A Sestina, to Start Off With

Once upon a time, I got people to give me a list of six words, with the idea that I would then write a sestina with each list. As it stands, I’ve finished only one of these, which I post today. I wrote most of it in a cozy little hookah lounge where one subset of my friends would hang out. I haven’t been there in years; I think I stopped going soon after the time I drove past police investigating a double murder in my parents’ normally safe, quiet neighborhood. I don’t smoke, so no great loss. I have no idea if that hookah lounge is still there, but it appears there’s a tai chi studio now somewhere in that same small strip of storefronts.

Since then, I’ve written very little that wasn’t scholarly, but I aim to change that. It’s time to listen to the muse again. She usually speaks in essays, sometimes poems, and occasionally short fiction, so these are the sorts of things I’ll post. For now, here is that first poem from my sestina project.

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In Abject Apology

When I come to know them, I am sorry for my misdeeds.

Though in general I’m not given to contemplations rueful,

Forgive me for not inclining to fine fits of dolor.

Still I know my transgression is not so light as a Strauss waltz.

If I had known it was your birthday,

I would have baked a magnificent cake.

But alas, you have no cake

And I don’t consider this a misdeed.

Even Harmony and her sister Discord have birthdays.

We’ll celebrate with a bouquet of roses and rue,

And full orchestra playing a slow waltz,

Perhaps a dirge, too, to indulge a fit of dolor.

But revel not in nihilistic color.

Instead, both eat and have your cake,

And skate through life as easily as waltzing,

And any other cliche you’d like misdone.

Apologies for giving you reason to be rueful.

How about I make it up to you on an unbirthday?

I, too, know what it’s like to have a shitty birthday.

There was that fateful year that cousin Dolores

Decided, as my present, to teach me to make a roux.

I appreciated the cooking lesson, but i’d rather have her famous cake.

She’s a fine and generous woman, but that was somewhat misdone;

I’m about as graceful in the kitchen as an elephant in a waltz.

Ah, but I digress from our blaming waltz.

Back to the point: I missed your birthday.

Really, you’ve got yourself to blame for my “misdeed.”

If you’d just told me, you couldn’t wallow in this dolor.

Besides, I don’t know why you want my homemade cake.

After all, I can’t even handle a simple roux!

But Even though I routinely manage to mess up a roux,

I still have skills that lie elsewhere, like waltzing.

The valuable things, though, are no cakewalk.

I’ll strive to remember your next birthday

And, to end your lovely bout of extreme dolor,

I admit to, and ask forgiveness for, my misdeed.

Because it’s a terrible misdeed, I know, to ruin even the roux.

But do take refuge in dolor if I happen to falter in the waltz.

And don’t be alarmed if, on your birthday, I manage to burn the cake.