How to Write a Sestina
By eHow Education Editor http://www.ehow.com/how_16712_write-sestina.html

A traditional poetic form created by Arnaut Daniel, the sestina is made up of six six-line stanzas and a final three-line envoi. Written in iambic pentameter, the sestina is unique in that the poet is required to end each line using a set pattern of the same six words.

Instructions

Things You’ll Need:
Dictionaries
Thesauri

Step 1:
Consider the subject matter that you wish to write about. Think about words related to your subject that you could use several times throughout your poem.

Step 2:
Write your first stanza (and those that follow) using iambic pentameter. The words that end each line in this stanza (identified as 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6) will determine the words that end every stanza in your sestina.

Step 3:
Add a second stanza using those words in a 6, 1, 5, 2, 4, 3 order. If you do this correctly, the word used to end the first line of this stanza should be the same one you used in the sixth line of the previous stanza. The second should match the first, and so on.

Step 4:
Write a third stanza using a 3, 6, 4, 1, 2, 5 pattern, followed by a fourth stanza with a 5, 3, 2, 6, 1, 4 pattern. Stanza five should use a 4, 5, 1, 3, 6, 2 pattern, and stanza six should employ a 2, 4, 6, 5, 3, 1 pattern.

Step 5:
Draft a seventh stanza that is three lines in length, using all six ending words in the following places. Your ending words used in the second, fourth and sixth lines must be used halfway through the lines of this stanza. The fifth, third and first ending words of the first stanza are used to end the lines of this stanza, in that order.

Step 6:
Revise as needed.

My First Sestina
(I tried one another time and broke the rules because I'd failed to read them properly)

I would love to see others posted here for the exercise.
_______________________________________

Two people stood atop a distant hill.
I saw them as I left today from work,
as soon as I had shut the wooden gate
behind me and had chugged a drink of water.
There was no place I really had to go,
and so I took my time. I didn’t run

the way I sometimes do – I often run
as if life were a race. But on that hill
the silhouetted couple stood. I go
and come the same way every day from work,
taking for granted things like sun and water.
Familiar things get lost. Sometimes a gate

will make me pause and think; a creaking gate
especially so, and sounds of things that run,
like trickling brooks. There is a voice in water
that’s like an echo coming off a hill
where heavy clouds laid down their burdensome work,
and, like me, found their peace in letting go

of weight that binds. The moments come and go
as fast as rabbits rushing toward a gate
in search of freedom. There is always work
enough to keep us feeling on-the-run.
The move toward pleasure always seems up hill,
against the laws that govern running water.

And nothing is alive where there’s no water
that's troubled – living things must come and go.
Stagnation lies beneath a quiet hill
of graves, behind the locking of a gate
in wrought iron stillness. Living things must run.
An idle body has no line of work

to keep its spirit going. Life needs work –
and workers need a living well of water
to keep the heart from fainting as they run.
Recycling seems the only way to go.
Yes life’s a circle, and each of us a gate
that God has set upon his lovely hill.

I bike to work near waterfalls that run.
so brisk and full of life, go through the gate
and drink the sun-rise lilting on the hill.




[This message has been edited by Anne Bryant-Hamon (edited April 17, 2008).]

Here's my absolute favorite part.



[This message has been edited by Michael Cantor (edited April 17, 2008).]

Things You'll Need:
Dictionaries
Thesauri,
Trail Mix,
Thermal Underwear,
Nose Plugs.


*

(Anyone care to write the next six lines of the sestina?)

[This message has been edited by Roger Slater (edited April 17, 2008).]

Someone (Lewis Turco, perhaps?) correct me if I'm wrong, but aren't Sestina's traditionally syllabic as opposed to iambic pentameter? I mean, jeez, they're hard enough to write as it is without demanding that they also be strictly metered.

Lo

Here ya go, Anne, just to prove I can be a good sport when the mood overtakes me.

