mid-day update
Maybe it is because I have no more class left. Maybe it is because Shellie is on her honeymoon and not just ignoring calls and screwing me over for black tie location reservations. Maybe it is because I am going out tonight, and then to movie night at Phi Delt. Maybe it is because tomorrow Nathalie and I are going to kick it in Portland. Or maybe because Thursday is thanksgiving and my family has stopped being isolationist and decided to have a big family shindig. Maybe it is because I am starting a quasi-weekend tonight. Maybe it is because I have great friends. Or maybe it is because I wrote a non angsty poem. For any number of reasons, I am finally in a really good mood. And I mean a REAL good mood, not the kind that is inspired by the carefree nature of intoxication, not the one momentarily caused by some lame-o boy, a real good mood. Yay.
Now for a non angsty sestina:
How I outsmarted the Russian Mafia:
Oh, but you could hear a pin drop.
In his gaze, I could not help but freeze,
because his eyes were gray and hard as rock,
and the language and voice he used were coarse.
A danger to hesitate, I said yes to playing pool.
And so I met the Russian Mafia, and knew the fire's spark.
The Russian lit a clove cigarette with a spark.
Before it burned out, he let it drop,
it landed and extinguished itself in a pool,
and I watch the billowing smoke it frees.
"Shall we split into teams," he said. "Of Course."
And he dropped his foot to his cigarette, loud as a rock.
With an icy smile he states, "At this game, Russians rock."
and in his mind, if war was a flame, this was a spark.
The competition was on, how the blood did course.
As he aimed and got each ball, I could feel my heart drop,
and when he finally missed, the Russians freeze,
and the sweat on his forehead begins to pool.
My partner was up, at least he knew the game of pool.
He made a few, but we were behind, between a hard place and a rock.
The other Russian tipped his glasses and looked over his Icee-Freeze.
At his turn, he grinned, in his eyes was a spark.
His first shot he missed, angrily he let his pool cue drop.
He ranted in Russian and I wish now that I had taken that course.
"Oh God," he said, "I could really just use a course
right now." "You mean COORS?" corrected my partner with pool
cue in palm, then into my shaking hand let it drop.
Luck guides a ball in and it clinks like smooth rock,
and the light shines on each ball like a bright spark.
We are barely ahead, they are barking in Russian, something about antifreeze.
I was worried now, did he really just say antifreeze?
That is when it became obvious, these Russians were coarse.
If we win this game now, it would start a spark
that would build to a flame or collect like water in a pool.
I could picture it now, a stocking holding a heavy rock,
flailing and hitting a head or ribs, making a man drop.
I knew we had to drop the game, so I freeze.
I drop a hint, solid as rock, my partner nods his head, "Of Course."
Scratched the eight, lost at pool, but at least put out the spark.
Note on this: The sestina has a very specific form, as followed above. This particular sestina is based on a true story, minus the mafia, anti-freeze, and a lot of the more interesting stuff. Truth is, my partner and I did lose. He did scratch the eight ball. We were playing against Russians. The rest... eh... take it with a grain of salt. Also, the ending words were chosen by the whole class, and used however we cared to use them within the structure of the poem.
Now for a non angsty sestina:
How I outsmarted the Russian Mafia:
Oh, but you could hear a pin drop.
In his gaze, I could not help but freeze,
because his eyes were gray and hard as rock,
and the language and voice he used were coarse.
A danger to hesitate, I said yes to playing pool.
And so I met the Russian Mafia, and knew the fire's spark.
The Russian lit a clove cigarette with a spark.
Before it burned out, he let it drop,
it landed and extinguished itself in a pool,
and I watch the billowing smoke it frees.
"Shall we split into teams," he said. "Of Course."
And he dropped his foot to his cigarette, loud as a rock.
With an icy smile he states, "At this game, Russians rock."
and in his mind, if war was a flame, this was a spark.
The competition was on, how the blood did course.
As he aimed and got each ball, I could feel my heart drop,
and when he finally missed, the Russians freeze,
and the sweat on his forehead begins to pool.
My partner was up, at least he knew the game of pool.
He made a few, but we were behind, between a hard place and a rock.
The other Russian tipped his glasses and looked over his Icee-Freeze.
At his turn, he grinned, in his eyes was a spark.
His first shot he missed, angrily he let his pool cue drop.
He ranted in Russian and I wish now that I had taken that course.
"Oh God," he said, "I could really just use a course
right now." "You mean COORS?" corrected my partner with pool
cue in palm, then into my shaking hand let it drop.
Luck guides a ball in and it clinks like smooth rock,
and the light shines on each ball like a bright spark.
We are barely ahead, they are barking in Russian, something about antifreeze.
I was worried now, did he really just say antifreeze?
That is when it became obvious, these Russians were coarse.
If we win this game now, it would start a spark
that would build to a flame or collect like water in a pool.
I could picture it now, a stocking holding a heavy rock,
flailing and hitting a head or ribs, making a man drop.
I knew we had to drop the game, so I freeze.
I drop a hint, solid as rock, my partner nods his head, "Of Course."
Scratched the eight, lost at pool, but at least put out the spark.
Note on this: The sestina has a very specific form, as followed above. This particular sestina is based on a true story, minus the mafia, anti-freeze, and a lot of the more interesting stuff. Truth is, my partner and I did lose. He did scratch the eight ball. We were playing against Russians. The rest... eh... take it with a grain of salt. Also, the ending words were chosen by the whole class, and used however we cared to use them within the structure of the poem.