Sestina for Poem: A Virtual Poetry Group: ABCs

Learning My ABCs

Right now, I should be correcting an essay
or planning what my next assignment will be
for British Literature class. But, you see,
all I want to do is de-
vote time to writing a poem e-
ven though I know it will take ef-

fort. Today, as a teacher, I get an F.
I’m here physically but my mind is away,
dreaming of letters and words that will, e-
ventually, become thoughts. I turn on my computer and be-
gin to type a black and white de-
sign on this school-owned PC.

I take a poem from its infancy,
nurture it though childhood, survive the ef-
fing teen years, and gentle it with de-
tails into an adult. Shh, don’t let the PTA
know what I do when I’m supposed to be
teaching. I haven’t even checked my e-

mail since there’s barely e-
nough time to finish this, never mind see
about my students’ needs. Be-
fore the lunch bell, while ideas are still like ef-
fervescent bubbles, I want to parlay
them into something meaningful~a word melody.

Sometimes, it’s so easy to let myself be de-
toured from writing. So, now, while my e-
motions are high, and letters are dancing a ballet,
I have to lasso them, whip up a poem fricassee.
Instead of being a teacher I must be a word chef
for a little while. But kids keep coming in to be-

devil me with questions and the intercom is be-
coming annoying. There is no remedy
for these interruptions; inside I’m screaming, “F
You!” but outwardly I must remain e-
ven-tempered and capture se-
clusion where I can. I lock myself away.

I’m just a wanna-be poet with an e-
normous desire to sea-
son my refugee heart with word play.

Sestina

Playing with line lengths for Read.Write.Poem December 10, 2007

I hit the refresh button six times on the Read.Write.Poem site and took the words from the prompt generator to write a sestina. I normally write short lines so these long ones were different for me. I actually had fun writing this even with loganberry!

ache veneer bone loganberry discard bust
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Into each day must fall a piece of ache
that eats down through the veneer
of our lives straight to the bone.
It might only be the size of a loganberry
but it is something that we must not discard
nor is it something that we can hope to bust

apart. Sorrow is a punch in the bust,
a kick in the balls, a toothache.
It’s a teen’s razor blade you want to discard
but you know she’ll still find a way to cut her veneer,
make it bleed as red as a loganberry,
to find her pain, scrape a bone.

A hurt is emptiness like taking away a dog’s bone,
like cutting off the torso of Shakespeare’s bust;
it’s as unsatisfying as eating an unripe loganberry.
But we all have them, these daily aches.
They carve their initials in our veneer.
They come with a tag that reads, “Do not discard.”

Oh, sure, it seems like it would be great if we could discard
all the little annoyances that bug us to the bone
but then, we’d be nothing but veneer,
a shell of air that anyone or anything could bust,
leaving us scattered, little shards of ache
left to rot on the ground like dead loganberries.

That’s why I had to help Logan bury
the evidence of the sin he wanted to discard.
I could have turned him in, causing him a big ache
but, instead, I dug a hole and covered the bones,
and prayed that we wouldn’t get bust-
ed. Now my smile is but a veneer

like the grass over the grave is a veneer
hiding the truth of what lies near the loganberry
bush. My heart still beats under my bust
but the guilt is something I cannot discard.
He took a life, turned flesh to bone.
I wanted his love but, in return, got only his ache.

I let him crack my veneer, pull out my soul, and discard
it like a shriveled loganberry. All this for a bon-
er. I take a knife to my bust. I bleed and ache.