This bizarre thing was written in response to a writing project we had to do in Lauren Grodstein’s Fiction class. It’s a sestina and if you know anything about sestinas, they’re pretty difficult to do. If you don’t know anything about them, here is a little definition below. I’m not sure I did it exactly right, but whatev. It’s done. Feedback is appreciated.
A sestina (also, sextina, sestine, or sextain) is a highly structured poem consisting of six six-line stanzas followed by a tercet (called its envoy or tornada), for a total of thirty-nine lines. The same set of six words ends the lines of each of the six-line stanzas, but in a different order each time; if we number the first stanza’s lines 123456, then the words ending the second stanza’s lines appear in the order 615243, then 364125, then 532614, then 451362, and finally 246531. This organization is referred to asretrogradatio cruciata (“retrograde cross”). These six words then appear in the tercet as well, with the tercet’s first line usually containing 1 and 2, its second 3 and 4, and its third 5 and 6 (but other versions exist, described below). English sestinas are usually written in quadratic hexameter or another decasyllabic meter. -taken from Wikipedia
All my summers are filled with trees.
Here in Philadelphia.
But through broken glass and black mosaics and ragged, cold metal…
From a ground floor window, of a basement, hot and wet with humidity and stagnation he still knocks on the wall.
He knocks hard, repetitively, like the monotonous hammering of ceramic rubble from when I was a kid.
He knocks persistently, to let me know it’s time to see that dark place once again and set aside my dreaming.
I run to lock the door but he has a key, and so I put to rest the dreams I’m dreaming.
Through the window stretches a limb from an Elm tree.
And I reach through the bars and out into the open and I climb the branches like an eternal kid.
I bend my knees and stretch my arms high and twist my spine up and around each branch in the beautiful, clean, city sky of Philadelphia.
And there I rest and wait, perched with closed eyes, leaning on the outer wall.
I rest through it all—the darkness, (he is right) and the sharp pain of coarse rope, fist and metal.
He takes my wrists and twists them up with rope, he pulls my hair into his fist and lifts my dress, and soon I feel the click of metal.
I am untouched; dreaming
I try to tell myself, there was no knock on the wall—
No; these walls are soft and padded with real windows and a real view of trees.
I can see clear across the tops of sycamores, elms, maples, oaks; every tree in all of Philadelphia…
Gathered at the pretty feet of this here kid.
Oh, but when I was a kid.
I lived in a house of a sculptor and an artist who worked with mosaic tiles and metal.
It was right off Broad Street in Philadelphia.
I spent most of my days in a concrete yard, dreaming.
And looking up into a sky filled with the soft leaves of a hundred trees.
The only things that kept me safe, in those days, from my father, were my mother’s screams and a wall.
My room was in the far corner of the basement next to my father’s workshop; he and I separated only by this wall.
And when he had too much to drink he’d knock and scream, hey, kid!
And breeze in with his artist’s tools, like wind through the trees—
Almost invisible; except for wood and glass and scraps of twisted metal
He had fashioned these things into daggers and pointed toys that he had thought up in one of his many dreams.
And he would visit me during hot summer nights, just like all the tourists visited Philadelphia.
The basement was cool in summer; summers were hot in Philadelphia.
And he would lock the door and push me against the wall.
And in the very beginning, I did not move or think or dream.
Heck, I was just a kid.
And when he’d jab me with the object, whatever it was, always cold like metal
I only stared out my window and imagined trees.
And then, one night my mother screamed, she’s just a kid!
And searched the floor of my father’s shop for her own piece of metal.
And as I lie slumped in a corner, too late, still staring at the trees
Newly dreaming of climbing high and safe into the trees—
My mother ran across his heart and head a jagged piece of metal
And scratched out both his eyes and said, this is for the kid.