted down a set of six words that might have included murder, victim, detective, suspect, witness, and mystery. (I think the words I actually wrote down on that flimsy little slip of paper were a better set.)
DeleteSo the line-ending words must all be nouns?
ReplyDeleteNo, not a requirement. In fact, in the detective-story example, three of the words could be used as noun or verb—and no doubt would be, not only for the flexibility that it would lend the story-telling, but also for the interest it would add for the reader.
DeleteAnd your comment usefully suggests that the more words that could be used for two (or more) parts of speech, the better on both counts.
Thanks for helping me see that I need to adopt that as a working principle!
I hadn't thought of using the same words as either nouns or verbs. That definitely opens up many new possibilities.
ReplyDeleteHow strictly do you try to adhere to the ten-syllables- per-line rule? Or IS there even such a rule?
Yes, and even in a triptina, where each word is used only three times (well, four times, counting the title), you can obviously exploit the possibilities.
DeleteI've so far confined myself strictly to an iambic pentameter line, without of course relying strictly on iambs, which would be too sing-songy (not to mention difficult).
Elizabeth Bishop's poem, "Sestina," which André admires and recommended to me as an introduction, is basically iambic pentameter.
Even "in the original form composed by Daniel [Wikipedia], each line is of ten syllables, except the first of each stanza which are of seven. The established form, as developed by Petrarch and Dante, has every line of eleven syllables."
Ezra Pound wrote a stirring sestina, with which I was already familiar and have enjoyed a number of times: "Sestina: Altaforte." Its syllable count is not constant. E.g., first stanza:
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.