Sestina!

[sjester]

Here it is, the first product of my latest poetic ambition. This is what has come of sisterperpetua's word list. It's the first time in quite a while that I've actually attempted poetry, so let me know what you think.



In Abject Apology

When I come to know them, I am sorry for my misdeeds.
Though in general I’m not given to contemplations rueful,
Forgive me for not inclining to fine fits of dolor.
Still I know my transgression is not so light as a Strauss waltz.
If I had known it was your birthday,
I would have baked a magnificent cake.

But alas, you have no cake
And I don’t consider this a misdeed.
Even Harmony and her sister Discord have birthdays.
We’ll celebrate with a bouquet of roses and rue,
And full orchestra playing a slow waltz,
Perhaps a dirge, too, to indulge a fit of dolor.

But revel not in nihilistic dolor.
Instead, both eat and have your cake,
And skate through life as easily as waltzing,
And any other cliche you’d like misdone.
Apologies for giving you reason to be rueful.
How about I make it up to you on an unbirthday?

I, too, know what it’s like to have a shitty birthday.
There was that fateful year that my aunt Dolores
Decided, as my present, to teach me to to make a roux.
I appreciated the cooking lesson, but I’d rather have her famous cake.
She’s a fine an generous woman, but that was somewhat misdone;
I’m about as graceful in the kitchen as an elephant in a waltz.

Ah, but I digress from our blaming waltz.
Back to the point: I missed your birthday.
Really, you’ve got yourself to blame for my “misdeed.”
If you’d just told me, you couldn’t wallow in this dolor.
Besides, I don’t know why you want my homemade cake.
After all, I can’t even handle a simple roux!

Even though I routinely manage to fuck up a roux,
I still have skills that lie elsewhere, like waltzing.
The valuable things, though, are no cakewalk.
I’ll strive to remember your next birthday
And, to end your lovely bout of extreme dolor,
I admit to, and ask your forgiveness for, my misdeed.

Because it’s a terrible misdeed, I know, to ruin even the roux.
But do take refuge in dolor if I happen to falter in the waltz.
And don’t be alarmed if, on your birthday, I manage to burn the cake.