Welcome to day 5! Time to take a nice Sunday poetry-stretch with a type of poem: a sestina! A sestina's a marvellous form to play with and find out where it goes, part poem, part meditation. It has 6 stanzas of 6 lines each, and then a final little 'envoi' of 3 lines. You can use any metre (rhythm) you like or no metre at all, just lines of about the same length.
The really fun bit, though, is the repeating words: the 6 end words from the first 6 lines repeat as the end words in every stanza, following a very precise pattern, which makes a kind of spiral. (I'll give you the pattern below.) Then the final three-line stanza uses two of the words per line, one at the end, one somewhere else in the line, Constantly coming back to the same 6 words is what makes the sestina a kind of meditation on something, or a puzzling away at it, so it's a wonderful way to explore something that interests you, but you don't have a fixed opinion about yet - or something you're chewing on. And who knows? Maybe by the time you reach that three-line envoi, you'll have discovered something about it. So your idea of what to write about for this one is something that puzzles you – whether that’s a concept (like the nature of zero) or something you’ve seen (like a single shoe on a bus stop roof).
I write sestinas in 3 steps: 1) Write the first six lines; 2) Step out the poem and map out where all my end-words go; 3) With a fresh coffee or glass of wine, dive into the rest! So if you'd like to be led through a guided process, keep on reading. If you want to leap straight in, here's the pattern for your end words.
Part 1: The first six lines
For some extra fun, pick 6 of these 12 words to use as your end words:
beam light file last base down
bolt space fine point key lap
bolt space fine point key lap
Then slip into the poem, and write the first six lines of whatever it is that puzzles you.
Part 2: Map out where the end words go
Step back out of the poem to mark where your end-words go. You can see how I've laid it out in my notebook.
- Underline the end words in the first 6 lines and number them 1–6
- Draw a six-line line in the left-hand margin for where each of the stanzas will go: 5 more 6-line stanzas, and one 3-line stanza.
- Write the numbers for the end-words at the end of each line, in the right-hand margin. (See the spiral pic below, with the pattern written out under it)
- Write the end-word for that number next to it. (I do all the 1s first, then the 2s, and so on)
Here's the pattern for the order of your end-words. If you prefer, you can use this little PDF template where I've laid the numbers out for you.
Stanza 1: 1 2 3 4 5 6
Stanza 2: 6 1 5 2 4 3
Stanza 3: 3 6 4 1 2 5
Stanza 4: 5 3 2 6 1 4
Stanza 5: 4 5 1 3 6 2
Stanza 6: 2 4 6 5 3 1
Stanza 7 (envoi): 2–5, 4–3, 6–1
You can look it up each time, but you can also learn to make it, if you like: for each new stanza, take your words from the stanza above as follows: last word; first word; second-to-last word; second word; third-to-last word; third word. For the final three-line stanza (envoi), take from the previous stanza: the first and fourth word (2–5); the second and fifth word (4–3); the third and sixth word (6–1)
Part 3: Dive into the rest
Right, that's the faddly bit done! Now you can make another coffee or top up your wine and settle back into it, musing your curious and interested way through the rest of the sestina, finding out where it goes as you go along. Enjoy!Here's an example sestina I wrote about something that confounded me, which was published in The Wild Word.
The Thing
Between canal calm and the railway shale, on the fence,
hangs this… thing. No doubt its maker has a name
for it. I don’t. I noticed first all those bones
and then the careful weaves and plaiting of the string
that sways them in their dangle and grips a feather.
A friend asked, “Was it near any wood or bridges?”
when I put it on Facebook. They all agreed it bridges
the realms, somehow, that the stark jags of steel fence
were incongruous. We discussed whether the feather
were swan (too small) or goose or gull, as if to name
the bird would explain it. A novelist noted the string
could be knot magic. Someone started to ID the bones:
a femur, a tail, a pelvis, long ribs – the bones
of something from the land, she said. Our expertise bridges
a dozen disciplines: together, we studied it, tried to string
an explanation for whatever it is that hangs from the fence,
with its gnarled rope and white death, but still no name.
Just natter of ritual and that native Americans use feather
for necklaces. Suspended at the end of the string, the feather
twists its vanes in the breeze, too light to lift the bones
in its dance. Flight? Primary? Secondary? I try to name
the feather, at least. Next day, in the drizzle between bridges,
through spattered glasses, I expectantly eye the fence:
yes. Still there, colours bleak as the day, the string
grey with damp. I wonder why the rest uses rope, not string.
I stare while a train roars and tree-drip ripples feather
the quiet canal. In summer, we have a better fence
of head-high willowherb and weeds. In winter, the bones
of metal stakes stand exposed, marching beside bridges
with gentler curves, bucolic brick. The steel spikes name
the wasteland past them a no-go zone. Does it name
the land on this side ours, with its skilful braids of string
and roped-up animal parts? Does it build shamanic bridges
or ward off metal worlds? Is its intent feather-
tender or deadly as those flesh-stripped bones?
Does it summon something to us or is it a fence
for the soft world of canals? I can’t name it. The feather
lifts and falls in my dreams, whiter than string which is whiter than bones,
in a magic that bridges my disbelief and won’t ignore the fence.
The Meddling with Poetry course explores a host of different poetry forms as well as the musicality of language, poetic imagery, and other aspects of the poetic. It's 8 weeks long, one evening a week, and absolute beginners and experienced writers are equally welcome. You can read more details and book a place here.
