Poetry Stretch Results - Tritina

The challenge this week was to write a tritina, a 10-line poem composed of three, 3-line stanzas and a 1-line envoi. Like the sestina, a tritina uses an end-word scheme instead of a rhyme scheme. Here are the results.

Jane Yolen left this poem in the comments.

The Moon and Me: A Tritina
Looking last night at the moon,
I thought how it resembled a stone
Skipped by a child into the sky.

But who would have thrown into the sky
Something so precious as that moon,
Such an enormous gem stone?

I would have rather hung that stone
Around my neck, bedecked like the sky
With ear-stars as well as that hanging moon,
And strolled into sky town, the boys whistling at the moonstone and me.

@2009 Jane Yolen

Harriet at spynotes shares two poems in her post Dot's poetry corner.

Julie Larios at The Drift Record left this poem in the comments.

A Noir-ish Tritina

If Mr. Potato-Head
met Ms. Lonelyhearts, what
would he ask?

What does a head ask
a heart, even when that head
is empty? Could be "What's

up, Beautiful? What's
the rush?" Hearts get asked
that question by heads.

When P-Head asks, "What's up, Little Lady?" Ms. L-heart says, "Who's asking?

Jacqueline at Neverending story shares a poem entitled A Tentative Tritina.

Dianne White shares the poem One Bird, One Branch, One Song.

Andi at a wrung sponge gives us the poem When maple flowers cover the picnic table.

I'm sharing two poems this week. The first was what I wanted to write about, the second is where the poem took me. I suppose this is why I write poetry--to put what's in my heart on the page, particularly when words don't come or can't be spoken.

Untitled 1
As night falls, owl
bathes in the moonlight, watching
long shadows dance

In the age old dance
of predator and prey, owl
remains ever watchful

Small creatures watch
too, but one won't escape the dance
or the swoop of the owl

There is no mourning, only eyes watching owl, free to dance another day.


Untitled 2
“Rage against the dying of the light,”
they say. But how do you escape death
when you are in his grasp?

I hold tightly to your ever-loosening grip,
praying for light,
hoping to postpone death.

I don’t know how to do this—negotiate your death,
watch you lose your grip
on day’s last light.

Light. Dark. Life. Death. We are all in their grasp.

It's not too late if you still want to play. Leave me a note about your poem and I'll add it to the list.