Sestina (for My Father, Who Is Still Alive)

[matsunosuperfan]

god only knows why I keep trying to write these things
--

Sestina for My Father, Who is Still Alive

Dad is a relentless whore for hummingbirds,
whose thimble bodies he pumps every morning
full of nectar, water boiled with sugar
until sweetness fills each molecule.
Their hoods flame through the mist like aerial lights.
He feeds them to make up for what he lacks,

forgetting, at times, their names, but not for lack
of effort, fumbling with hummingbird
syllabics, consonants that won't alight
for long on his branched tongue. It's always morning
in the suburbs, where the doctor mixes molecules
to heal the brain, a measured strain of sugar,

chained triglycerides. Danny brings the sugar
and we do it in the bathroom. What we lack
in love we make up with denial, molecular
refusal of the rope wrapping our necks. A hummingbird
will die if it stops flying, and the morning
waits for no one, so they vibrate in the light

as if there were no fate to find but light
and motion. July the fourth sends sugar
spilling down the blackened sky, the next morning
my father breaks his hip. What we lack
when meeting death is not grace, but a hummingbird:
all the sound vibrations gathered in one molecule.

If I could split it, I would take the dawn's first molecule
into my mouth, make light
work of despair. But I am not a hummingbird.
I move only when moved by impulse, sugar
scattered on the sidewalk, shadows lackadaisical
holding their fading limbs up to the morning

in submission. Now there's no time for mourning
what we thought we'd be, no molecule
missing in our genes to blame for how we still lack
wings—forgive me, father. I don't mean to make light
of your desperation. I know you spilled the sugar
before you could count the grains. Humming, birds

attach themselves to you as light clings
to an iris, the pupil mourning that its sugared portal
can't catch all the molecules that fly from you like birds.

[CRNDLSM]

god only knows why I keep trying to write these things
--does your father appreciate the form?

Sestina for My Father, Who is Still Alive

Dad is a relentless whore for hummingbirds, very declarative right off, helps get the mind flowing 
whose thimble bodies he pumps every morning 
full of nectar, water boiled with sugar
until sweetness fills each molecule.
Their hoods flame through the mist like aerial lights. Tthe first stanza is always easiest right?
He feeds them to make up for what he lacks, telling the old man what he's lacking, let's see it

forgetting, at times, their names, but not for lack
of effort, fumbling with hummingbird
syllabics, consonants that won't alight forgetting, healing, 
for long on his branched tongue. It's always morning
in the suburbs, where the doctor mixes molecules
to heal the brain, a measured strain of sugar, the sugar wouldn't be to doctor the birds, but his own lacking?

chained triglycerides. Danny brings the sugar
and we do it in the bathroom. What we lack
in love we make up with denial, molecular bringing sugar and rope for your dad?
refusal of the rope wrapping our necks. A hummingbird
will die if it stops flying, and the morning id cut the 'and' here
waits for no one, so they vibrate in the light a hummingbird, they vibrate, the morning

as if there were no fate to find but light
and motion. July the fourth sends sugar id cut the 'the' here, love the texture here though
spilling down the blackened sky, the next morning
my father breaks his hip. What we lack
when meeting death is not grace, but a humming bird: id separate hummingbird here
all the sound vibrations gathered in one molecule.

If I could split it, I would take the dawn's first molecule
into my mouth, make light nice enjambnent
work of despair. But I am not a hummingbird.
I move only when moved by impulse, sugar
scattered on the sidewalk, shadows lackadaisical
holding their fading limbs up to the morning im having a hard time grabbing this stanza

in submission. Now there's no time for mourning homonyms don't hurt
what we thought we'd be, no molecule
missing in our genes to blame for how we still lack
wings—forgive me, father. I don't mean to make light
of your desperation. I know you spilled the sugar
before you could count the grains. Humming, birds I don't understand counting grains 

attach themselves to you as light clings
to an iris, the pupil mourning that its sugared portal I don't know who the pupil is, is it you?
can't catch all the molecules that fly from you like birds. The last stanzas are the best

There is a little bit of jumping around, I love the end words. Lack may be lacking like lackadaisical, but you keep it interesting throughout.
Thanks for sharing!

