Today, Snow White’s Dad speaks.

Black hair, red lips and skin as white as snow
So delicate! A lovely little face
Just like her mother, though her hair’s so dark.
In that, she’s quite unique, my little love,
My queen was blonde, no woman was more fair.
But she has gone, and left me with a daughter.

She always said that she would have a daughter.
I need a son, and though she’s pure as snow,
This baby cannot settle the affair
Of who’ll be king hereafter. I must face
The truth, although my heart is cold and dark,
It is my royal duty to find love.

Each year she grows in beauty, little love,
It always pleases me to see my daughter
The nurses keep her tidy, comb her dark
And curly hair. She loves the wind and snow
Which bring a tinge of colour to her face
For, like her mother, she is very fair.

It troubles my new queen that she’s so fair.
I see it in her eyes, there is no love,
For my own little princess, in her face.
I’d hoped she’d learn to love her as a daughter
But now I fear her heart’s as cold as snow.
I think she might be plotting something dark.

He said the princess ran into the dark,
The woodcutter, the last to see my fair
And lovely child, she ran into the snow.
He says. Perhaps I never showed the love.
A royal father ought to show his daughter
She’s gone now. I can see it in his face.

I scrutinise my consort’s perfect face.
There’s something sinister about the dark-
Ness in her eyes. She never loved my daughter.
And now she never asks me “Who’s the fair-
Est? with a smile, she looks out at the snow.

I’ll never see my daughter’s pretty face,
As white as snow, again. I fear my love
although her face is fair, her heart is dark.

Today, Snow White’s mother. Chronologically, this should have come before yesterday’s poem.

Black hair, red lips and skin as white as snow
I know that I will not be here for her
And that the king, her father, prizes beauty.
And so I wish them for my unborn child:
Those striking looks. A little china doll
Who’ll charm her way through life without a mother.

They always said I’d never be a mother:
That I would fade away, like melting snow
They said I was as pretty as a doll,
“No girl alive’s as beautiful as her”
They said, “but far too frail to bear a child.”
Until the crown prince heard about my beauty.

The whole world knew he wed me for my beauty.
It seemed my only chance to be a mother,
However briefly. How I love the child
That grows inside me! But before the snow.
Has melted, I will perish, leaving her
To make her fortune, little china doll.

I hope that she’ll be stronger than a doll
Stronger than me, at least. For, though her beauty
Will help, I know that it will hinder her
Especially without a loving mother
To wipe the tears from cheeks as white as snow.
To tell her she’s a much beloved child.

I hope the king remarries, has a child:
A playmate for my precious little doll.
Together, they can frolic in the snow.
I hope nobody will resent her beauty
And that the new queen will be like a mother
And, as her very own, will cherish her.

I weep each time I think of leaving her.
The king will not care much about his child.
He doesn’t want a daughter, but a mother
Knows. I know I’ll bear a little doll
With nothing to survive on but her beauty.
The tears run down my cheeks like melting snow.

What kind of mother can I be for her
Thus vanishing like snow, to leave my child?
I hope my little doll can use her beauty.

On a bit of a mission within a mission today. The next five sestinas are going to be different voices from the snow-white story. Today, the wicked queen.

Black hair, Red lips and skin as white as snow.
Pretentious little goth: I hate her guts!
She’s not all that: her nose is far too small.
She’s pretty, though. I look into the mirror
When it tells me I’m not the best, my blood
Starts boiling till I feel I want to die

But no, she is the one who ought to die
She must be sickly with her skin like snow
Just like her mum. You can rely on blood
To tell. I’d like to rip her guts
Out with my hands, but deep within the mirror
A voice is whispering “she’s still so small

No threat to you while she is still so small
And maybe she won’t need your help to die”
And though I tend to listen to my mirror
I want to spill her blood upon the snow
And run my hands through still pulsating guts!
But really it’s important that her blood

Is not seen on my hands, for royal blood
Should not be touched with scandal. It’s a small
But messy job. Remove her heart and guts
And bring them here. And if you want to die
As well, then breathe a word. Silent as snow
You must remain. I’ll watch you from my mirror.

