I've got one word for you: Sestinas. (though Dictionary.com tells me that "sestine" also works)
I stumbled upon this unique form of poetry while searching for... unique forms of poetry. I had no real reason for doing this; I felt the desire to create something a little different from the typical form of poetry— boy, is this shit hard.
A sestina, put simply, is a poem with six stanzas of six lines each (then a final stanza with three lines) that makes use of lexical repetition, which is super fucking cool.
I'll circle back around to how to make these delightfully complex (yes I'm aware there are more complicated forms of poetry, but you'll admit this is more difficult than the normal) poems after a brief history lesson that I think is fucking fascinating, though of course you're entitled to your own (wrong) opinions.
Except you, Milton. No opinions for you.
The word came into blessed existence sometime around the late sixteenth century from the Latin word "sextus" which means "sixth". I'm sure flutter would call all of these sixes Satanic.
The poem itself, however, is credited to a twelth century troubador (that's an amazing word in and of itself) by the name of Arnaut Daniel, who is... French. So Doc, guess there's some kudos due in your direction. You used my art for your pfp so you're alright in my book anyway.
The term itself is denoted as Italian (who Doc is sure the French mustache really belongs to, so maybe they share things often). Anyway, it's attributed to Italy because Dante (yes, the Divine Comedy dude) used them!
So anyway, here's how they work (I've chosen a sestina by Dante titled "Sestina" as the example, so you know it's the OG):
The first six lines end in six different words. It works better if you pick words that can have multiple meanings.
I have come, alas, to the great circle of shadow,
to the short day and to the whitening hills,
when the colour is all lost from the grass,
though my desire will not lose its green,
so rooted is it in this hardest stone,
that speaks and feels as though it were a woman.
See the last word of every line? Now, in the second stanza of a sestina, you use those same words in a different order— a specific order of course. The last word of the last line becomes the last word of the first line in the second stanza, then the last word of the first line of the first stanza becomes the last word of the second line of the second stanza. Then, the last word of the fifth line of the first stanza becomes the last word of the third line of the second stanza, then the last word of the second line in the first stanza becomes the last word of the fourth line in the second stanza... I've lost you, haven't I? Here, have a picture.
Or perhaps this table is more to your liking:
So this is the pattern of how the rotation works. In the first picture, the numbers at the bottom signify the line of the first stanza that the word comes from, and they're in the order they appear in the second stanza. A simple trick to remember is to group together the line numbers that equal seven, then put the larger number first. Or you can remember the "backwards triad" and "forwards triad" (more Satanism). The "backwards triad" in this case refers to lines four, five, and six, because you flip those backwards, then in between them add the "forwards triad" of one, two, and three. It's like braiding the words together, creating a beautiful tapestry of meaning and poetry and glorious artistry— ahem. Here's Dante's second stanza:
And likewise this heaven-born woman
stays frozen, like the snow in shadow,
and is unmoved, or moved like a stone,
by the sweet season that warms all the hills,
and makes them alter from pure white to green,
so as to clothe them with the flowers and grass.
You see how the rhyme scheme works? Now you just do that for the next four stanzas (because they have six lines, they can be referred to as "sixains"). Let's look at Dante's final four sixains in his work.
When her head wears a crown of grass
she draws the mind from any other woman,
because she blends her gold hair with the green
so well that Amor lingers in their shadow,
he who fastens me in these low hills,
more certainly than lime fastens stone.
Her beauty has more virtue than rare stone.
The wound she gives cannot be healed with grass,
since I have travelled, through the plains and hills,
to find my release from such a woman,
yet from her light had never a shadow
thrown on me, by hill, wall, or leaves’ green.
I have seen her walk all dressed in green,
so formed she would have sparked love in a stone,
that love I bear for her very shadow,
so that I wished her, in those fields of grass,
as much in love as ever yet was woman,
closed around by all the highest hills.
The rivers will flow upwards to the hills
before this wood, that is so soft and green,
takes fire, as might ever lovely woman,
for me, who would choose to sleep on stone,
all my life, and go eating grass,
only to gaze at where her clothes cast shadow.
Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.
Now, the final stanza: a tercet (has three lines). This one makes use of the six repeating words in no particular order! As long as you have one of the words vaguely in the middle and one at the end of each line, you're right! This part of the sestina is called the "envoi", which means "send off" in French (unless Maz or Doc tells me I'm wrong). Here's Dante's envoi:
Whenever the hills cast blackest shadow,
with her sweet green, the lovely woman
hides it, as a man hides stone in grass.
I have attempted to make my own sestina, which is both not as difficult as it sounds and also more difficult. It doesn't make complete sense and is obviously not nearly the same quality as Dante's, but I did try; judge me as you wish.
If we had died before today,
Unburdened by the weight the future brings,
Lost to the sun's embrace and fading light,
Perhaps we’d dream of laughter, free from pain,
With no knowledge of the shadows that would fall,
Content in ignorance of what we would miss.
Oblivious to the beauty we would miss,
And all the ways we’d shape the end of today,
We'd dance in fields untouched by winter's fall,
A perfect peace, the kind that slumber brings,
Unaware of heartbreak, sharp as driven pain,
Existing only in the amber light.
A gilded cage of everlasting light,
Or so it seems; the future is what we'd miss.
We'd never know the solace after pain,
The sunrise breaking bright on grief's dark today,
A simple life and the joy it brings,
Like man before their destined fall.
But if no one ever was to fall,
And thus understand the power of light,
And thrive in the strength that crying brings,
Would we even know what it is we miss?
If we had been granted peace before today,
Without the bitter and the sweet of human pain?
Would it be better to flee from sorrow and pain?
If we knew not at all the story of the fall,
And the only thing we feared losing was today,
Could we rejoice, bathed in eternal light?
Would we ever know the treasures we would miss?
Would death be better than the life ignorance brings?
Can there be acceptance in the life that brings,
So much of despair, and so much pain?
But still, with every breath we miss,
The touch, the warmth, the beauty of the fall,
We fight instead for precious human light,
And find the strength to face whatever comes today.
So if we had died before today, what beauty we would miss.
The new day and its light, even as we fall,
The beauty in the midst of pain, the kind only sorrow brings.
I challenge you to write sestinas of your own! Or really any kind of work even vaguely inspired by this form of poetry; like all other forms of creative writing, it exists to urge us forward in our literary endeavors— not to limit us!
