lj.idol.Topic.09: Counterintuitive
-or- Counter, Intuitive
The first word is meant to have three letters. Then there will be a period- the only one to grace the page- after all, it is the only time it appears in the string of numbers. The next word will have one letter. The next, four. The tenth syllable finishes the word inebriate and the first line.
The numbers control. Following their sequence, each word obeys it's corresponding number, letter by letter. But the lines fight back, their syllabic rules demanding some semblance of uniformity. For them it is always ten. The stanzas hold their own weight in their stubborn twisting of the final words in their own sequence of six.
The writer flicks between her notes, counting her syllables, counting her letters, and deciphering where she needs a syllable and letter combination to fill the line as the rules demand. One stanza in, she sits back and rubs her eyes. Already an hour has passed for that one group of sixty syllables, thirty-seven words, one hundred seventy-seven letters. She had already needed to use her references several times to find new words that she could squeeze and shift and mash into the criteria that her sestina was requiring of her. The time required for this project dawned on her and with a sigh, she jumped back in, face first into her poem. She had no idea what the poem was about.
As she continued, strange words started appearing. Words she had never seen before, or words she had never seen used in such ways. Out of necessity, adjectives became verbs, and her stanzas were suddenly dotted with polestar, imbue, proffered- words she had seen and heard, but never thought to use before. Words that seemed would never work as a whole were coming together to create something that felt... deep. The words flowed, slowly but surely filling the page, and she still was unsure of what exactly she was writing. All she knew was that the day was slipping away and she had yet to finish.
Until finally the envoi arrived, thick with words that had been pre-selected. Padding the three lines so the letters and the sequence and the syllables and the words all matched- the process was maddening. Several times she tried, counting each letter and each syllable until everything fit. And suddenly everything had found its place. The poem was done. When she read the poem to herself to see it in its wholeness, she felt something new. That through the sequence and the syllables and all her constraints, the poem had been written not by her, but through her. And though she could feel it, she could still not understand it. But then, she never did understand poetry to begin with.
----
The poem in referred to is I, Sibyl, and can be found here, along with a few notes on the process, explained in a much less vague fashion.
The first word is meant to have three letters. Then there will be a period- the only one to grace the page- after all, it is the only time it appears in the string of numbers. The next word will have one letter. The next, four. The tenth syllable finishes the word inebriate and the first line.
The numbers control. Following their sequence, each word obeys it's corresponding number, letter by letter. But the lines fight back, their syllabic rules demanding some semblance of uniformity. For them it is always ten. The stanzas hold their own weight in their stubborn twisting of the final words in their own sequence of six.
The writer flicks between her notes, counting her syllables, counting her letters, and deciphering where she needs a syllable and letter combination to fill the line as the rules demand. One stanza in, she sits back and rubs her eyes. Already an hour has passed for that one group of sixty syllables, thirty-seven words, one hundred seventy-seven letters. She had already needed to use her references several times to find new words that she could squeeze and shift and mash into the criteria that her sestina was requiring of her. The time required for this project dawned on her and with a sigh, she jumped back in, face first into her poem. She had no idea what the poem was about.
As she continued, strange words started appearing. Words she had never seen before, or words she had never seen used in such ways. Out of necessity, adjectives became verbs, and her stanzas were suddenly dotted with polestar, imbue, proffered- words she had seen and heard, but never thought to use before. Words that seemed would never work as a whole were coming together to create something that felt... deep. The words flowed, slowly but surely filling the page, and she still was unsure of what exactly she was writing. All she knew was that the day was slipping away and she had yet to finish.
Until finally the envoi arrived, thick with words that had been pre-selected. Padding the three lines so the letters and the sequence and the syllables and the words all matched- the process was maddening. Several times she tried, counting each letter and each syllable until everything fit. And suddenly everything had found its place. The poem was done. When she read the poem to herself to see it in its wholeness, she felt something new. That through the sequence and the syllables and all her constraints, the poem had been written not by her, but through her. And though she could feel it, she could still not understand it. But then, she never did understand poetry to begin with.
----
The poem in referred to is I, Sibyl, and can be found here, along with a few notes on the process, explained in a much less vague fashion.