I gaze at my reflection in the mirror.
The perfect symmetry, the noble blood.
And think about her, dying in the snow
Your axe so heavy, her so frail and small.
And in my mind I watch her bleed and die.
Soon you will come, returning with her guts.

At last I see my pretty rival’s guts!
I hold them up and show them to my mirror.
Who’s pretty now? The bitch deserved to die.
I roast her heart with apples, till the blood
Runs clear. It tastes a lot like pork. A small
Doubt strikes me: did you kill her in the snow?

She did not die, and these are not her guts.
Out in the snow, she’s fleeing from my mirror
I’ll have her blood. She’s tender, still, and small…

Oops! I failed to blog yesterday’s Sestina! Here it is. Words suggested by Gary “the bear” Hughes. I don’t think he loves plumbing, though.

At closing time he looks around and drains
His pint. Outside the lads are smoking pipes
And chatting as he sets off down the block
But he allows a tiny sigh to leak
Between his lips. The thing that makes him stop
Him self from joining in, is, he’s a cock.

At least he’s fairly certain he’s a cock:
Unpopular. He thinks his presence drains
The life from conversation. He can’t stop
Himself from going on about the pipes
He fixed today, or how he found a leak.
Almost impossible to reach and block

But he did it. But then he feels a block
Imagines that he sounds like such a cock
To everybody else. It seems to leak
From him: this fascination with the drains
He can’t talk about anything but pipes.
And so he has decided he should stop

Talking. It seems the only way to stop
The people that he knows from fully block-
Ing him from their lives. So his vocal pipes
Are rusty now. But now and then he’ll cock
An ear and hear when someone says “my drains
Are blocked. I think my toilet’s got a leak”

Then he allows a tiny smile to leak
Onto his face. He waits until they stop
Complaining, then he says “I’ll fix your drains
It doesn’t sound too serious. A block-
Age in the pipe. Don’t worry, Cock,
No charge. My pleasure, working with the pipes.

And then he tells them all about the pipes.
The challenges of sorting out a leak
Someone buys him a drink, and he’s the cock
Of all the pub. Nobody makes him stop
And just for once he feels no social block
preventing him from talking about drains.

He’s not a cock; he just likes fixing pipes
He loves the drains, there’s never been a leak
He couldn’t stop. He sets off down the block.

Another storyish sestina today. Rather didactic, sorry!

Oh the house down the lane
Is a very strange place
It seems to be tumbling down
The smashed window panes
Seem like eyes in a face
And a crack in the wall makes a frown

Mr Smith wears a frown
As he walks down the lane
The house can’t bring smile to his face
“It’s a terrible place
And I must say it pains
Me each day that it isn’t torn down.”

“Oh it does get me down
Says Miss Brooke, with a frown,
“When I walk past those old window panes.
It just ruins the lane
Such a picturesque place,
With that house like a boil on its face.”

“Mum, it looks like a face
Glaring nastily down
It’s been giving me nightmares, this place!”
Whines young Beth, with a frown,
“I won’t go down the lane
And be looked at by those window panes.”

All the neighbours take pains
Not to look at the face
That peers out of the house down the lane.
For she never comes down
Just looks out with a frown
Doesn’t really fit in in this place

When she moved to this place
She had hoped that the pain
Soon would vanish, along with her frown.
But she daren’t show her face
When she’s feeling so down
So she waits, all alone, down the lane.

In the frown on the wall of that place
Down the lane, and the smashed window panes
See her face, all alone, looking down.

This is very, very silly. I just wanted to write a Sestina with extremely short lines. It came out kind of Edward Learish.

Oh I wish
I could be
Like a fish
(In the sea
Not a dish)
That’s for me!

Seems to me
That a wish
On a dish
Needs to be
Good to see
– like a fish,

Says the fish:
Look at me!
Can’t you see?
Don’t you wish
you could be
Such a dish?

He’s a dish
Is the fish.
Likes to be
(Just like me
making wish-
Es, you see)

In the sea
Not a dish.
So I wish
That the fish
Could be me,
And I’d be

Like a bee
In the sea
He’d be me,
With a dish,
I’d be fish.
That’s my wish.

Me, I’d be
Wishing, see
Dish the fish!