The sestina thing seems to have me swinging between goth and ranty zealot. Guess which today’s is…

I have some basic groundrules for survival:
Don’t wrap yourself in tinfoil on a mountain
During a thunderstorm. Do not drop acid
While you have access to a 10th floor window
Avoid spoiled food, but really, most important
Don’t build nuclear power plants on faultlines

Don’t build nuclear power plants on faultlines
If you care anything about survival.
I cannot stress enough just how important
This rule is. I will shout it from the mountain
Tops. I’ll scream it from the window
It’s burned into my brain as if with acid.

And radiation burns you worse than acid.
Don’t build nuclear power plants on faultlines
You wouldn’t throw a bomb through your own window.
Why would you sabotage your own survival?
It’s like throwing your body from a mountain
Except considerably more important.

Because while you are not all that important
By which I am not trying to be acid:
It’s really true! It’s not you up that mountain
(Don’t build nuclear power plants on faultlines.)
It’s everyone. It’s everyone’s survival.
That you’re proposing throwing out the window.

I realise I’ve kind of missed my window.
For warning you, but really, it’s important.
I hope it’s not too late for our survival.
But really are you idiots on acid?
Don’t build nuclear power plants on faultlines!
I’m going to be a hermit on a mountain

I won’t be too much safer up a mountain
As I look fearfully out of the window
“Don’t build nuclear power plants on faultlines”
I’ll shout, please listen. This is so important.
“I know I look like I took too much acid.
But listen, or you’ve no hope of survival.”

I see the faultlines clear as any mountain.
I guess survival isn’t that important.
Open that window. Let me take this acid

Day 13, even if it’s not a Friday, seems an appropriate day to do a really dark poem, (which was kinda going to happen anyway with keywords from @NecroNeil – check out his awesome horror zine necronomicon)
This sestina turned out even darker than I thought, and I owe debts of inspiration to Angela Carter and Francesca Lia Block for the Red Riding Hood theme.

Big Bad Wolf

I never thought there would be so much blood.
Your face, my hands, the bedroom floor are dark
With it. I pause and look out at the woods
Outside the window. Maybe under dirt
And fallen leaves i’ll hide your corpse, my love.
And then I’ll wash the bloodstains from my hands.

You thought my fate lay in your pretty hands.
Because my love for you raged in my blood
Like a disease. My desperate, fevered love
Made every day away from you seem dark.
You used to look at me like I was dirt
You’d trodden in while walking in the woods.

I used to watch you walking through the woods,
Red hood pulled up, a basket in your hands,
Daintily stepping through the leaves and dirt
I’d watch you, and I’d feel that rush of blood
Course through me, crouching silent in the dark.
A mix of lust and rage and hate and love.

And so I followed you, my little love,
Until I knew your movements through the woods
To this old house you’d tiptoe through the dark.
To visit granny, kiss her wrinkled hands.
I watched you, smelt you, and it set my blood
To boiling in my veins. I’m low as dirt.

And you are pure and clean. But from this dirt
There grew the deadly roses of my love.
I longed to taste you: lick your sweat, your blood,
So I came to the cottage in the woods
And throttled the old bitch with my bare hands
And waited for your footsteps in the dark.

Your skin so pure and white, your eyes so dark,
Even your shoes were free of forest dirt,
I hardly dared to touch you with my hands
to quench my hate and consummate my love.
Nobody heard you screaming in the woods
Your hood lies on the floor, red as your blood.

I kiss your hands, and stare into the dark.
There’s so much blood. I’ll hide it in the dirt.
Red hooded love, I’ll leave you in the woods.

So, this was interesting. Sitawa Wafula, a lovely women I met on Twitter, suggested some keywords for me that were bound to lead to quite a political, feminist poem. I’m usually quite comfortable writing poetry about my politics, but it’s rarely what you could term earnest or sincere.
These keywords, combined with the form, forced me to be just that, which felt very unnatural for me. Also, unlike with other sestinas I’ve done, I just wasn’t willing to let the structure take over and dictate how it turned out. So I was fighting the structure every step of the way to write this feminist poem. Ooh! There’s a metaphor in that!
One of the ideas of this project was to challenge myself – bring me out of my comfort zone of cutesy-pootsey rhymes. That’s certainly happening.
Actually this may be a sestina, but I don’t think it’s a poem. It’s just kind of a rant. In sestina form.

Sometimes I work myself into a state
Of apoplexy when I see how  women
Are shunned and disrespected by my culture.
We make up over half the population,
And yet for equal rights we must take action,
For patriarchy makes us vulnerable

But really, why should we be vulnerable?
We’re not in some pathetic, weakened state.
We’re physically strong, we can take action,
Support ourselves as well as other women,
A vibrant, worldwide female population:
Why are we so restricted by our culture?

It’s said that I am from a liberal culture:
To sexism I’m not as vulnerable
As many in the female population
Who find their freedom crushed by fascist state
by  quaint traditions” that devalue women
Or by religious bigotry in action.

