Cycles

[HWatts]

Cycles
(sestina)

by HWatts​

When Old Man Winter finally takes up his oaken cane and - limping - leaves,
then showered Spring arrives to bless the furrowed plots this season to be cultured.
Time repeats its old familiar cycle of rebirth in sounds of music
wafting through the natural terrain, a symphony so sweetly soothing.
Farmers stand to arch their backs, then stoop once more, each one to work his garden.
Nature's Plan responds to spheres and orbs so far beyond - to this world's turning.

This restoration thus rejuvenates our orchestra's desire of cultured
tones heard from their violin concertos floating in the night in soothing
melody beneath the hallowed stars and constellations slowly turning.
Man remains encumbered by his work and death when cursed in Eden's Garden.
Play the instruments in sad refrain, my friend, lamenting thus in music
days of dire regret when we return to dust for burial beneath the leaves.

If perchance on some great day I walk through heaven's gate, will it be soothing?
Will I find myself upon a highway golden walking through a verdant garden?
Opening the Book of Life to find my name inscribed upon its leaves?
Angelic beings may perhaps sing hallelujah as their kingdom music
then pervades the drifting clouds beyond a silent Earth no longer turning.
Some believe, some call it myth and claim disciples simply are not cultured.

As Spring departs and showers fade the sun beats heavily upon the garden.
Nature then conspires to feed the world by growing its own style of music
in conjunction with the planted vegetation farms have grown and cultured.
Fruit erupts for harvesting from soil the workers recently were turning.
One tired young farmer staring in the ebbing daylight turns and slowly leaves
his ripened fields and trudges homeward for the pillow he finds soothing.

Harvest-time is done and Season changes once again its chosen music.
Autumn frost and shivered night arrive to mark this time with thoughts now turning
to fairs and football, and fires upon a hearth - the glow of embers soothing.
Old rusty colors of the fall are windblown yellows, reds and browning leaves.
A time to sow, a time to reap, a time to rest the ground they cultured;
farmers know these changing times so well, as those must know who seek to garden.

The Iceman cometh then to freeze the ground and blow its snowstorms southward turning.
Barren landscapes meet the eye with woods of twisted limbs devoid of leaves,
and gently sloping swells of snow are all that now reveal the holy garden.
No sign of all the work and sweat now mark the site where vegetables were cultured.
Humans sit by fires and nap or read the books they find completely soothing;
silence in the night now found in homes across this land becomes their music.

Families once farmed these lands from sea to shining sea, each working its own cultured garden,
and finding in this work a measured grace to harmonize with Nature's soothing music,
paced in time and rhythm by the planet, sun and moon, and by the forest's ever-turning leaves.

 

[LiveLoveLaughWithTheLord]

Cycles
(sestina)

by HWatts​

When Old Man Winter finally takes up his oaken cane and - limping - leaves,
then showered Spring arrives to bless the furrowed plots this season to be cultured.
Time repeats its old familiar cycle of rebirth in sounds of music
wafting through the natural terrain, a symphony so sweetly soothing.
Farmers stand to arch their backs, then stoop once more, each one to work his garden.
Nature's Plan responds to spheres and orbs so far beyond - to this world's turning.

This restoration thus rejuvenates our orchestra's desire of cultured
tones heard from their violin concertos floating in the night in soothing
melody beneath the hallowed stars and constellations slowly turning.
Man remains encumbered by his work and death when cursed in Eden's Garden.
Play the instruments in sad refrain, my friend, lamenting thus in music
days of dire regret when we return to dust for burial beneath the leaves.

If perchance on some great day I walk through heaven's gate, will it be soothing?
Will I find myself upon a highway golden walking through a verdant garden?
Opening the Book of Life to find my name inscribed upon its leaves?
Angelic beings may perhaps sing hallelujah as their kingdom music
then pervades the drifting clouds beyond a silent Earth no longer turning.
Some believe, some call it myth and claim disciples simply are not cultured.

As Spring departs and showers fade the sun beats heavily upon the garden.
Nature then conspires to feed the world by growing its own style of music
in conjunction with the planted vegetation farms have grown and cultured.
Fruit erupts for harvesting from soil the workers recently were turning.
One tired young farmer staring in the ebbing daylight turns and slowly leaves
his ripened fields and trudges homeward for the pillow he finds soothing.

Harvest-time is done and Season changes once again its chosen music.
Autumn frost and shivered night arrive to mark this time with thoughts now turning
to fairs and football, and fires upon a hearth - the glow of embers soothing.
Old rusty colors of the fall are windblown yellows, reds and browning leaves.
A time to sow, a time to reap, a time to rest the ground they cultured;
farmers know these changing times so well, as those must know who seek to garden.

The Iceman cometh then to freeze the ground and blow its snowstorms southward turning.
Barren landscapes meet the eye with woods of twisted limbs devoid of leaves,
and gently sloping swells of snow are all that now reveal the holy garden.
No sign of all the work and sweat now mark the site where vegetables were cultured.
Humans sit by fires and nap or read the books they find completely soothing;
silence in the night now found in homes across this land becomes their music.

Families once farmed these lands from sea to shining sea, each working its own cultured garden,
and finding in this work a measured grace to harmonize with Nature's soothing music,
paced in time and rhythm by the planet, sun and moon, and by the forest's ever-turning leaves.

 

[HWatts]

Tough room.

 

[LiveLoveLaughWithTheLord]

Wow!

 

[LiveLoveLaughWithTheLord]

Great depth!

