Hometown Sestina
Poem for T. S.
Several poets whom I admire have recently written lovely sestinas, which inspired me to try my hand at this form. An occasion arose when, toward the end of a hometown visit, my friend dropped by to gift me the manuscript of his latest novel. Now I am once again on the move, with his spiral-bound work wedged securely beside my laptop, and the rest of my library packaged away for its transatlantic passage. And me wondering when, if ever, I’ll see my friends and family again.
Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (Barcelona, 2004)
Hometown Sestina
My writing friend said make it clear when we discussed our favorite books and all the reasons we hadn’t written the postwar minor American novel so I returned to my ailing mother and he to his, strange like brothers. If hope and doubt weren’t brothers they could not make the picture clear how my black mood and ailing mother are sitting among devotional books where she knits scarves, me a novel wherein family secrets are not written. If all I knew were suddenly written all mankind would be my brothers we’d measure distance by the novel and read until the path was clear planting saplings among old books renewing the soil of our mother. But I am cooking for my mother following a recipe she has written on the final page of one of her books beside a photograph of her brothers which fades as every year makes clear how different is life from any novel. When I reflect on my love of the novel I remember the gift of seeing my mother reading by flashlight where skies are clear and all those fears my sister had written the adventures of my seafaring brothers as if the truth could be found in books. But I am packing my scholarly books wrapping the news around each novel to ship me away from my own brothers and will not write again to my mother until I’ve learned what must be written to make my hope for the future clear. And in this parting, all that is clear is nothing that shall be is yet written but warmth I carry from my mother. -
Thank you for sharing this. What. Beautiful sestina. I have written two. One about addiction and one about terrifying dissociative episodes I would have as a child. This form, to my mind, feels inevitable. Like a spiral or obsession. But you’ve done something different. That fourth stanza absolutely sings. I can see my mother’s cookbook, and the picture of her brother. Better than any novel.
I’ll be creeping around your poems for spell, if you’ll have me.
Beautiful, Joe. Planting saplings among the novels took me back to an art project Beth did at Eckerd, part of which involved burying books and unearthing them weeks later. Your poem brought up that nostalgia and so much more. As I think a sestina is well tuned to do with all the doubling back.