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[ktd222]

Have a go at this sestina. If you are unfamiliar with the form, go here first: http://www.baymoon.com/~ariadne/form/sestina.htm

TABOO

Professor Wilks stopped at the base of the massive tor.
He rubbed his eyes. How long had it been since he’d slept?
He pulled out a faded piece of parchment with trembling hands.
“The treasure lies where the full moon points a finger at midnight.” He quoted.
“But let the man who searches for it beware! It is taboo
to cross the buried dead!” Involuntarily, he flinched. His skin

burned. Of course, he had seen almost everything. Most of the skin
on his left arm had been torn off in torture by natives. The tor
was like a grayish, bony finger—Finger! The landmark mentioned! “Taboo!”
Dear Lord, did he need some sleep!
His mind told him. “It is taboo to cross the buried dead!” The quote
rang like a death bell. He looked up. The hour was at hand.

As the full moon rose behind the rocky spire, its shadow resembled a hand,
the weathered stone reminiscent of bleached bones, skin
long withered away. “Where the full moon points a finger…” he quoted.
He watched the shadow of the mighty tor
carefully. He trembled from excitement and lack of sleep.
Finally, the shadow lengthened to a single finger. This, then, was the place of taboo.

He ran his shaky hand across his suddenly sweaty face. Taboo?
He was more afraid of men than of spirits. Spirits did not have hands
that came from the dark nor creep upon you as you slept
and deprive you of several pounds of skin!
But it was now or never. The shadow of the tor
was a long finger indicating the treasure as the parchment quoted.

He read the ancient script again. “Points a finger.” He quoted.
He felt elated and at the same time terrified. “Taboo?”
He whispered. Resolutely, he stepped away from the safety of the tor,
out onto the barren plains where the shadow lay like a giant hand,
finger extended. An unpleasant smell struck his nose, and his skin
tinged in alarm. He desperately needed to get some sleep.

“The buried Dead!” a voice whispered. “Disturb not those who sleep!”
Wild-eyed, he stared everywhere. “It is taboo!” The voice hissed the quote.
From somewhere in the darkness, the drumskins
began to throb. Eerie voices came from all directions. “Taboo! It is taboo!”
The ground in front of him split, and a decaying hand
Grabbed for his legs as he leapt for the safety of the tor…

Professor Wilks was found at the base of Diablo Tor, his deeply tanned skin
pale in death. His face was peaceful, as if in sleep. A mummified hand
grasped his leg. His colleagues said, quote: “He should not have broken the taboo!”

Dale Harris

© 8/14/97

Hellow Pen.,

Thanks for posting. Is this form stringent? Just noticed a couple places where there was variation of a word or rhyme instead of repeating words. The storyline is predictable. But in any case the story was well written. I liked the main character; he seems unbound by any rules. On the other hand those colleagues of his seem bound, if not trapped, within the confines of the rules they follow. In a way I think this story is much about how we live our lives: following rules or following our feelings. And once we meet our death, will we feel fulfilled, and rest as peacefully as Professor Wilks seems to at the end of your story? This leaves me a bit bewildered at those dead, though. I can’t say I can identify their meaning as far as the storyline is concerned…that is whether they represent the fulfilled or unfulfilled.

[RoCKiTcZa]

Hi guys... I posted this poem somewhere in the main poetry section a few days ago... sadly only a few people took time to give it a review (thanks to those who commented on them... you are my trusted friends ) I shall post it once more with hopes that it will get a few more reviews...

Here's a link to the poem in the thread itself...
My First Poem on Litnet

However, should you wish to read it right away and give comments directly to it (Warning: this poem is really long; I hope you wouldn't mind)...


Catharsis X*
“Lethal Obsession”

Do you see me
And do you understand

me, the way I have yet to
understand
you.

No. For you have never felt

me, and had you ever come to
know... of those

Restless nights I spend

swiftly running
my eyes
over

Obituaries,

all these
I can only desperately
atrribute to
you.