 

[HWatts]

Thank you kindly. My "tough room" remark was a product of my surprise that no one "liked" any of the three poems I posted. Out of that many views I usually get a few. So while I wasn't trolling for accolades - I'm not quite that grandiose - I guess I am guilty of trolling for "likes." LOL. Wish that were my worst sin.

 

[LiveLoveLaughWithTheLord]

No worries! A pat on the back is deserved

 

[von1]

Cycles
(sestina)

by HWatts​

When Old Man Winter finally takes up his oaken cane and - limping - leaves,
then showered Spring arrives to bless the furrowed plots this season to be cultured.
Time repeats its old familiar cycle of rebirth in sounds of music
wafting through the natural terrain, a symphony so sweetly soothing.
Farmers stand to arch their backs, then stoop once more, each one to work his garden.
Nature's Plan responds to spheres and orbs so far beyond - to this world's turning.

This restoration thus rejuvenates our orchestra's desire of cultured
tones heard from their violin concertos floating in the night in soothing
melody beneath the hallowed stars and constellations slowly turning.
Man remains encumbered by his work and death when cursed in Eden's Garden.
Play the instruments in sad refrain, my friend, lamenting thus in music
days of dire regret when we return to dust for burial beneath the leaves.

If perchance on some great day I walk through heaven's gate, will it be soothing?
Will I find myself upon a highway golden walking through a verdant garden?
Opening the Book of Life to find my name inscribed upon its leaves?
Angelic beings may perhaps sing hallelujah as their kingdom music
then pervades the drifting clouds beyond a silent Earth no longer turning.
Some believe, some call it myth and claim disciples simply are not cultured.

As Spring departs and showers fade the sun beats heavily upon the garden.
Nature then conspires to feed the world by growing its own style of music
in conjunction with the planted vegetation farms have grown and cultured.
Fruit erupts for harvesting from soil the workers recently were turning.
One tired young farmer staring in the ebbing daylight turns and slowly leaves
his ripened fields and trudges homeward for the pillow he finds soothing.

Harvest-time is done and Season changes once again its chosen music.
Autumn frost and shivered night arrive to mark this time with thoughts now turning
to fairs and football, and fires upon a hearth - the glow of embers soothing.
Old rusty colors of the fall are windblown yellows, reds and browning leaves.
A time to sow, a time to reap, a time to rest the ground they cultured;
farmers know these changing times so well, as those must know who seek to garden.

The Iceman cometh then to freeze the ground and blow its snowstorms southward turning.
Barren landscapes meet the eye with woods of twisted limbs devoid of leaves,
and gently sloping swells of snow are all that now reveal the holy garden.
No sign of all the work and sweat now mark the site where vegetables were cultured.
Humans sit by fires and nap or read the books they find completely soothing;
silence in the night now found in homes across this land becomes their music.

Families once farmed these lands from sea to shining sea, each working its own cultured garden,
and finding in this work a measured grace to harmonize with Nature's soothing music,
paced in time and rhythm by the planet, sun and moon, and by the forest's ever-turning leaves.

I saw you had posted several poems but read this one first. What a great poem, like your drawing a picture I can see. Thanks for sharing look forward to reading the other poems.

 

[HWatts]

I saw you had posted several poems but read this one first. What a great poem, like your drawing a picture I can see. Thanks for sharing look forward to reading the other poems.

Thanks for the kind words. A sestina is almost devilishly difficult to write. I was researching various types of structured poems one day, as writing poetry is just something I've done since a child - as much a part of my life in high school as playing football, or chasing girls. My buddies found it odd, of course, but accepted it. But I digress - something that occurs with increasing frequency as I age...

All sestinas consist of 39 lines. You choose six words, then write six sextets (a six-line stanza) with one of those six words ending each line once per stanza. There is a certain order they have to occur in each stanza, based on the starting order in the first stanza.

My six words were:

leaves
cultured
music
soothing
garden
turning

And that was the order for the first stanza. The key to the sestina is 6-1-5-2-4-3, which means the first end-word must appear on line 6 in the next stanza, the second goes to line 1, the third to line 5... and so on. For the third stanza the key is the same, but now based on the order from the second stanza. Continue for six stanzas by basing each on the order of the preceding stanza in this way and your work is almost done. Each of your six chosen words will have appeared on each line just once.

Then write a tercet (three-line stanza) based again now on the original end-word order of the first stanza using the key 2-5 4-3 6-1 where the 5, the 3, and the 1 must end the lines, and the 2, the 4 and the 6 must appear somewhere in the line. I decided to make mine appear together at the end just to challenge myself further.

Anyway, now that you know how, got it done yet? In researching, I read that the sestina was a form of poetry first written around 1200 AD, and that, today, the word order of the closing tercet (aka a tornada, or envoi) is not "strictly enforced." What a relief! I'd hate to think I could have missed my key and had jack-booted poetry police crashing through the door.

I also discovered that the form was mostly written in five-foot lengths (ten syllables) but I wrote a nine-footer, here. So that made for a longer poem than is usual for this type. I read of one other fellow who wrote this length sestina. Didn't realize until then what a pioneer of 13th century poetry I turned out to be... .

Trying to be creative within such a tightly-structured scheme is challenging. Just keeping up with the word order is hard enough while trying to express some sort of feeling or idea... and keep it cohesive... while struggling to make it sound natural, and at least a little pleasing. It's sort of like trying to do long division by singing it - and by the way, make it entertaining.

And you do this why, HW?

For fun, the pure exhilaration of it.


Oh, I also read that the only people who like sestinas are those who write them. I disagree. I read some written by others (after I'd written mine) and discovered that I don't enjoy them... only mine.