The Rehearsal Sestina

Rehearsals always cluster at the end,
in days and hours before the concert starts,
a mild panic spurring us to move,
to finally learn and memorize the lines
that by tomorrow will become a sound
we hope will not embarrass us to sing.

And so we, with our morning voices, sing
in squeaky croaks we hope will not portend
defects or painful flinch-inducing sounds
that cause our trusting audience to start,
then queue up in a fast-departing line,
successfully—though incorrectly—moved.

So from our throats all roughness we remove,
our confidence and spirits slowly rising,
slowly becoming something more in line
with what we all imagine and intend.
In spite of the occasional restart
we know we’re getting closer to the sound

that fills us, sound that makes the hall resound.
We feel it now: a twitch, the slightest movement,
almost a flutter, joyful little upstart
wanting to join us, to help us sing
itself. Faintly at first, but if we tend
it well, then soon our every note and line

will resonate in ways that underline
the meanings, not just glib and pretty sounds,
but feelings, thoughts, and aspirations blending
into the truest power of song to move
our hearts, to teach our very souls to sing,
to make each moment shine like a fresh start.

On Sunday we will gather then, to start
our voices, form ourselves into our lines—
and then at last the moment comes to sing.
And if from higher realms we hear a sound
like resonating grace, we will be moved
to offer thanks to our Beloved Friend.

So let the music start!—and let the sound
of interweaving lines our spirits move.
We’ll sing with hearts uplifted to the end.

The Apologist Sestina

A poet sometimes has a fear of form,
of glaring rules and too long hours of practice —
all for what? Success just means a chance
to wear the chains and let yourself be bound
by someone else’s thoughts, by what they feel
is proper and poetical and right.

And who are they to tell me what to write?
My soul will never wear a uniform,
my art can only come from what I feel.
And what I feel does not include a practice
of subservience to poets bound
to shun delights that come from letting chance

impose its fancy on one’s art. By “chance”
I mean those whims that strike from left and right.
We know not where they come from or are bound
but think this mystery may yet inform
in some vague way what we may call our practice,
both of poetry and life. But feel

more deeply how emotions come to fill
you — crowds, desires, advertising, chance
encounters, music blaring. So, in practice
you will find that you’re not always right
to trust your gut, for who knows what may form
your fancies from these inputs that abound.

It’s when we do not know that we are bound
that we’re most caught. So, though perhaps you feel
at first you absolutely can’t perform
with such restrictions, try. Just take a chance
on sonnets or sestinas, on a rite
enacted over centuries of practice.

Though you’re stiff at first and out of practice,
You’ll improve yourself by leaps and bounds.
You’ll see that, far from giving up your rights
and freedoms, now in poetry you feel
a solid leverage, a boost, a chance
to bring ideas to new and higher forms.

So practice constantly until you feel
no longer bounded by the whims of chance,
but free within the rightness of your form.