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This is a sestina, written in protest of traditional poetry forms.
I wrote it in 1997, to a group prompt to write a sestina, when I was part of a juried online poet's community. We were assigned 6 words.
My words were: rain/dripping/emulation/trend/threat/violation

A sestina is a poem with six stanzas, of six lines, and a final triplet, with all stanzas having the same six words at the end of the lines, in six different sequences, that follow a fixed pattern. All six words must appear in the closing triplet. The fixed pattern of the stanzas is:
a,b,c,d,e,f - f,a,e,b,d,c - c,f,d,a,b,e - e,c,b,f,a,d - d,e,a,c,f,b - b,d,f,e,c,a
The pattern for the ending triplet, called the envoi, is:

Here is my ironic protest of traditional poetry form, :-) written (very tongue-in-cheek) in the traditional poetry form of the sestina. This is:


this poet's soul is drowning in this rain
heart, mind, and spirit freely dripping
pursuing a verse of sestinal emulation
for me this storm of six's will never trend
it is a soul-debilitating stifling threat
its affect upon free-thinking — a violation

repressive is this cruel violation
turns my poet's soul cold as freezing rain
my promise to rebel is not just threat
I’ll douse this form in oil until it’s dripping
then torch this poetic horror to start a trend
hoping all poets will do the same in emulation

bards unite, embrace this pyro-emulation
enlightened poets strike down this creative violation
full freedom of expression must be the trend
rise up against conformity's bitter rain
no matter if your storm-tossed, drowned and dripping
it's imperative we squelch this awful threat

lovers of structure do not grasp this tacit threat
they will not join our valiant ranks in emulation
their writer’s spirit grows weak — its lifeblood dripping
but I’ll stand strong and resist this violation
so let the rules and regulations fall like rain
our move to free unfettered voice be the next trend

a powerful and forward moving trend
that will thwart this fascist literary threat
and bring those, that see the light, in from the rain
to take up our cause in knowing emulation
to unite against this creative violation
that would have us on our knees — tears dripping

formless verse is sweet and rich as honey dripping
an uplifting and most liberating trend
true voice freely spoken is no violation
emancipating poets is not a threat
take up you pens in joyful emulation
and clear the poetry skies of drowning rain

this regressive trend, towards mindless structure - cold as rain
unbound expression's not violation, it's freedom's emulation
unencumbered verse is sweet nectar dripping, not a threat


rob kistner © 1997
I am sending this sestina because I've been under the weather for a bit, and am feeling cantankerous. So I wanted to rant about something. I dug up this old poem, so in a very classic form, I have chosen to rant about my feelings regarding traditional poetry forms. Felt an appropriate fir HePo.
(contains references to sensitive issues)

She’s just a babe
he’s only two
of youth refill
they’re broken in

but leave no mark  
so they're unspoiled
for clients booked
it's all arranged

no tracks you'll leave
their brain's not through
not til they’re three
so chill out dame

the program works
divert impel
‘'you crazy sh-t
here take this pill’

nobody hears
if told some tales
but they won't talk
their lips are sealed

from dot they’re trained
they’re here for us
don't have to guess
‘you talk, you die!’

so pay the fee
their price is high
and bring this dog
they’ll do it all

and shouldn’t you
take all you're due
you work real hard-
on nectar sup
Stop! Not so quick
for veils can lift
and imprints made
don’t ever die

archival facts
reveal themselves
when day arrives
you’ll face the Judge

and when you breach
a petal new
it injures both
and gear stick shifts

you've soiled life's bed
with squalid stains
now own the Sh-t
says mirror man


             
From time to time an instance comes to light involving well-organized abuse at an almost unimaginable level.  Children from a very young age are trained to provide all manner of sexual services to meet the demands of deviant and sadistic clients.  Contrary to what people may think, this happens not just in so-called 'third-world countries,' but in more prosperous lands too.  

Even where there is significant corroboration for the veracity of such accounts, survivors can suffer the further indignity of not being believed.  There is some movement and improvement in knowledge but more needs to be acknowledged and understood, not only by colleagues and other professionals providing care, but society at large.  

It all makes one ponder what leads a perpetrator to act this way.  Whilst it helps to understand some act out trauma they themselves received, it is unacceptable behaviour, is still a criminal offence - and it hurts others.   We all have choice to decide ahead what we would do if offered an easy way to cross that line.  Decency requires we resolve to remember who we want to be in essence and retain this reality check:  how would I feel if this was my wife, my child?   Refuse to abuse another.  

Some boundaries simply should never be breached, even if one is promised immunity from repercussions, e.g. told 'the child won't remember – it won’t hurt them.'   Many victims do remember and either way, such incursions rob them of a normal life, something many take for granted.  The truth is they are massively, negatively affected on one level or another, often in multiple ways, at whatever age such incursions take place.  

