sestina

In every meandering mind is found a bit of eccentricity, which is curious
Some would even say the mullings of the mind are made of magic
Whatever the truth is, nobody can argue that thoughts are often adventurous
Each one full of whirling-dervish pieces of cataclysmic complexities
Such is the realm and state of radical and rambunctious wonders
Often leaving the witnesses of such cavorting, captivated

And isn’t it interesting that almost anyone can, at some point, be captivated
People can be surprising, enthralling, and calculatingly curious
Many hold within them a mesmerizing world of wonders
Some are bewitching, enchanting, and even hold the key to magic
With all these characteristics, it’s hard to narrow down all the complexities
The most beloved are almost always over-excitedly adventurous

Enough of the mind, though, what about the souls of the adventurous
If we look deeply enough into the soul of someone, we are almost always captivated
Sure, not everyone is the same, and each being is comprised of many complexities
But the spirit of an individual is significantly curious
The essence of each character is woven together by threads of shredded magic
And in all beings, spiritual manifestations of whispering wonders are held

Do you see it yourself, maybe even in yourself, a vessel full of wonders?
The heart of every person can be guarded but still adventurous
A vile of hidden sunrises can be found at the doorway to dark magic
Darkness and light keep the world constantly captivated
We are creatures clothed in mysticism, divinely curious
With so many tribulations, we cower in front of the cosmos of complexities

Was the heart, soul, and mind really meant for such complexities?
Do you ever sit still as stone and contemplate all of these wonders?
Human beings are complex and distinctly curious
Suckers for the thrill of an afternoon that’s adamantly adventurous
Ever wonder what drives the forces within us; that thought alone keeps me captivated
The breadth and depth of who we are lies beneath a bed of magic

If only we could harness and unleash all the things that make us magic
Certain situations can stifle us, causing further arrays of inadvertent complexities
Will we ever just stay within a realm of play and be contentedly captivated
Nobody can deny the thrill of wrestling and wishing for wonders
Leaving behind the dull and dreary is the perfect place for the adventurous
Shouldn’t we be more interested in the things that are even remotely curious

Everything leads us back to the mirror in front of us, which reveals the sources of our magic
We are divine creatures comprised of endless ideas and windows to whimsical wonders

Our sole purpose is to explore the universe and discover the completeness of its complexities
We are not here merely to be looking for adventures but to become undeniably adventurous

By holding what’s important in the palm of our hands, others as well are captivated
May each of us stay true, stay focused, and keep closely tied to all things uniquely curious

Image generated with AI

*I’m currently enrolled at Utah Tech University, and this was an assignment that I recently completed. With sestinas, one never knows how the process will go, and it can be quite a challenge depending on the six pattern words and the order in which they are placed. I used inspiration from Jack Vance’s book, The Dying Earth, and once I got through the first stanza and established the pattern and the word endings, it was smooth sailing from there. The sestina instructions I found online advised against using adjectives since they can be a bit troublesome; I found it more fun to find ways to fit them in, and I feel like I conquered what I set out to do. I’m not sure I dislike anything, and I changed everything that I wanted to change. This is the third sestina I have ever written, and I think it was more successful than my last, but maybe not as good as my first. Hope you enjoyed reading. 🙂

Here’s the link to my first sestina if you’d like to read another.

All the days began and ended with crimson,
whether flowing with an abundance of tangerine
or saturated with the soft hues of saffron,
depended mostly on the seasonal viridian.
The afternoon sky never changed though, always a pale azure.
Why couldn’t it ever be a shade of purple like amethyst?

She’d always delighted in things of amethyst,
and as all days began and ended with crimson,
she accepted the fact that she’d always face the effects of azure.
In the lull of the day, she’d close her eyes and see lazy shades of tangerine,
but opening them once more; she was snapped back to the views of viridian.
Sometimes the sweeping countryside was painted yellow like saffron;

harvest time was the beginning of the days of saffron.
She wondered why the meadows couldn’t ever be lilac like amethyst;
for now, they were a lovely shade of viridian.
And as the day moved along, there came creases of crimson
with its various placid shades of tangerine.
The blue from earlier didn’t seem so bad now; what was wrong with azure?

Yet deep in her heart, she knew the answer to azure,
and as her hair glowed in the last light of saffron,
and as the day passed over with a faint tinge of tangerine,
she laid back and dreamt of a world colored in amethyst.
The following day, she was awoken by streams of crimson,
and out in the far-off distance, shown waves of vivacious viridian.

But as the winds blew east to west, casting shadows on its viridian,
the sky began to blacken, turning a darker shade of azure.
Then the poppies swayed, brilliant in their beds of crimson,
each little face marked boldly with a fleck of saffron.
And against the foreboding sky, still absent of amethyst,
a bolt of lightning struck in trembling tangerine.

The whole landscape then unfurled, transforming to tangerine.
Black plumes of smoke choked out all the velvety viridian,
and in the wake of disaster came a sudden array of amethyst.
Fiery fields full of bloodthirsty life blotted out any hope for azure
and wilted away the soon-to-be season of saffron.
All was cursed now in the vilest of crimson.

She stood and prayed for the sky to regain conscious efforts of azure.
Sadly, the waves of fortitude would not yield its season of saffron.
Patchworks of hopefulness died that day in a different kind of crimson.

Photo credit: https://pixabay.com/illustrations/trees-countryside-painting-6573250/

This poem is called a Sestina. If you’d like to learn how to write your own, this site gives some good examples. 😉 ~M