Monday, March 5, 2012

My Sestina

     Weeks ago, I learned about another form of poetry I'd never encountered before. A sestina is six six-line stanzas, and a three-line stanza. There is no rhyme scheme, but the end word of each line is repeated in each stanza, always as the end word, but in a different order. Example: the end words of the first stanza are ABCDEF. The end words of the second stanza should be FAEBDC. In the last stanza (the three-line one, or tercet) all six words are repeated in a certain order, in the middle and at the end of lines.
     It sounds complicated, but it's not if you can see it and you have actual words to look for.
     My friend and I decided to write sestinas. I didn't get permission to share his, but it was good. It was about Batman, which is pretty cool.
     Mine isn't about Batman, but here it is.
P.S. any variation of the word is allowed, so you can pluralize it if necessary. Also, I played around with the tercet but whatever.
Also, tell me if you catch any allusions.
Also, tell me what you think of it. in comments.

"Lovesong for Uncertainty"

                 After all this time
            I am a victim of love.
And though I try not to doubt
                           why or how
you love me, the truth is I don't know what I would do if
            I had to be without you.

Once, when we were younger, you
and I discussed the passing of time,
                          never knowing if
                               our love
               would survive it, or how
      long we could outlast my doubt.

And speaking of doubts,
how much longer can you
    hold out, trying to convince me, and how 
much longer must we arbitrarily keep track of time
            before we give up conventions and let love
                                          suffocate our what-ifs.

I should die before I wake, will you doubt
                              where I end up? Love
                   is where we're drawn to. You
                              say, "There will be time"
(for decisions and revisions). I demand to know how!

                                                        And how
                                     should I presume if
                         continues passing, and doubt
                                       consumes even you,
I don't stand a chance, even if my cells compose love.

                                           If I am comprised of love
                                        then all my whys and hows
                                          are as ephemeral as you
                                                    and I. If
                                    love is the answer, then doubt
is just a sickness of the mind, though not as lethal as the consuming cancer of time.

If love is a place, the ifs don't matter.
How will your face look when they serve you on a platter?
How dare you doubt the Truth of ticking time.

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