Never would

my heart be
obliged to beat
in this utterly
intricate matter,
running a marathon
against itself...
neither would

I hunger

for
your name
resonating
down chasms
of enormous wealth
where diamonds sparkle
glistening by the
threadlike rays of light
cast by the
moon,
seeping through the crevice
hovering above the abyss
in which I am trapped
in a state of gradual death.

Everything is senseless, yet

what does make sense with
me feeling this way...
you take claim over everything...
you are my universe, and
around you
are my stars
swirling in a vast expanse
of glitter
before
my dazzled eyes...

(yes,
light
is what
you've
gained
from
me
and
light
is what
I
lose...)

Can't you see the way

I'm burning
Out, out,
Like a candle barely surviving
the night;
the way I want to know you
while knowing you the way I do,
the way I want to hold you
while holding the truth that I'm off limits beside you,
the way I want to kiss you
while kissing these desperate thoughts adieu.

Anarchistic thoughts wriggle in the spaces of my brain

and bore holes in what has been filled
with thoughts far more rational
than the thought containing you
Your shadow is a dream come true.
I crave too much, my longings are far from thinkable
Still I never truly wanted you to know
and in spite of everything, I reckon you do
though I've always wondered how indifferent
you were truly
in the way you appeared to be indifferent to it.
For in the space between
you and me
exists some room for doubt.

Songs will be sung,

yet they will never be enough
For I will never hear you.
Though your voice relentlessly pounds into my ears
I will never hear you.
Negligible are the notes of flowing sweetness
veiled beneath coarseness of tone.
Sounds are heard and forever lost
Trapped in the dungeon of void
Captured and shackled with iron chains
Never to be freed again
no, 'tis not the way
I wish to lose you.

Invincible is the truth, though bitter,

the truth I must learn to bear,
that you will never come to stay with me
forevermore,
for since when have you ever been here?

And in our lives that mutually touch,

vulnerable to existence
and submitting to change
nevertheless refusing to change
the way they truly might or should,
we are together,
fused in silence,
though never aware;
Two glaciers, melting
in the presence of one another,
yet never for each other.
Transformed into bodies of water,
we run,
down the slopes where our paths first crossed.
I settle in a basin, too large, too deep,
where my surface finds its rest,
yet in my depths I feel the pressure,
inside, I bubble and churn,
knowing you are here,
never too far
but too shallow to know
the manner in which you dwell in me.
I am the ocean.
You are the sea.
I will die remembering
you.

©acg2007

[Pendragon]

Hellow Pen.,

Thanks for posting. Is this form stringent? Just noticed a couple places where there was variation of a word or rhyme instead of repeating words. The storyline is predictable. But in any case the story was well written. I liked the main character; he seems unbound by any rules. On the other hand those colleagues of his seem bound, if not trapped, within the confines of the rules they follow. In a way I think this story is much about how we live our lives: following rules or following our feelings. And once we meet our death, will we feel fulfilled, and rest as peacefully as Professor Wilks seems to at the end of your story? This leaves me a bit bewildered at those dead, though. I can’t say I can identify their meaning as far as the storyline is concerned…that is whether they represent the fulfilled or unfulfilled.

In sestina, chosing endwords that can mean several things or using different forms of the word is allowed, but you cannot change the root word. Like one of my words was "quote", giving me leeway to use "quotes", "quoted", "quoting", "quoth", etc. I could not replace the word "quote" with "recite" however, as that changes the root word, does that help any?

The Buried Dead in the story are the reason for the ground being Taboo. There is a treasure buried where the shadow points a finger at midnight, no other way of finding it. But to get that treasure, you must cross the area of The Buried Dead who protect the treasure. After midnight, they come to life, to defend against grave robbers. Story ended!

Pen

[ktd222]

The Buried Dead in the story are the reason for the ground being Taboo. There is a treasure buried where the shadow points a finger at midnight, no other way of finding it. But to get that treasure, you must cross the area of The Buried Dead who protect the treasure. After midnight, they come to life, to defend against grave robbers. Story ended!

Pen

I understand this. I was just looking for some poetic effect beyond it just being a story.

[ktd222]

Hi Rockitcza,

Thanks for posting your work. You can always count on one response when you post it here. For me, poem length matters way, way, way less than quality.