And yet it’s frowned upon when I take action
To challenge sexism within my culture
Dismissed and mocked by men, attacked by women
When I point out that we’re still vulnerable
To ridicule and judgement when I state
Respect’s due to the female population

Within, of course, the wider population.
It would be lovely if more men took action
To challenge sexism within the state
Or worked towards a far more equal culture.
Both men and women can be vulnerable
Or strong. But sometimes women

Do not defend the rights of other women
That’s how half of the human population
Though not outnumbered, are still vulnerable
Because we’re told that we cannot take action
We mock the ones who want to change the culture
So feminism’s in a dreadful state!

We are not vulnerable unless, as women
We don’t take action to improve our state.
Our population can reclaim our culture.

Weird one today, folks. Not your average sestina.
Two sets of keywords, one makes up the end words of the lines as usual, the other makes up the start words.
And every stanza they switch places.
Argh.
Apparently this is an entirely new variation. If anyone knows different, drop me a message.
Emma Jane Davies and her mythic keywords are to blame for the theme!

Howl, fellow wolves, and greet the rising moon!
Owl spreads her wings for she will join us soon.
Dark shadows hold dominion over Earth
Bark, brother wolves, and herald midnight’s birth!
Red sun went down, and we, the fierce and wild
Fled from the day to greet Diana’s child.

Childsplay, the hunt. From human eyes we fled
Moonlight shone down, and made us want to howl
Wild children with our teeth and claws stained red
Soon we will join the badger and the owl
Birthing the night, we slaver, pant and bark
Earth turns away from sunlight into dark

Darkness now spreads its cloak across earth
Fled is the bright one, daylight’s only child
Barking, the wolves bear witness to the birth
Howling, we greet the daughter of the moon
Owls circle her, and then we know that soon
Red blood will spill, rejoicing in the wild.

Wild eyed we yearn to tear into the red
Earth is our hunting ground when it is dark
Soon we must feed on flesh just like the owl.
Child of the moon, show where our quarry fled
Moon-daughter, hearken to our loving howl
Birthed-of-Diana: listen to us bark!

Barking,we chase our prey until the birth,
Red in the east, of dawn. We love the wild
Howl of our brothers underneath the moon.
Dark creatures swarming all across the Earth
Fled from the woods. each tender human child.
Owl’s voice should warn. ‘Your fate will meet you soon.’

Soon they will sleep, the badger and the owl.
Birth of a new day makes us cease to bark
Childlike we cower, from the light we’ve fled
Wild though we are, we fear the rays of red
Earth is our kingdom only in the dark
Moonchild, return tonight to hear us howl!

Fled is the owl, Night’s child will call her soon:
Moon, at your birth we’ll bark and whine and howl
Red lights the dark, and wild ones leave the Earth.

Today’s keywords are from Helen Mort, a fabulous poet and lovely person.
Three cool things about Helen:
1) She’s from Sheffield.
2) She writes poems about ghosts and her surname means ‘death’.
3) She has an ace whippet called Bell.

This sestina is inspired by Helen’s collection of poetry ‘A Pint For The Ghost’.

The job was new to me, learning from scratch
The names of all the ales, but then, I’m bright.
Each customer I welcomed through the door
And learned their names as well, in time, which pleased
The regulars, who always stopped to speak
To me as I was polishing each glass

After my shift I’d stay and have a glass
Or two of lager, listen to the scratch-
y Jukebox, stop to hear the locals speak
At first, it’s true, I thought they weren’t too bright
But when I got to know them, I was pleased
They told me tales of hauntings. I adore

Such legends, and I’d often lock the door
At closing time and, sipping from my glass
write down the stories which had really pleased
me in the empty pub. Sometimes a scratch
Or rustle made me jump, but I was bright
Enough to sit quite still and never speak.

I’d hear these disembodied voices speak
And feel a draught as if the bolted door
was swinging open. Then I’d see a bright
And eerie light which formed around my glass.
As if a ghostly hand wanted to scratch
A message on the bar. It wasn’t pleased

The presence I could feel, it was displeased
Some evenings it would condescend to speak
and say, “This rat’s piss isn’t up to scratch
It’s got no soul, I’d chuck it out the door
Pour us some stout, I’ll have it in a glass
That’s got a handle. I can see you’re bright

Enough, my lass, to know when it gets bright
And full in here, us ghosts are never pleased
But in the quiet moments, the odd glass
Of porter is a lifeline, so to speak.
So when you sense my presence, near the door,
Pour me whichever ale is up to scratch.”

I keep aside a glass, polished and bright
You never hear him scratch: these days he’s pleased
Perhaps we’ll hear him speak, he’s by the door.

Our friend Jow, who is also my wife’s comedy writing partner in The Venns, and has office supply related fun at Post-It Says It All, thought it would be funny to give me ridiculous keywords for today’s sestina. Unfortunately for him, the only way I could get it to make sense was by writing a poem about Jow getting progressively drunker and talking more and more bollocks. Sorry. Great poetry it’s not, but it was fun to write (and to research, come to that).

I like pancake syrup whose hue and viscosity
Has a high level of Verisimilitude
With maple syrup. At breakfast, I groove
To tunes on my iPhone. I hate sounding pompous
But I do find bands like the Darkness superfluous
I only listen to them when I’m bladdered.