[matsunosuperfan]

god only knows why I keep trying to write these things
--does your father appreciate the form?

Sestina for My Father, Who is Still Alive

Dad is a relentless whore for hummingbirds, very declarative right off, helps get the mind flowing 
whose thimble bodies he pumps every morning 
full of nectar, water boiled with sugar
until sweetness fills each molecule.
Their hoods flame through the mist like aerial lights. Tthe first stanza is always easiest right?
He feeds them to make up for what he lacks, telling the old man what he's lacking, let's see it

forgetting, at times, their names, but not for lack
of effort, fumbling with hummingbird
syllabics, consonants that won't alight forgetting, healing, 
for long on his branched tongue. It's always morning
in the suburbs, where the doctor mixes molecules
to heal the brain, a measured strain of sugar, the sugar wouldn't be to doctor the birds, but his own lacking?

chained triglycerides. Danny brings the sugar
and we do it in the bathroom. What we lack
in love we make up with denial, molecular bringing sugar and rope for your dad?
refusal of the rope wrapping our necks. A hummingbird
will die if it stops flying, and the morning id cut the 'and' here
waits for no one, so they vibrate in the light a hummingbird, they vibrate, the morning

as if there were no fate to find but light
and motion. July the fourth sends sugar id cut the 'the' here, love the texture here though
spilling down the blackened sky, the next morning
my father breaks his hip. What we lack
when meeting death is not grace, but a humming bird: id separate hummingbird here
all the sound vibrations gathered in one molecule.

If I could split it, I would take the dawn's first molecule
into my mouth, make light nice enjambnent
work of despair. But I am not a hummingbird.
I move only when moved by impulse, sugar
scattered on the sidewalk, shadows lackadaisical
holding their fading limbs up to the morning im having a hard time grabbing this stanza

in submission. Now there's no time for mourning homonyms don't hurt
what we thought we'd be, no molecule
missing in our genes to blame for how we still lack
wings—forgive me, father. I don't mean to make light
of your desperation. I know you spilled the sugar
before you could count the grains. Humming, birds I don't understand counting grains 

attach themselves to you as light clings
to an iris, the pupil mourning that its sugared portal I don't know who the pupil is, is it you?
can't catch all the molecules that fly from you like birds. The last stanzas are the best

There is a little bit of jumping around, I love the end words. Lack may be lacking like lackadaisical, but you keep it interesting throughout.
Thanks for sharing!

Thank you for the feedback! Pupil meant to suggest eyeball not student though ofc the resonance is there. Glad you didn't find this boring which was my main worry.

[busker]

god only knows why I keep trying to write these things
--

Sestina for My Father, Who is Still Alive

Dad is a relentless whore for hummingbirds,
whose thimble bodies he pumps every morning
full of nectar, water boiled with sugar …. Do you need the “nectar”? It’s a bit of a ramble
until sweetness fills each molecule. …..  not fond of “molecule”. Sugar itself is a medium-sized molecule, so it’s scientifically lacking 
Their hoods flame through the mist like aerial lights…. The opening was arresting, but too much talking about hummingbirds at this point. Lose some of these lines 
He feeds them to make up for what he lacks,

forgetting, at times, their names, but not for lack
of effort, fumbling with hummingbird
syllabics, consonants that won't alight
for long on his branched tongue. It's always morning
in the suburbs, where the doctor mixes molecules
to heal the brain, a measured strain of sugar, … too many words 

chained triglycerides. Danny brings the sugar
and we do it in the bathroom. What we lack
in love we make up with denial, molecular
refusal of the rope wrapping our necks. A hummingbird
will die if it stops flying, and the morning
waits for no one, so they vibrate in the light …. Nice lines 

as if there were no fate to find but light
and motion. July the fourth sends sugar
spilling down the blackened sky, the next morning
my father breaks his hip. What we lack
when meeting death is not grace, but a hummingbird: … overdoing the hummingbird at this point 
all the sound vibrations gathered in one molecule.