As for your poem, I can’t say I understand the purpose for the structure you are using. I don’t know what it adds to what you are trying to express, which, from what I can gain through reading is about sensing: whether the other feels the way you do, and how you can know. This is the part of your poem I liked very much. I think it starts somewhere in the middle. I kind of wish it were at the beginning as to disorient me and give me the senselessness of this experience of yours. And at times I think your rambling does a different sort of disorienting, confusing me, the reader. You should definitely let the images speak for themselves, because they do! Especially here:

Two glaciers, melting
in the presence of one another,
yet never for each other.
Transformed into bodies of water,
we run,
down the slopes where our paths first crossed.
I settle in a basin, too large, too deep,
where my surface finds its rest,
yet in my depths I feel the pressure,
inside, I bubble and churn,
knowing you are here,
never too far
but too shallow to know
the manner in which you dwell in me.

a very nice job of interweaving the self into the image.

[scarlet pain]

FORSAKEN

A slippery moist path
Of pitch black echoes,
The cold touch beneath
Icy feet that walks the hollow.
Two trembling hands touch-
Touch the door- ancient,
Worn with passing age;
Still elegant, divine yet dreary.
The large bronze knocker
Serpent heads coiled along,
Slightly touching the edges
With thousands of locked queries.


The door opens like-
Like a gust of wind,
Creaking and revolting,
Slowly revealing the other side!
As frozen, chilling winter,
Gloom hits the soul—
Sucking all pleasures at heart,
Yet a silent smile remains.
There on the other side,
A place of passion stands,
With its wearing glory –
Holding the breeze of past.
Angels standing on both sides,
In curved-cold stone,
Heartless, lifeless but pure,
And a moon-shine glow flickers.
Vines of wild rose;
Holding the palace,
With scarlet love-
Of their glowing heart.

Walking further through—
Through the gardens glorious;
Once blooming in valiant colours
Now destroyed and devoured in vain!
And there lay in silence
A pond—green, dark and cold
Restless, it tries to reflect,
The white-blue, bright sunny sky.
Seems like, souls of the past
Locked in chains,
Choked to certain death,
Doomed below this green blood.

At last the feet rest,
Sitting by the pond-
In utter silence, disturbs—
The surface in thousand years!

And suddenly the overcast head—
Clears, the eyes open,
The mind sighs and lament-
A forsaken dream in lost eternity.

[Pendragon]

OK. KTD. What you need then, is another example of my sestinas. This was my first published one. I have the copyright, so no worries there. I use sestina to tell a story. As this story is a familiar one, not one from my imagination, it may help you see how the structure of the poem serves to tell the tale. I present The Hunchback of Notre Dame by Victor Hugo, reduced to a 39 line sestina:

Abnormal: Quasimodo’s Tale

They locked me away up here in the tower—
To be the Caretaker and Ringer of the Bells.
They have always said that because I was abnormal,
I would be but a laughingstock, and never have any friends.
Do t’was best for me to remain here, said my Master,
The solitude would keep me away from a world filled with evil.

It stalked all through the streets of Paris, this Demon of Evil,
Perhaps it even lurked in the silence of my tower.
“Better to be safe than sorry!” Said my Master.
But I longed—how I longed—each time I rang the Bells
For their voices to call out and bring me a few friends!
And I wished with all of my heart that I wasn’t abnormal…

Today, there was revelry in the streets, something quite abnormal,
And I longed to go and see; and so I was evil
And I sneaked from my chambers in search of some friends.
I was caught and chained to the pillory in front of my tower.
The crowds mocked, laughed, and danced; mocked me and rang bells.
And there upon a throne sat the man I called “Master.

His eyes blazed with cold fury and the voice of my Master
Trembled with rage as he spat out that I was abnormal.
The silence spoke louder than the ringing of my bells.
His eyes gleamed as he told me that I was evil born of evil,
And lashes fell as I cried for water in front of my tower.
But out in the crowd I had made a new friend…

She came to my side in defiance, whispering that we were friends,
And angrily she turned and scolded my Master.
He arose in a rage, and she fled into the tower.
Bursting free, I screamed, “Sanctuary!” in a voice most abnormal.
Now, after all these years I knew where the true evil
Lay. “Sanctuary!” I screamed again while tolling on my Bells.