It’s not every night I go out and get bladdered,
I like amaretto because its viscosity
Slips down a treat, leaving mixers superfluous.
I’m not impressed by the verisimilitude
Of certain copycat brands, though it’s pompous,
I find Disarrono does help me to groove.

After the drinking it’s time for a groove
But I really can’t dance till I’m utterly bladdered:
When sober I just feel too stilted and pompous.
My feet seem to stick to the floor with viscosity –
Swayze and I share no verisimilitude –
So I just drink till I don’t feel superfluous.

There are some people I do find superfluous:
Poseurs and hipsters who think they can groove.
They’re not special: the mutual verisimilitude’s
Striking: can’t tell them apart once I’m bladdered.
They all stick together with sickly viscosity
Get on my nerves, so pretentious and pompous.

I guess you could say I’m the one who is pompous
For calling those hipsters pretentious, superfluous,
I’m talking bollocks though: blame the viscosity
Of Disarrono. I’d quite like to groove:
D’you fancy a dance? Now I’m feeling quite bladdered.
And with a pissed newt I’ve got verisimilitude.

I can pronounce words like verisimilitude
Yep, Like A Boss, but you can’t call me pompous,
I just talk a whole lot of shit when I’m bladdered.
Use lots of words that are really superfluous
But I’m still awake, though not feeling too groov-
y, Cause I’ve just thrown up with disgusting viscosity.

When bladdered, these words such as verisimilitude
Oh, and viscosity, make me sound pompous.
But they are superfluous. Let’s have a groove.

It’s been one week, to quote Barenaked Ladies, and I’m enjoying this more than can possibly be normal.
Today’s poem is for my lovely sister Jude, whose chosen keywords can be found in her comment on yesterday’s post.
Keep the suggestions coming! 

Secret Recipe

To make the perfect juicy hamburger
Requires a high degree of artistry.
I keep a secret blend of seventeen
Exotic herbs, wrapped in a handkerchief.
To bind the mince, I use one free range egg.
The end result is always quickly gobbled.

Before I found that recipe I gobbled
All kinds of mediocre hamburger,
Often made up of offal, salt and egg,
You can’t disguise bad food with artistry:
They made me retch into my handkerchief
Until one day when I was seventeen

(I can’t believe I was just seventeen),
When sitting in a greasy spoon, I gobbled
A meal that made me raise my handkerchief
Up to my eyes because that hamburger
Caused me to weep at such fine artistry.
That perfect match of beef and herbs and egg.

(Too many chefs forget about the egg)
The radio was on: East 17
were playing with their usual artistry.
And as the other patrons sat and gobbled,
I asked the chef about the hamburger.
He wiped his hands upon a handkerchief

– A nasty, greasy, filthy handkerchief –
And said “Why should I tell some posh young egg-
Head how to make my secret hamburger?
You must be young: what sixteen? Seventeen?
Since when have teenagers cared what they gobbled?
But you, you really get my artistry!

Not many recognise such artistry.”
He said, and wept into his handkerchief
“For years I’ve seen my gourmet artworks gobbled
Along with beans and sausage, chips and egg.”
And so, although I was just seventeen,
He taught me how to make the hamburger.

What you’ve just gobbled takes great artistry,
Good steak minced fine, A handkerchief
Of herbs, an egg, and luck when seventeen.

Another science fiction sestina, this time inspired by the delightful Emma Jane Davies. One of her tweets referring to novice writers as ‘baby writers’ set us both off on a sci-fi tangent, and she gave me some excellent keywords!
My favourite so far, I think.

Babywriter

I take my pen and start to write the foetus.
Dipping my quill into the seething ink
Which, sapient, awaits life in its tube
I fill the world with verbal progeny
On artificial vellum leaves they spawn
And issue forth from my life-giving word.

They say in the beginning was the Word,
But once upon a time the human foetus
Grew in its mother’s womb, from father’s spawn
Back then, the source of life was never ink.
From lust and pleasure came our progeny.
But now it’s just the writers and the tube.

We sit at desks around the metal tube.
Creating life with every written word.
The virus came and killed our progeny
And, in the womb, wiped out each new-formed foetus.
We found we could survive by using ink
And now through words alone can humans spawn.

We’ve learned to love our pretty, wordborn spawn,
And venerate the life within the tube.
As long as we can write our dreams in ink,
The human race can live in written word.
They grow up fast. Soon they will write each foetus
They will forget that they’re our progeny.

Sometimes, we’re scared of our own progeny.
Fleshborn, they call us, or organicspawn.
They snigger when I say I was a foetus
Inside my mother, never in the tube.
And ask me how, if never born of word.
I understand the passions of the ink?

I tell them fleshborns first created ink,
To write our stories, not our progeny.
They stare at me, and don’t believe a word.
What is ink for, to them, if not to spawn?
The wordborn have no stories, and the tube
Can only fill our pens to write a foetus.

I write the words down in the living ink
Another foetus joins my progeny
Organicspawn: the servant of the tube.