Day 15:
Yes, I know there was no new post yesterday, and I apologize. I actually did write one, finished it around 12:30 this morning, but then fell asleep before I could write a post to go with it. In my defense, before writing it I worked for 7 hours straight at the restaurant so it’s admirable that I even managed to finish the poem.
Anyway, this is a Sestina; the half-cousin thrice removed of the Villanelle. The Sestina has six stanzas of six lines and a final stanza of 3 lines. There are six different words which are repeated at the end of each line in different patterns per stanza. It’s a little confusing, but I had a special template-thing to help me figure out which line/word goes where. It’s very fun to write, yet again, and I find the template to be more like helpful guidelines than restrictions. Enjoy!
Oily Smoke and Orange Zest
I watch as he slowly peels the orange
and its skin falls in lopsided rings
carved out by the nail of his finger.
They tumble into the ashy fireplace
and in its heat the edge curls,
the same peppery color as our old cat
So the cat
stares down at the orange
where it lies in empty curls.
High above an echo rings
down the hollow tunnel of our fireplace,
as against the table I tap my finger
And I wave my shaking finger
toward the old grey cat
as it spits into the fireplace
and stares up at the flames glowing orange
in twists and loops and rings,
at the smoke which rises on the air in thin curls.
In the heat my partner’s dark hair curls
and he winds it around his finger
so that it lies on his scalp in lovely rings.
Still the old weathered cat,
with his tongue a soft peachy orange,
tastes the fruit we left in the fireplace.
My great-grandfather built that fireplace
surrounded by stone and wood shaving curls
and munching a plump new orange,
band-aids on every finger
from angering the cat,
whose fur back then still showed patterned rings
And on my hands are many rings
which I plan to drop in the fireplace
or throw at the grouchy cat
on the rug where he always curls,
one at whom I can point the finger
when someone steals my juicy orange.
So flees the cat when the doorbell rings
and I leave my orange lying above the fireplace
while sickly smoke curls between my fingers.
(c) 2011 Marie KR
PS: I’m going to be leaving my blog for a little while in order to have time to create my final anthology. I’ll be selecting my favorites from these 2 weeks of blogging, revising, and binding them in a book of their own. I’ll make sure I post a good-bye poem before I do that, though!
Speak A Better Word 