Sestina

A sestina is a very specific type of poem. A sestina is consisted of six stanzas which are six lines each and a tercet (three lines) in the end. For a sestina the writer picks (or is assigned) six words. The same set of six words ends the lines of each of the stanzas, but in a different order each time. If the lines are numbered, then the first stanza's lines would be 123456, then the words ending the second stanza's lines would be in the order of 615243, then 364125, then 532614, then 451362, and finally 246531. These six words then appear in the tercet, with the tercet's first line containing the 1 and 2 words, its second the 3 and 4 words, and its third the 5 and 6 words. __**//JUST REMEMBER THIS WAS WITHOUT A DOUBT THE MOST ANNOYING ASSIGNMENT BECAUSE THE SIX WORDS WE PICKED OUT OF A HAT DID NOT RELATE TO EACH OTHER!!!//**__

__S__ __estina by Elizabeth Bishop__
September rain falls on the house. In the failing light, the old grandmother sits in the kitchen with the child beside the Little Marvel Stove, reading the jokes from the almanac, laughing and talking to hide her tears.

She thinks that her equinoctial tears and the rain that beats on the roof of the house were both foretold by the almanac, but only known to a grandmother. The iron kettle sings on the stove. She cuts some bread and says to the child,

It's time for tea now; but the child is watching the teakettle's small hard tears dance like mad on the hot black stove, the way the rain must dance on the house. Tidying up, the old grandmother hangs up the clever almanac

on its string. Birdlike, the almanac hovers half open above the child, hovers above the old grandmother and her teacup full of dark brown tears. She shivers and says she thinks the house feels chilly, and puts more wood in the stove.

It was to be, says the Marvel Stove. I know what I know, says the almanac. With crayons the child draws a rigid house and a winding pathway. Then the child puts in a man with buttons like tears and shows it proudly to the grandmother.

But secretly, while the grandmother busies herself about the stove, the little moons fall down like tears from between the pages of the almanac into the flower bed the child has carefully placed in the front of the house.

Time to plant tears, says the almanac. The grandmother sings to the marvelous stove and the child draws another inscrutable house.