Sorry to admit that I have not yet caught on to what's happening by comparing what I see to the charts I'm shown. I'll have to look these things over a bit and maybe try one.
Or I might just get mean and start a thread on Sound Texts.
I like both the poems in here, Primsongs' and CF's, but I am with John -- I don't understand the form yet. Still, I am amazed.
What were the "six words" in CF's?
And in Primsong's?
And what did they have to do ...?
I didn't get it either at the beginning, and I was getting ready to assemble an "break Enigma machine" type of team. That is until I put those rows of numbers VERTICALLY, EXCEPT THE LAST THREE ROWS, as follows
The endings of each line in the first stanza (first row of numbers, now a column)
1 = covers
2 = forever
3 = turning
4 = read
5 = stories
6 = pages
Second stanza endings (second row of numbers, also a column)
6 = pages
1 = covers
5 = stories
2 = forever
4 = read
3 = turning
and so on,
the last three indicate middle and end of line:
(6 = pages, 2 = forever)
(1 = covers 4 = read)
(5 = stories, 3 = turning)
Got it! NO? AAARGGG!
The patterns of word-repetitions are as follows:
(each row in the following diagram represents one stanza, and the numbers represent the last words in each line of the first stanza)
1 2 3 4 5 6
6 1 5 2 4 3
3 6 4 1 2 5
5 3 2 6 1 4
4 5 1 3 6 2
2 4 6 5 3 1
(6 2)
(1 4)
(5 3)
The Red Book: A Sestina
Within your ancient, leatherbound covers
Lies a story of a life with a tale for forever.
The written words whisper at the turning
As the heavy parchment is leafed through, read
With understanding or without, the stories
Of adventures, of living and dying within your pages.
Carefully prepared leaves, the finest quality pages
Were chosen with care to speak between the covers.
With every eye who follows your remembered stories,
Other minds will feel anew your painful saga forever.
Your story will not be forgotten as long as it is read,
Nor will the sacrifices of lives fade in the turning.
The autumn leaves of every season turning
Would seem a fitting tribute to the dry, old pages
But instead it seems to remain evergreen, ever-read
With the heartbeats and longing fears between covers
Captured, in spidery and flowing handwriting forever
Replaying something worth telling, a story of stories.
The Red Book you are called, a collection of stories
Gathered not only from desires and dreams, but a turning
Of the experiences of days and nights, forever
Captured in the confines of red leather-bound pages,
Into a river that pulls the reader along and covers
Their imagination, sweet and poignant to read.
The readers of your fine lettering will only wish to read
Again your tale, will dream of being a part of your stories,
Even though they know the authors are gone. Your covers
Hold all that is left of them and their days, the turning
Of the Ages is merciless, and Time's own pages
Will be turned by the hand of the sun and moon forever.
Still, the readers will dream. They will forever
Feel that longing to know more, to live what they read,
To breathe the air of the places written of in your pages
And to hold close the people written of in your stories.
There is a life that is remembered in the turning
Of the pages, and in the opening of the ancient leather covers.
The tale among the pages, a tale for all people forever;
The well-worn soft leather covers, showing it often read:
Thirsting for the truth in the stories, to history they are turning.
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