My first sestina. A (very) rough draft.
To Write a Sestina
I want to write a sestina
That says something about the way
I was raised, the girl that I am
After 21 years on this planet, ravaged
But not wrecked by my own experiences. But
I can’t help but wonder whether it will suck.
Because aren’t we all (deep down) afraid that we suck?
I mean, really, what qualifies me to write a sestina
When I struggle to finish a sentence. (But
Everyone finds a way
To say the things they bottle up in their ravaged
Minds, eventually.) Am
I right in assuming that I am
Not the only person to face such uncertainty? Suck
Awhile at your own self esteem. Ravaged,
It will return to you, smaller than before. (Sestinas
Were designed for poets who can find their way
To the end of a thought, of a poem.) The size of my butt
Or the way I talk, walk-chalk these up to minor insecurities beside the terror but
-tressing my writing. The mind-numbing fear that I am
Destined to crave praise for putting words together, mixing them up in ways
That don’t suck,
Might sustain me for the rest of my life. Sestinas
Don’t come easily. End stanza four and I am ravaged
By the demands of shaping this poem. Ravaged
But
Bolstered by the possibility that I might complete this sestina
By bedtime. I am
Not going to let fear suck
Away at me forever. There are ways
To confront yourself. There are ways
To emerge at the other end, unravaged-
Alive, at least, or so I’m told. Suck
-ing In breaths that sting. No buts,
Only a “Yes, I am
A poet, or one day will be.” (This sestina
Is not just a sestina. It ravaged
A path through my psyche.) Way out on the edges of buts
And can’ts I am hopeful that I made it out alive. And that I don’t (completely) suck.
©2009
Concrit more than welcome.
I want to write a sestina
That says something about the way
I was raised, the girl that I am
After 21 years on this planet, ravaged
But not wrecked by my own experiences. But
I can’t help but wonder whether it will suck.
Because aren’t we all (deep down) afraid that we suck?
I mean, really, what qualifies me to write a sestina
When I struggle to finish a sentence. (But
Everyone finds a way
To say the things they bottle up in their ravaged
Minds, eventually.) Am
I right in assuming that I am
Not the only person to face such uncertainty? Suck
Awhile at your own self esteem. Ravaged,
It will return to you, smaller than before. (Sestinas
Were designed for poets who can find their way
To the end of a thought, of a poem.) The size of my butt
Or the way I talk, walk-chalk these up to minor insecurities beside the terror but
-tressing my writing. The mind-numbing fear that I am
Destined to crave praise for putting words together, mixing them up in ways
That don’t suck,
Might sustain me for the rest of my life. Sestinas
Don’t come easily. End stanza four and I am ravaged
By the demands of shaping this poem. Ravaged
But
Bolstered by the possibility that I might complete this sestina
By bedtime. I am
Not going to let fear suck
Away at me forever. There are ways
To confront yourself. There are ways
To emerge at the other end, unravaged-
Alive, at least, or so I’m told. Suck
-ing In breaths that sting. No buts,
Only a “Yes, I am
A poet, or one day will be.” (This sestina
Is not just a sestina. It ravaged
A path through my psyche.) Way out on the edges of buts
And can’ts I am hopeful that I made it out alive. And that I don’t (completely) suck.
©2009
Concrit more than welcome.