He slew her while I was off tolling those Bells.
I returned only to rescue the body of one who had called me “Friend.”
“At last!” I snarled., advancing on him. “I know now what is truly evil!”
I flung him from the battlements, this evil one I had called “Master,”
Hearing him shriek as his body twisted in many abnormal
Ways. Then his body stuck the cobblestones in front of my tower…

Notice: While doing renovation in the tower beneath the great bells,
We found something abnormal: Two skeletons, sad, but not evil.
They must have been friends. They we buried by order of the new Master.

© 6/30/97
D.L. Harris

Published in Tucumcari Literary Review in 1997 their reprint rights recognized. Poem copyright returns to author.

[ktd222]

FORSAKEN

A slippery moist path
Of pitch black echoes,
The cold touch beneath
Icy feet that walks the hollow.
Two trembling hands touch-
Touch the door- ancient,
Worn with passing age;
Still elegant, divine yet dreary.
The large bronze knocker
Serpent heads coiled along,
Slightly touching the edges
With thousands of locked queries.


The door opens like-
Like a gust of wind,
Creaking and revolting,
Slowly revealing the other side!
As frozen, chilling winter,
Gloom hits the soul—
Sucking all pleasures at heart,
Yet a silent smile remains.
There on the other side,
A place of passion stands,
With its wearing glory –
Holding the breeze of past.
Angels standing on both sides,
In curved-cold stone,
Heartless, lifeless but pure,
And a moon-shine glow flickers.
Vines of wild rose;
Holding the palace,
With scarlet love-
Of their glowing heart.

Walking further through—
Through the gardens glorious;
Once blooming in valiant colours
Now destroyed and devoured in vain!
And there lay in silence
A pond—green, dark and cold
Restless, it tries to reflect,
The white-blue, bright sunny sky.
Seems like, souls of the past
Locked in chains,
Choked to certain death,
Doomed below this green blood.

At last the feet rest,
Sitting by the pond-
In utter silence, disturbs—
The surface in thousand years!

And suddenly the overcast head—
Clears, the eyes open,
The mind sighs and lament-
A forsaken dream in lost eternity.

Hi Scarlet,

Thanks for posting your poem. I do like the path your poem led me, having both direction and resolution. It’s also very interesting you don’t have I, you, she, he, walking this path. Gives the movement through this path a very disjointed feel, which is what I think you were after. An example is you say “at last the feet rest.” Very strange it’s not his/her feet, but just “the feet.” But you also have a lot of just out-of-the-blue images I don’t understand. At points I don’t understand why the path would be “slippery moist path/of pitch black echoes,” at other places why “weary”? Maybe rational doesn’t exist in this place? I truly don’t know.

[ktd222]

OK. KTD. What you need then, is another example of my sestinas. This was my first published one. I have the copyright, so no worries there. I use sestina to tell a story. As this story is a familiar one, not one from my imagination, it may help you see how the structure of the poem serves to tell the tale. I present The Hunchback of Notre Dame by Victor Hugo, reduced to a 39 line sestina:

Abnormal: Quasimodo’s Tale

They locked me away up here in the tower—
To be the Caretaker and Ringer of the Bells.
They have always said that because I was abnormal,
I would be but a laughingstock, and never have any friends.
Do t’was best for me to remain here, said my Master,
The solitude would keep me away from a world filled with evil.

It stalked all through the streets of Paris, this Demon of Evil,
Perhaps it even lurked in the silence of my tower.
“Better to be safe than sorry!” Said my Master.
But I longed—how I longed—each time I rang the Bells
For their voices to call out and bring me a few friends!
And I wished with all of my heart that I wasn’t abnormal…

Today, there was revelry in the streets, something quite abnormal,
And I longed to go and see; and so I was evil
And I sneaked from my chambers in search of some friends.
I was caught and chained to the pillory in front of my tower.
The crowds mocked, laughed, and danced; mocked me and rang bells.
And there upon a throne sat the man I called “Master.

