This blog provides advice to writers on their literary work.
See the end of this post for links on these topics: How can you get the full benefit of workshops? How can you work best with your mentor? What, when, and how should you publish?
The sestina is a much longer and more intricate form than the better-known lyric form of the sonnet. The sestina spans 39 lines. It involves an enormous amount of repetition. That’s the key. The
words that end the lines in the first stanza recur in a weave, according to a
prescribed pattern.
The
sestina keeps switching back on itself like a road winding up a steep mountain,
because the same end words occur seven times in the poem. For this
reason, the sestina lends itself to a question or conundrum that has many facets or variations. The sestina can also be playful, because inserting those words can make
the poem a game for the poet, utilizing the reader’s anticipation of the
repetition. This can be particularly fun and challenging when a poet uses
homonyms of the end words as variations.
The
sestina's structure is intricate, mathematical. The words that
end the lines in the first stanza recur at the end of the lines in the second
stanza, in this order: 6-1, 5-2, 4-3. Notice how each pair adds up to seven,
the number of stanzas in the whole poem. The last end word in stanza one
becomes the first end word in stanza two. Then the second stanza becomes the
template for the third, repeating in the same weave, so that the last end word
in stanza two becomes the first in stanza three, etc.
Because
of this intricate weave, the sestina is also a useful form to work through an
obsession or to discuss repetitive actions. One terrific example of this is Jan Clausen’s “Sestina: Winchell’s Donut House,” about working in an all-night,
fast-food business. Here are the final three stanzas:
Linda came in at six, awash with light,
businesslike, making sure there’d be enough change
to get her through the rigors of the morning.
She had a hundred uniforms; I remember pink.
Sometimes she’d cheat, leave me to work alone,
sneak out to flirt in parked cars, fleeing lifetimes of
grease.
I can see her cranking the hopper, measuring grease,
indefatigable, wired on coffee, just stopping to light
her cigarettes. She didn’t want to be alone.
It was only my fantasy that she could change,
stop wearing that silly, becoming pink,
burn free of the accidents, husband and children, some
morning.
I remember walking home those mornings, smelling of grease,
amazed in summer’s most delicate pink early light,
to shower, change, and sleep out the hot day alone.
One
thing I love about this sestina of Jan Clausen (she’s written more than one) is
her choice of end words. The word “change” changes slightly each time we hear
it, mirroring the meaning of the word. The repetition of the words “morning”
and “light” underline the yearning of a graveyard-shift worker for a end to
the long nights of labor. The word “alone” conveys the solitude of this job
and the speaker’s life. “Grease” is perfect for a fast-food joint, but it also
has interesting class connotations, as in “lifetimes of grease.” Finally the
word “pink” suggests both the sickly sweet glazes of the donuts (“chocolate and
pink-frosted” in stanza one) and the traditionally feminine coworker Linda, object
of the speaker’s romantic longings during those long nights.
If you
write a sestina, make sure you choose end words that
play directly into the complicated fixations that led you to write the poem.
Otherwise, the sestina form can take control of you like a vengeful robot, and compel
you to repeat yourself in ways that are just—well, repetitive. Repetition is
both the music and pitfall of the sestina.
Also
consider choosing one end word that I would call the “sunflower” word. The poet
Algernon Charles Swinburne wrote a double sestina (twelve stanzas of twelve
lines each, and a coda or tornada of
six lines) called “The Complaint of Lisa.” In this poem, Swinburne used the
word “sunflower” as an end word, which meant he had to fit this terribly
specific word into the poem thirteen times. Just for good measure, he threw it in
two other times, for a total of fifteen. Challenge yourself to use as least one
“sunflower” end word, where it’s a tour de force to include the word at least
seven times in your sestina. Remember, homonyms are fair game. In Jan Clausen’s sestina above, the “sunflower” word is pink.
One
thing to avoid with a sestina, unless it’s a humorous poem, is lots of end
words that are so obscure that using them seven times becomes a joke. That will
affect the whole poem by making the form too noticeable, and therefore silly.
I had
the pleasure of studying the origins of the sestina with the scholar Marianne Shapiro (1940–2003), who wrote one of the definitive works on the subject, Hieroglyph of Time: The Petrarchan Sestina. Francesco
Petrarch is the poet most closely identified with the sestina, since he wrote
so many of them, and popularized the form, which comes from medieval Provençal.
Francesco Petrarch
When I took Professor Shapiro’s course on the Provençal troubadours, I was a
hubris-filled Yale undergraduate who thought I could keep up with Shapiro’s sprinter’s-pace
graduate course. That illusion was dispelled at the end of the first class,
when Professor Shapiro gave us the homework assignment: “For next week, learn
the Provençal language.” Right then, I decided to audit and not take the class for credit.
Many writers attend workshops to get comments on their creations. Workshops can be incredibly helpful, but they can also be confusing. For one thing, people’s reactions are often completely contradictory. “I especially love the ending,” says one person in response to your latest opus. Then the person sitting adjacent comments, “It’s good, but you really lose it at the end. The whole piece falls apart on the last page, where it becomes trite and predictable. That doesn’t feel like the right ending for this piece at all.” So who is right? How can you tell? You have to pay very close attention to all the comments that people offer about your work. I write down every single comment that anyone makes in the writing group that I show my poems to, no matter how trivial or unfamiliar or wrong a remark may seem at first. But I also write next to the comment the initials of the person who made the remark. When I hand comments to a writer, I always put my name or initials on the copy.
Why? One of the things you need to identify is the aesthetic of the person who is making the comment. Sometimes you know that a person has a certain bias that you may or may not agree with. Let's say you've written a sestina about working in a fast-food joint (I'm thinking of Jan Clausen's wonderful poem, "Sestina: Winchell's Donut Shop"). You bring it to your workshop and someone says, "I love the idea of your poem, but I don't like formal poetry. It's too stiff. Why don't you rewrite it as free verse?" This comment might be accurate, but it might completely miss the point that you wanted to see if the sestina form could be used for such an unlikely subject as fast food donuts, and whether the repetitions of the sestina form could reflect on the monotony of fast-food jobs.
Even if Elizabeth Bishop were to rise from the grave and bring to your writing group a great sestina, you know in advance that workshop member would jump right in and say, “Liz, I have to tell you, I hate formal poetry.” That doesn’t mean that you always have to agree with this member's comments. Put her or his initials next to that advice, and keep in mind that person's artistic preferences. You need to observe and analyze the taste of those who give you comments, and figure out where it does and does not overlap with your own. In fact, that’s not a bad way to figure out you own aesthetic, by measuring it against the comments of others. Listen carefully to everything your peers say, even what they say that has nothing to do with you, or even to do with writing. You’ll find that certain critics you can usually trust on certain questions, and you can rely on others for completely different issues in your writing.