Monday, January 25, 2010

Monday Poetry Stretch - Tritina

I'm struggling with writing a poem right now (drat you roundeau redoublé!), but that doesn't mean I'm not willing to keep writing in different ways. So, I'm turning to something different today. The tritina is related to the sestina, though a bit easier to manage. Here are the nuts and bolts of the form.

10-line poem made of three, 3-line stanzas and a 1-line envoi

There is no rhyme scheme but rather an end word scheme. It is:




A, B, and C (all words used in the last line/envoi)
Generally the end words are unrhymed.
So, your challenge for the week is to write a tritina. Leave me a note about your poem and I'll post the results here later this week.


    By Steven Withrow

    That Sunday you wanted a drive,
    So we drove south, you and I,
    Singing alphabet songs, to the sea.

    Some roads lead only to the sea.
    We passed a sign for “Scenic Drive,”
    You pointed out a lighthouse, which I

    Saw was a mammoth lowercase “i”
    Topped with a beacon, and the sea
    Strove with its moon-driven drive

    To drive us, home, beyond what my eye could see.

  2. Four days till the SCBWI Conference and I'm excited.

    My first New York Conference so I'm scared.

    Who knows what could happen? I don't, so I'm nervous.

    Excited, Nervous, Scared... but mostly excited. That's me.

  3. Doesn't feel much like a poem to me, but here goes:

    To write a poem takes great heart ,
    But do not leave behind the head.
    Of course the other body part is the foot.

    With poetic coin, the bill you foot,
    But never neglect great (h)art.
    Still, some poems begin in the head.

    The poetic road that lies ahead?
    You will need to go on foot.
    Do not, my rhyming friend, lose heart

    It takes all three to walk that road, to make a poem: heart, head, foot.

  4. The Deluge

    I imagine the deluge began
    in the winter's darkest days
    when the already bone-chilling rain

    turned to relentless bone-breaking rain.
    Beating, bashing, battering, it began
    to obliterate nights and days.

    No difference between the days
    and nights--just pain--and rain--
    and pain. Until the fortieth night began.

    Forty days and nights lost to rain before forgiveness began.

  5. Wow, Diane, do you live in Southern California, too?


    Last week the sky was made of gray
    and all the eyes reflected rain,
    the kind of weather that asks why.

    Like children tugging, asking why,
    we waded through a sea of gray,
    the only light in gleaming rain.

    But there are those who read the rain,
    who think its falling tells us why
    the world's tenderness is gray.

    Why, soft and gray as eiderdown is rain.

    --Kate Coombs, 2010

  6. Sneachers
    By K. Thomas Slesarik

    Pet shops seldom sell ‘em (those sneachers)
    because they’ve a small cerebellum
    but some sing karaoke by day.

    They make little pay working each day
    and many teachers are really sneachers
    so please don’t stress their cerebellum.

    And don’t speak of their cerebellum
    ‘cause it likely will ruin their day.
    In fact, just run away from sneachers.

    But celebrate their cerebellum each day. Go sneachers!

    p.s.-I'm a teacher myself so this is just in jest.

  7. No, Kate, I don't live in CA! ;-)

    We had a very cold gray rainy day yesterday that chilled me to the bone. It wasn't a "soft and gray as eiderdown" rain here!

  8. My temper makes me want to hit.
    On me, it has such a firm hold.
    Dealing with it daily can be a drag.

    Stressed, I’m found in need of a drag;
    or as it’s known, by some, a hit;
    on this joint which I stand and hold.

    I light it, breathe it in deep and hold;
    before, to the car, my bag, I drag,
    It preps me for a practice of rugby hits.

    Tackling practice, where we learn to hit, hold and drag.

  9. Diane--Yes, rain is a lot softer when you look out the window than when you're stuck outside without an umbrella!--Kate

  10. Independence
    Barbara J. Turner

    Strolling through the apple orchard, just you and I.
    You don’t want to come, but I insist. So me and you
    bask beneath plump red fruit, unseen by even him.

    I feed you apples under the boughs, never thinking of him.
    I see the man you were, the man you could be. I
    see light in your eyes, feel your lovemaking change, and you -

    you say you love me. The triad breaks. We become me and you,
    no longer me, you, and him. You are the one I love. And him?
    A memory. Now I cleave to you. Now there is only you and I.

    We leave the garden, I unashamed, you, a whole man, neither of us caring a fig leaf for him.

  11. In the damp, she peeled up moss
    piecing the rugged squares
    together again under the trees.

    The wind shook the wet off the trees,
    the soft bed of moss
    squished in their cushioned squares.

    Mud sealed and joined the squares,
    little flowers fell from the trees,
    decorating the moss.

    A patchwork quilt of moss or what she considered squares of tiny trees.

  12. My First Tritina
    Oh how does one begin to find a way
    To write three words repeating in ten lines
    Four times - change ‘round the order ‘till the end
    Where three words reflect what’s written at the end
    Of the beginning lines (first three) (No way!)
    Just how to make that happen in the lines
    Complete with thoughts to read between the lines
    I’ve no idea…but almost at the end
    I think, “Who feels the need to write this way?!”
    This way with lines, three words – four times… The End!!

    Third Day Tritina
    And so they build not shelters yet but time
    Each second forged to make up one more day
    And night - not thinking what some future days will hold
    To breathe that’s all and putting hope on hold
    Still waiting for life to return with time
    Though no one can begin to see that day
    Imagine something other than this day
    Now that the earthquake came, left and took hold
    Of lives that once built other things in time
    Some time, one day, again, life will take hold.

    by Liz Korba

  13. Here's mine:
    A broken fence, a rusted chair
    waits in the deserted garden
    for the return of the farmer

    “Water is for fighting over,” regaled the farmer
    family gathered around the rusted chair
    vegetable roots withered in the garden

    Winter winds whip through the bare garden
    carries the voice of the farmer
    no longer in need of the rusted chair

    A rusted chair, a vacant garden, longs for the farmer

    Also was the response to "Old Chair " from Read Write Poem.

    Thanks for the challenge.