If I could split it, I would take the dawn's first molecule
into my mouth, make light
work of despair. But I am not a hummingbird.
I move only when moved by impulse, sugar
scattered on the sidewalk, shadows lackadaisical
holding their fading limbs up to the morning

in submission. Now there's no time for mourning
what we thought we'd be, no molecule
missing in our genes to blame for how we still lack
wings—forgive me, father. I don't mean to make light
of your desperation. I know you spilled the sugar
before you could count the grains. Humming, birds

attach themselves to you as light clings
to an iris, the pupil mourning that its sugared portal
can't catch all the molecules that fly from you like birds.

I think if you cut the poem down to a third of its length and sharpened the focus, you’d have a fine poem on your hands. I lost interest sometime into the second strophe where I didn’t know where you were going with the poem

[matsunosuperfan]

god only knows why I keep trying to write these things
--

Sestina for My Father, Who is Still Alive

Dad is a relentless whore for hummingbirds,
whose thimble bodies he pumps every morning
full of nectar, water boiled with sugar …. Do you need the “nectar”? It’s a bit of a ramble
until sweetness fills each molecule. …..  not fond of “molecule”. Sugar itself is a medium-sized molecule, so it’s scientifically lacking 
Their hoods flame through the mist like aerial lights…. The opening was arresting, but too much talking about hummingbirds at this point. Lose some of these lines 
He feeds them to make up for what he lacks,

forgetting, at times, their names, but not for lack
of effort, fumbling with hummingbird
syllabics, consonants that won't alight
for long on his branched tongue. It's always morning
in the suburbs, where the doctor mixes molecules
to heal the brain, a measured strain of sugar, … too many words 

chained triglycerides. Danny brings the sugar
and we do it in the bathroom. What we lack
in love we make up with denial, molecular
refusal of the rope wrapping our necks. A hummingbird
will die if it stops flying, and the morning
waits for no one, so they vibrate in the light …. Nice lines 

as if there were no fate to find but light
and motion. July the fourth sends sugar
spilling down the blackened sky, the next morning
my father breaks his hip. What we lack
when meeting death is not grace, but a hummingbird: … overdoing the hummingbird at this point 
all the sound vibrations gathered in one molecule.

If I could split it, I would take the dawn's first molecule
into my mouth, make light
work of despair. But I am not a hummingbird.
I move only when moved by impulse, sugar
scattered on the sidewalk, shadows lackadaisical
holding their fading limbs up to the morning

in submission. Now there's no time for mourning
what we thought we'd be, no molecule
missing in our genes to blame for how we still lack
wings—forgive me, father. I don't mean to make light
of your desperation. I know you spilled the sugar
before you could count the grains. Humming, birds

attach themselves to you as light clings
to an iris, the pupil mourning that its sugared portal
can't catch all the molecules that fly from you like birds.

I think if you cut the poem down to a third of its length and sharpened the focus, you’d have a fine poem on your hands. I lost interest sometime into the second strophe where I didn’t know where you were going with the poem

Thanks so much for reading and commenting, Busker. Did you clock this as a sestina? I ask only because some of your suggestions seem hard to reconcile with the form. Like, I can't just "cut lines" for example

[milo]

I see you note it as a sestina - might be more interesting if you didn't note it at the beginning.  

god only knows why I keep trying to write these things
--

Sestina for My Father, Who is Still Alive

Dad is a relentless whore for hummingbirds,
whose thimble bodies he pumps every morning
full of nectar, water boiled with sugar

The poem tends to overexplain itself throughout which is tedious and I am not sure if it is because the form requires you to fill a number of lines or you think that is just what poems do - I stopped here because this is a perfect example:  What does explaining that nectar is water boiled with sugar accomplish here?  What would be lost if you never mentioned it and the reader just made the logical assumption that humminbird feeders are filled with water and sugar?  

What does "relentless" add to "whore"?  Wouldnt it be stronger without? Why did you invert the logical sentence structure of "bodies pumped full of sugar" to "bodies pumped every morning"?

until sweetness fills each molecule.

As a reader, I don't trust a narrator who says things like "sweetness fills each molecule" - he is either lying or being hyperbolic - I guess the latter but why?

