James,

In a sestina the rules are quite strict and Arthur has followed them
exactly.
All six ending words are used in the last stanza in a specific order, or one
of several different orders, but three within the lines and three at the
line ends.

Congratulations on completing a very difficult exercise Arthur.

Roger


----- Original Message -----
From: "James Bell" <[log in to unmask]>
To: <[log in to unmask]>
Sent: Saturday, March 22, 2003 12:45 PM
Subject: Re: New sub: The Castle: The sestina


Excellent work on a very tough form Arthur. In the conclusion I thought you
had to use the six words again, not simply line endings. Then again I've
seen some sestina variations that happily change the form and rules with
success.



bw
James





>From: arthur seeley <[log in to unmask]>
>Reply-To: The Pennine Poetry Works <[log in to unmask]>
>To: [log in to unmask]
>Subject: New sub: The Castle: The sestina
>Date: Sat, 22 Mar 2003 07:37:12 -0000
>
>Sestina
>
>The castle is not easily seen from these close streets.
>It’s hidden by roofs, where dare-devil rooks
>flip and flaunt their skills on invisible bars of wind
>with grating calls. There are clues, a gale-wrung flag,
>peek-a-boo towers between chimneys, flow of folk,
>then suddenly it vaults skywards, buttressed by  white rock.
>
>The motte is natural, grass and shrubs over white rock.
>The path clambers upwards from the quiet streets
>and on this windy Sunday in early March folk
>work their way up, under the circus of  raucous rooks.
>Shapes of heads move on the tower under the flag
>that writhes and cracks under the whip of wind .
>
>Black-bladed wings fold and shape the wind
>and ride high over the castle and the white rock,
>kite and cruise consummately, mocking the flag
>that struggles to be free to fly over the narrow streets
>where wind-bent crick-necks watch the rooks
>deride the plod of gravity-lumbered folk.
>
>A chill, shaken afternoon in March when folk
>outface the pluck and buffet of a hooligan wind
>to watch the antic circuits of cavorting  rooks
>through the meadows of air high over the white rock
>where the castle broods above the snug and tidied streets,
>time-defiant under the flow and  wrap of  flag.
>
>The path is steep, cobble-paved and spirits will flag,
>as visitors in coach and car, joined with the townsfolk,
>climb up the path and steps, up from the tight streets
>through the flush of crocuses quivering in the wind,
>up through the racked and bared ribs of rock
>up to the highest tower, above the trees and  rooks.
>
>The wind rips tears from eyes that follow the rooks
>as they slice the sky with jack-knife wings, the flag
>clatters its rope against the trembling pole. Below, a skirt of rock
>scattered with shrub, isles of crocuses, hunched folk
>collar-raised, hat-clamped and scarved, that wind
>up from the smug town’s prim and Sunday-silent streets.
>
>They leave their streets and climb to join the rooks
>that aerobat and ride the wind that rags the tattered  flag;
>commemorate an earlier folk who sheltered in the shadow of this rock.


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