Inaugural Sestina [poem]

I learned in "The Penguin Book of Oulipo" over Christmas of the sestina.  It's a poetic form invented in the twelfth century with seven verses (six verses of six lines, one of three).  The key rule is that the words with which the lines in the first verse end must be re-used to end the lines in every subsequent verse, with the sequence dictated by an algorithm.  (All six words have to be used in the final verse.) There are rules, too, about the number of syllables and stresses per line, but these have evolved over the centuries so they're more of a guideline really.

Well.  I had to have a go.  I went with iambic pentameter.



Hand in hand

I stood as Homer’s hero on the edge

of sweeping myths converging on a point

in time which justice now ordained was right:

and with the bold momentum of my line

and summoning the strength that I had left

I entered life – it is, at last, my turn.

What mighty quarks we are! How strange this turn

from ancient dying star at heaven’s edge

to fleshy mewling babe – what else is left?

Incarnate, now, I merely have to point

my body mind and soul along its line

towards the life of charm that is my right.

But oh so many paths from wrong to right!

A lattice-work of choice – which way to turn?

I cast a dozen dreams with which to line

the channels weaving to the journey’s edge:

without Midsummer’s night what is the point?

The dream is how I choose my right or left.

Yet life assails the dreamer from the left

and hurls corrosive tempests from the right;

the slings and arrows blunt my fortune’s point

until my very soul begins to turn

away from its commitment to the edge

towards a weaker force, a lesser line.

Surrender then!  Embrace that chilling line!

Submit to Nietzsche’s claim: you’ve nothing left.

The long-gone glimpse you had of life’s sweet edge

is proven in the wounding far from right.

This orbit may have been your star-dust’s turn,

but nihilism wins – and that’s the point.

Be damned. I don’t believe there is no point.

With others, hand in hand, I walk the line.

With lovers, friends and family I turn

to face the sun and claim: “We have not left

this mortal coil without the burning right

to venture ever-upwards to that edge.”

We beating motes, who spin both left and right,

line-dancing souls committed to the edge:

together we can point and turn to home.