Their hoods flame through the mist like aerial lights.
He feeds them to make up for what he lacks,

forgetting, at times, their names, but not for lack
of effort, fumbling with hummingbird
syllabics, consonants that won't alight
for long on his branched tongue. It's always morning
in the suburbs, where the doctor mixes molecules
to heal the brain, a measured strain of sugar,

chained triglycerides. Danny brings the sugar
and we do it in the bathroom. What we lack
in love we make up with denial, molecular
refusal of the rope wrapping our necks. A hummingbird
will die if it stops flying, and the morning
waits for no one, so they vibrate in the light

as if there were no fate to find but light
and motion. July the fourth sends sugar
spilling down the blackened sky, the next morning
my father breaks his hip. What we lack
when meeting death is not grace, but a hummingbird:
all the sound vibrations gathered in one molecule.

If I could split it, I would take the dawn's first molecule
into my mouth, make light
work of despair. But I am not a hummingbird.
I move only when moved by impulse, sugar
scattered on the sidewalk, shadows lackadaisical
holding their fading limbs up to the morning

in submission. Now there's no time for mourning
what we thought we'd be, no molecule
missing in our genes to blame for how we still lack
wings—forgive me, father. I don't mean to make light
of your desperation. I know you spilled the sugar
before you could count the grains. Humming, birds

attach themselves to you as light clings
to an iris, the pupil mourning that its sugared portal
can't catch all the molecules that fly from you like birds.

It kind of continues on in the same vein with constructions fighting themselves and overwrought descriptions.  My guess is it is the form driving the meaning - the meaning is solid, the metaphor is fine, some of the lines are nice but the are getting bogged down with the sheer number of lines to fill and writing toward the endwords is my guess

Thanks for posting

[matsunosuperfan]

I see you note it as a sestina - might be more interesting if you didn't note it at the beginning.  

god only knows why I keep trying to write these things
--

Sestina for My Father, Who is Still Alive

Dad is a relentless whore for hummingbirds,
whose thimble bodies he pumps every morning
full of nectar, water boiled with sugar

The poem tends to overexplain itself throughout which is tedious and I am not sure if it is because the form requires you to fill a number of lines or you think that is just what poems do - I stopped here because this is a perfect example:  What does explaining that nectar is water boiled with sugar accomplish here?  What would be lost if you never mentioned it and the reader just made the logical assumption that humminbird feeders are filled with water and sugar?  

What does "relentless" add to "whore"?  Wouldnt it be stronger without? Why did you invert the logical sentence structure of "bodies pumped full of sugar" to "bodies pumped every morning"?

until sweetness fills each molecule.

As a reader, I don't trust a narrator who says things like "sweetness fills each molecule" - he is either lying or being hyperbolic - I guess the latter but why?

Their hoods flame through the mist like aerial lights.
He feeds them to make up for what he lacks,

forgetting, at times, their names, but not for lack
of effort, fumbling with hummingbird
syllabics, consonants that won't alight
for long on his branched tongue. It's always morning
in the suburbs, where the doctor mixes molecules
to heal the brain, a measured strain of sugar,

chained triglycerides. Danny brings the sugar
and we do it in the bathroom. What we lack
in love we make up with denial, molecular
refusal of the rope wrapping our necks. A hummingbird
will die if it stops flying, and the morning
waits for no one, so they vibrate in the light

as if there were no fate to find but light
and motion. July the fourth sends sugar
spilling down the blackened sky, the next morning
my father breaks his hip. What we lack
when meeting death is not grace, but a hummingbird:
all the sound vibrations gathered in one molecule.

If I could split it, I would take the dawn's first molecule
into my mouth, make light
work of despair. But I am not a hummingbird.
I move only when moved by impulse, sugar
scattered on the sidewalk, shadows lackadaisical
holding their fading limbs up to the morning

in submission. Now there's no time for mourning
what we thought we'd be, no molecule
missing in our genes to blame for how we still lack
wings—forgive me, father. I don't mean to make light
of your desperation. I know you spilled the sugar
before you could count the grains. Humming, birds

attach themselves to you as light clings
to an iris, the pupil mourning that its sugared portal
can't catch all the molecules that fly from you like birds.

It kind of continues on in the same vein with constructions fighting themselves and overwrought descriptions.  My guess is it is the form driving the meaning - the meaning is solid, the metaphor is fine, some of the lines are nice but the are getting bogged down with the sheer number of lines to fill and writing toward the endwords is my guess

Thanks for posting

great crit, spot-on <3