His eyes blazed with cold fury and the voice of my Master
Trembled with rage as he spat out that I was abnormal.
The silence spoke louder than the ringing of my bells.
His eyes gleamed as he told me that I was evil born of evil,
And lashes fell as I cried for water in front of my tower.
But out in the crowd I had made a new friend…

She came to my side in defiance, whispering that we were friends,
And angrily she turned and scolded my Master.
He arose in a rage, and she fled into the tower.
Bursting free, I screamed, “Sanctuary!” in a voice most abnormal.
Now, after all these years I knew where the true evil
Lay. “Sanctuary!” I screamed again while tolling on my Bells.

He slew her while I was off tolling those Bells.
I returned only to rescue the body of one who had called me “Friend.”
“At last!” I snarled., advancing on him. “I know now what is truly evil!”
I flung him from the battlements, this evil one I had called “Master,”
Hearing him shriek as his body twisted in many abnormal
Ways. Then his body stuck the cobblestones in front of my tower…

Notice: While doing renovation in the tower beneath the great bells,
We found something abnormal: Two skeletons, sad, but not evil.
They must have been friends. They we buried by order of the new Master.

© 6/30/97
D.L. Harris

Published in Tucumcari Literary Review in 1997 their reprint rights recognized. Poem copyright returns to author.

Hi Pendragon,

I don’t need another example. I think what I needed was a better story. This is it. What I can say about the sestina is that it keeps the storyline concise, by keeping it within the parameters of a few key words. The thing which interests me about this story is not the story itself, but the word “abnormal” in relation to “they” and “I”. I love how the story changes perspectives towards the end, and shifts from “I” to “we.” This is such a subtle little thing, but has a dramatic affect on me, placing the previously “abnormal” “I” with “they” to create the “we,” which is now no longer abnormal.

[ktd222]

To Pendragon,

To give you an example from another poet. This is a poem by Rilke which shows the same sort of shift from a singular voice to singular voice encompassing both the “you” and “I”. Notice this shift, and also notice how well it goes with the topic of love being dealt with at hand.

Love Song

How shall I keep my soul
from touching yours? How shall
I lift it over you toward other things?
Ah, I would like to lodge it
in the dark with some lost thing
on some foreign silent place
that doesn’t tremble, when your depths stir.
Yet everything that touches you and me
takes us together like a bow’s stroke
that from two strings draws one voice.
Across what instrument are we stretched taut?
And what player holds us in his hand?
O sweet song.


Rilke, translated by Edward Snow

I see the same sort of thing in the latest poem you posted.

[Pendragon]

To Pendragon,

To give you an example from another poet. This is a poem by Rilke which shows the same sort of shift from a singular voice to singular voice encompassing both the “you” and “I”. Notice this shift, and also notice how well it goes with the topic of love being dealt with at hand.

Love Song

How shall I keep my soul
from touching yours? How shall
I lift it over you toward other things?
Ah, I would like to lodge it
in the dark with some lost thing
on some foreign silent place
that doesn’t tremble, when your depths stir.
Yet everything that touches you and me
takes us together like a bow’s stroke
that from two strings draws one voice.
Across what instrument are we stretched taut?
And what player holds us in his hand?
O sweet song.


Rilke, translated by Edward Snow

I see the same sort of thing in the latest poem you posted.

True. The comparisson is there, though I would hardly claim to be as famous a poet. I have two most sestinas in my blog you should check out. I was challanged to write them. The story is Robert Louis Stevenson's Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. What I was challanged to do was write from both characters perspective. I can't resist a challange!

[scarlet pain]

Hi Scarlet,

Thanks for posting your poem. I do like the path your poem led me, having both direction and resolution. It’s also very interesting you don’t have I, you, she, he, walking this path. Gives the movement through this path a very disjointed feel, which is what I think you were after. An example is you say “at last the feet rest.” Very strange it’s not his/her feet, but just “the feet.” But you also have a lot of just out-of-the-blue images I don’t understand. At points I don’t understand why the path would be “slippery moist path/of pitch black echoes,” at other places why “weary”? Maybe rational doesn’t exist in this place? I truly don’t know.

thank you so much for the review,its actually a dream i saw several times(you can call it a nightmare),i have no idea why i saw it,id made me very sad and gloomy and in the poem i described exactly what i saw,i guess that explains the 'slippery moist path'.i even cried once,it made me feel very empty and alone.anyways thank you again!

