Blogetary (Weblog + Commentary = Blogetary)

Today was Tuesday, so it was a two-fer on Poetic Asides and it was a doozy. First, write a sestina and then write a poem about a sestina. So, I wrote a sestina (or tried to) and then wrote a sonnet about a sestina (or tried to). And you can tell by both that I hate the sestina form and mostly crashed and burned on it.

Sestina

Night skies in L.A. are not blue -
And good luck seeing the stars.
When the smog is thick and hurts your eyes
and you see a sickly palm,
it’s easy to think you’ll forsake the sun -
leave behind your lifelong day at the beach.

There will never be a beach
that measures up to your dreams; not water blue.
The temperature climbs and you hide from the sun.
Stay up late and watch for the stars
on TV who look like they hold the world in their palms.
Though despised, they are the apple of our collective eye.

The world sees us through their own eyes -
thinks paradise is at the beach.
They aren’t here, don’t see the money palmed
behind closed doors as the corpse turns a paler blue.
The movies in which we all star
are our own delusions under the sun.

But there is nothing new under the sun
or said Solomon, apple of David’s eye.
He searched the heavens for a star -
and at least could see them from Galilee’s beach.
The water then, and sky too, was really blue,
and plants that belonged really meant the palm.

Now mostly through this poem of palms
The night is old and long gone is the sun.
I do not like sestinas – they are not true blue.
And staying up late is hard on my eyes,
and tomorrow I will not go to the beach.
Though I see the Hollywood sign, I will not see a Star.

But I keep working like a poetic star
even though I hate this form – want to slap it with my palm.
I live on the coast and never see the beach.
Constantly wear SPF as protection from the sun.
Put on sunglasses to be cool and protect my eyes.
Some days I yearn for a different shade of blue.

Nearly done, this blue sestina is a star in the sky.
As I eye the clock, pet the kitty with my palm,
And my pen and I hope to be under a palm in the sun.

(Phew – glad that’s done.)

Poem ABOUT a sestina – A sonnet (of sorts)

What is a sestina when it’s at home?
I’ll tell you what it is: Just Stupid Math.
A-B-C-D-E-F/F-A-E – GROAN!
What poetry is wrought from such a path!
More puzzle than express-ed thought and heart-
when poem’s only goal is to match words
in a meaningless patter from the start.
No consideration for the song birds.
A sestina is not like a sonnet,
which sings and flies on winds of feelings true.
A sestina has no thought upon it -
just match the words and switch them off on cue.
Sestinas aren’t fun and have no real truth.
I’ll only write fair sonnets now, forsooth.