The reality is that transgressing on another's boundaries on any level not only harms the recipient but also those violating others.  It alters and destroys something in the offender, immediately recognizable or not, and by extension the wider community is affected.  

On looking in the mirror an offender may see at best a deluded half-life.  As my poem concludes, who would want to be meeting that inner witness to their corrupt and heartless behaviour, their real character looking back at them through the 'man* in the mirror...'

*(either gender can offend - some women sexually abuse too.  When a perpetrator takes a good look in the mirror of reality, they may well find themselves  confronted with the enormity of what they have done, and who they have become)
Sara Jun 6
It's a grey area
I might have wanted it at some point, but limp and helpless I just wanted it to stop.

I don't remember his face, but I remember his sweaty body on mine.
I wanted to leave but I couldn't move,
             I couldn't speak.

He probably drank as much as I did.
I shouldn't have stopped to talk to a man I didn't know.

I wonder if he remembers me.
writer omsy Mar 11
Invisibility cloaks all around
When the scene comes, sirens
Screaming across the streets
Because of you, we never find

Why is it simple to push away?
Like you did in the 50's
Like you tolerated strikes
Why should it be alike now?


Mourn for their lives
When it didn't matter
To you
You'll pay the price
Sooner or later
Negligence is the poison injected on every slave and victim of human rights violations. Everyon must act against this inhumane behavior of the world organisations and countries. Peace
Even though I don't remember the next morning
I know it reaked of violation and filth
The taste of my own tears lingered
Until the next day mid afternoon
Right before the sunset
Right after everyone let me be
If only for a moment

The morning after
When I woke up to a hostile sun
I screamed until my lungs were dry
And cried until my tears covered the kitchen linoleum
I ruined a new pair of clothes
And ripped out a few dozen stands of hair
Just because your fingers may have grazed them

In the shower I boiled the skin off my back
And tried to breathe water
Just to get the taste of you
Out of my eyes
I must've washed you off of me
At least a dozen times over
But I couldn't rinse the space behind my eyes
Where you left the most of yourself
Invasive and volatile

I had to tell my daddy
What happened to his baby girl
And watch him ache to break down your door
And straight into your chest
To take your heart
As some sort of payment
For what you've done
I watched my mother cry
And my sister cry
With pain that was never theirs to carry

And so each morning I wake up
To the memory of what you did
When I had just been out for a little fun
With sweet drinks that didn't taste like poison
Until you made them that way
When you touched me
When you had no right to do so
And I wonder if there's anything that I could have done differently

Since then every day
You rape me again
When I can't look someone in the eyes
Because I don't want to see their pity
Or their judgement, their doubt
When I'm scrutinized in the streets
Or my name is whispered
Behind a closed door
Or is screamed in my face that it was my fault
That it isn't an excuse

I'd rather die than face it
But I fear for my daughter
So I stay
To watch her
Protect her from my own fate
And shake quietly when I'm alone at night
Knowing you're loose
Waiting for someone to bring me some justice
To put you away
Leave you lying in a shallow grave
Anything to give me security again

But I have none
Because I have been robbed
And I smile to counteract it
And everyone tip-toes around the subject
Like it's a sleeping bear
That will maul them if they stir it up
But it's not an animal
It's something that happened to me
And everyone is so afraid of it

I had to be strong
But I'm afraid too
Afraid that it might never scab over
And become a scar
Because scars fade
But wounds bleed
And I am wounded
And every morning in the shower the blood drips from my ears
And leaks down the drain
When I have to look at MY body
That YOU used
And try to remember that I am strong
And that you haven't beaten me
Then wonder if that's really true

I have to make it true.
Written for a friend I wish I hadn't had to write it for.
here you will find me naked
   without all my layers
                   of long silences
or calm reassurances
you will find me confessing
       to Each and every
                   secret that could've just as easily been a lie

YOU will find ME
More bare
             laid out in front of you
    honest and wild than when
                    we made love with the curtains open in the early morning before you went to work and I went to sleep

i am
                       How Dare You
               Look at me
                              out of

What A Violation
zsazsa Dec 2016
The African sun.
So it's December
Summer in Africa
30cm away, that's how close the sun feels to the earth's surface
Naturally I have a short skirt on
And the worst thing I could have done is walk out the house
Because, you know
"I'm asking for it"
I walk past a few men
Who look at me like some meal
One walks towards me
Pretty young
He's basically undressing me with his eyes
As he goes behind me
Opportunity strikes!
Because I asked for it
I turn
Slap to the face
Because he too!
Asked for it
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