[scarlet pain]

Thoughts


Thoughts come-like a river flow,
Like May flower and a quick rainbow!

As days pass and years grow,
Some mislead and some show-
Paths of truth,paths of pleasure,
paths of sorrow and distress beyond measure.

A sudden thought a misplaced foot,
Into the abyss,a demon's loot!
One step forward with a well earned thought,
A rise and shine and a fight well fought!

Thoughts of Dreamy eyes and a loved heart,
Lyre of passion and graceful 'Motzart'!
Thoughts of yesterday,tomorrow and today,
Memories or things-to-do or a well planned way!

Thoughts come-like falling snow,
Like May flower and a quick rainbow!

Bright,blue sky and an airy mood,
Nothing impossible-feels so good!
A dull snowy day-dampy wet streets,
A sunken heart,tearfull eyes and an angry hiss!

A twisted mind can think much worse,
And have no regret,no remorse!
A simple mind is thought to be,
Wild,green,vivid and so free!

Like some dreams true and vivid,
Thoughts are yet so varied indeed,
From era to era and age to age,
From people to people,young-old phase!
Thoughts are but thoughts for certain,
Like sparks of glory and blazing pain!

[ktd222]

Thoughts


Thoughts come-like a river flow,
Like May flower and a quick rainbow!

As days pass and years grow,
Some mislead and some show-
Paths of truth,paths of pleasure,
paths of sorrow and distress beyond measure.

A sudden thought a misplaced foot,
Into the abyss,a demon's loot!
One step forward with a well earned thought,
A rise and shine and a fight well fought!

Thoughts of Dreamy eyes and a loved heart,
Lyre of passion and graceful 'Motzart'!
Thoughts of yesterday,tomorrow and today,
Memories or things-to-do or a well planned way!

Thoughts come-like falling snow,
Like May flower and a quick rainbow!

Bright,blue sky and an airy mood,
Nothing impossible-feels so good!
A dull snowy day-dampy wet streets,
A sunken heart,tearfull eyes and an angry hiss!

A twisted mind can think much worse,
And have no regret,no remorse!
A simple mind is thought to be,
Wild,green,vivid and so free!

Like some dreams true and vivid,
Thoughts are yet so varied indeed,
From era to era and age to age,
From people to people,young-old phase!
Thoughts are but thoughts for certain,
Like sparks of glory and blazing pain!

Hi scarlet pain,

You cried? Oh boy! I need to see a shrink, because I never cry. Thanks for posting again, though.

I’m guessing you also sensed that “May flower” sounds kind of corny. And on the other hand if you mean flower in May, then it doesn’t make any sense at all with the river flow or rainbow.

I’m also sensing that you’re trying to make that invariable connection between thoughts and feeling, or lack of feeling. But I think the only way to properly express how you feel about certain thoughts is fully, and vividly describe a thought. So far I’m only getting glimpses of one thought at a time, and that’s not enough for me to appreciate how you feel about it. I could easily envision a compare and contrast style poem.

So yes, at places I still feel you are saying what can be shown, and by way not showing what you are feeling.

[ahsiam]

well i wrote 6 poems and among them i liked it most.so i am giving it here,if there are any flaws.............

EMBLEM OF PASSION

come at dark depth
when water drops tune a lyre
and call it a rain.


come as my thoughts
when i think about you
and call it a dream.


come as my voice
when words make a harmony
and call it a song.


come as my sorrow
when a pearl arise from the sea
and call it a tear.


be my vision
when thousand colours dance together
and call it a rainbow.


be my shelter
when i live in you
and call it a home.


be with me
when i hide you behind everyone
and call it a shadow.


let your hand touch me
when moonlight touches the earth
and call it a heaven.


let your soul meet me
when true souls give birth to a story
and call it a history.


born as a sire of streams
and flow in my heart
then i will call it love