February, 1974


Sometimes there's nothing left to do but pack
your bags and leave. To stick around would be to court
disasterous results. Brown drugs in foil
packages lay scattered 'cross the floor. Go
elsewhere quickly now - don't wait. It's all your fault.
The stage was set by someone else whose cue


you should have recognized. This is your cue -
the baby's cry, the watching dogs that pack
around his crib, protectively, like it's your fault
their life is such a mess. He goes to court
today, he won't be home. It's time to go -
to grab the kid, the dogs, your clothes, and foil


his attempts to keep you locked inside. So, do it. Foil
him - don't lose your courage now. The broken pool cue
in the bedroom says it all. This man can kill. Go
far away and change your name. Don't bother packing
anything, just leave it all behind. The court
won't keep him jailed up tight for long. It's not their fault,


the case is weak. If anyone's at fault
it might be you. You've been the perfect foil
far too long. So scared, so meek and mild. You're courting
death if you don't leave. Take one more cue
from life before you die that needlessly. Just pack
your baby and your dogs and run away. Go -


Hurry - steal his keys and take his car. Go
find a place that's safe before you die. The fault's
your own. You should have left six months ago. Pack
the diaper bag with toys and doggie bones. The foil
packages and burnt spoons stay behind. The pool cue
in the corner that once kissed your empty head stays in his court.


You've got to move more quickly now. Don't court
disaster's clock. Grab your sanity and go.
You're very young, I know, and that's your cue.
You've got a life to live. It's his own fault
if someday he should overdose and foil
his last chance at staying clean. You pack.


You go. Take your child and your dogs. They'll take their cue
from you so please don't cry. Leave the foil to be dealt with by the court.
Pack this conviction with the bottles and the bones. It's not your fault.



[This message has been edited by Laura Heidy-Halberstein (edited April 17, 2008).]

Fascinating, Laura. It's unclear to me whether this is something you wrote in '74 or just now wrote. Either way, I do hope you had fun writing it.

I thought sestinas were supposed to be in IP - but I'm no expert.

If others want to do this exercise but would like to avoid the fretful, frightful, fraying fringes, feel free to send me yours in PM.

Anne

Actually, it wasn't fun at all.

Lo

Some people love writing sestinas. One particular poet comes to mind. I think they're a bit unnatural. But I wanted to try it. So that's why I started this thread. I usually don't have 39 lines to say about anything in a poem. It was always a stretch for me to write longer forms like that ballade and Chant Royal. For sure I will never write a novel :)

Take care -
Anne

Hi Anne,
This seemed like a fun drill so I thought I'd join in. It isn't my first sestina, but I think it's one of the only ones I didn't write while drunk in a bar or at a party. Thanks for posting this. Hope you had as much fun as I did.

I thought when you were gone my peace was made,
But now your empty pillow mocks my joy.
I picture you asleep, an earthly angel,
Who only lacks the wings to bring him home.
I would be willing to forgive all wrongs,
If only I could trust you to be kind.

The other day you smiled, you were so kind
I thought that with you back, our peace was made,
But then you blew me off, revived dead wrongs,
And resurrected sorrow to kill joy.
So now, though I am drawn, I can’t go home
To him who one time seemed to be an angel.

Perhaps, although unkind, you are an angel,
But I’d prefer a man, if he were kind.
For years you reassured me you’d come home,
But still you strayed. And what home can be made
Out of an empty house, built without joy
And with a cornerstone made up of wrongs?

Let us forgive the past, forget all wrongs.
Let us be true. I’ll guard you like an angel
Guards sleeping children, and fills their dreams with joy
So they may dream of peace. Let us be kind
And let us claim a future newly made
To stand forever as an earthly home.

But still you stay away. Forget the home,
Forget the dreams we had. Remember wrongs.
Remember in the solitude you made
That love is difficult. I’m not an angel
And I can’t save you, though I would be kind.
So let us stay alone and forget joy.

Why does your voice still fill me with such joy?
Why, when I hear it, do I feel at home?
Leave me alone, if you wish to be kind.
‘Cos running hot and cold adds to the wrongs.
But still, though you are cruel, you are my angel
And so I’ll say to you whose absence made

All of the joy we felt transform to wrongs.
But if I could go home and find my angel
Pretending to be kind, my peace were made.