Boing Boing has hosted a poetry contest. The catch was that the content must be related to a favored Boing Boing topic, proving at once the writer is a loyal reader and can type a good line. Degree of difficulty mattered, so it follows that an iambic sestina won the prize. It seems to me like degree of difficulty may have been the single criterion. Creative techies are by nature still techies, and create with a rubric and a protractor, and so what we have is a rudimentary diagram, without a mood… sort of like a man without principles. A sestina is truly difficult, but nonetheless one can make poetry out of it. The contest winner is an amateur, and deserves the glory of achieving a difficult feat, but it is still bad poetry. What follows is a good sestina.

Sestina by Elizabeth Bishop

September rain falls on the house.
In the failing light, the old grandmother
sits in the kitchen with the child
beside the Little Marvel Stove,
reading the jokes from the almanac,
laughing and talking to hide her tears.

She thinks that her equinoctial tears
and the rain that beats on the roof of the house
were both foretold by the almanac,
but only known to a grandmother.
The iron kettle sings on the stove.
She cuts some bread and says to the child,

It’s time for tea now; but the child
is watching the teakettle’s small hard tears
dance like mad on the hot black stove,
the way the rain must dance on the house.
Tidying up, the old grandmother
hangs up the clever almanac

on its string. Birdlike, the almanac
hovers half open above the child,
hovers above the old grandmother
and her teacup full of dark brown tears.
She shivers and says she thinks the house
feels chilly, and puts more wood in the stove.

It was to be, says the Marvel Stove.
I know what I know, says the almanac.
With crayons the child draws a rigid house
and a winding pathway. Then the child
puts in a man with buttons like tears
and shows it proudly to the grandmother.

But secretly, while the grandmother
busies herself about the stove,
the little moons fall down like tears
from between the pages of the almanac
into the flower bed the child
has carefully placed in the front of the house.

Time to plant tears, says the almanac.
The grandmother sings to the marvelous stove
and the child draws another inscrutable house.