March, summer for suckers, fills the café
with those who dress in vintage, ration
like it's wartime, and silently scream
into their phones, "This world's a stove
run out of gas! Who can raise a child
in this climate?" All while the old hyena
laughs, skulking for food. Here in Addis Ababa,
hyenas fill the streets at night, scavenge the cafés
and hospitals for left-behind children like beggars
for scraps of himbasha. "Wasted rations",
thinks the beggar tending an old stove, is the beggar cooking for someone like they have a job or do they cook in the street the rations they find. Beggars and hyenas, children, some of the different people and metaphors confuse me
"all a mother's labor, all her screams
dissolved by stomach acid." Every night,
the screams (or is it laughs?) of roughing it
(or living the life?) hyenas permeate the air tthe parenthesis trip me up a bit, I think I get it, but they might be too much
like smoke from earthen stoves cooking
charcoal to sell to the cafes who serve
their coffee authentic. Such fancy rations
for the tourists and their spoiled children,
imported coffee and himbasha loaves
and the occasional child to be brought back
home and shown the wonders of screaming
into one's phone, complaining about
such meager rations as foreign bread
and coffee! A hyena grins -- "Isn't she cute?" --
while the café drives away the beggar
from their stove for the tourists to take their picture.
"Back home, our stoves are powered by electricity. They're safe enough for a child to touch, so long
as she's not metal." The owner of the café musses
his daughter's hair. "Come on, stop your screaming.
Out there in New York, there are no hyenas
and you won't have to save your rations
like it's wartime." "Baba, it's not about the rations
nor the burns on my arms this ancient stove
has all the right to inflict. Are you sure
there are no hyenas where you ask to send me?
Where none of the children seem to suffer,
where none of them cry and scream?"
The sun sets. The tourists leave the café
with their new child. The grinning hyena
rubs her back against the dying stove,
her rations lying in a pile behind the café.
Another scream.
I really like this sestina, the subject and arrangement,
I reformatted it to see if the subject still held up, if the repetitions we're effective or forced. I like the idea of being strict with meter or endlines for the form, or use the form as a stepping stone to a better poem. I think there's no excuse for forced endlines if you aren't restricting your syllables or verb tenses. Don't get me wrong, I really like the poem and am fine if you leave it. Sestinas are some of my favorites to practice and justmercedes used to write like one a week. I hope you give the form another go, and thanks for all the LPIA you've shared.
with those who dress in vintage, ration
like it's wartime, and silently scream
into their phones, "This world's a stove
run out of gas! Who can raise a child
in this climate?" All while the old hyena
laughs, skulking for food. Here in Addis Ababa,
hyenas fill the streets at night, scavenge the cafés
and hospitals for left-behind children like beggars
for scraps of himbasha. "Wasted rations",
thinks the beggar tending an old stove, is the beggar cooking for someone like they have a job or do they cook in the street the rations they find. Beggars and hyenas, children, some of the different people and metaphors confuse me
"all a mother's labor, all her screams
dissolved by stomach acid." Every night,
the screams (or is it laughs?) of roughing it
(or living the life?) hyenas permeate the air tthe parenthesis trip me up a bit, I think I get it, but they might be too much
like smoke from earthen stoves cooking
charcoal to sell to the cafes who serve
their coffee authentic. Such fancy rations
for the tourists and their spoiled children,
imported coffee and himbasha loaves
and the occasional child to be brought back
home and shown the wonders of screaming
into one's phone, complaining about
such meager rations as foreign bread
and coffee! A hyena grins -- "Isn't she cute?" --
while the café drives away the beggar
from their stove for the tourists to take their picture.
"Back home, our stoves are powered by electricity. They're safe enough for a child to touch, so long
as she's not metal." The owner of the café musses
his daughter's hair. "Come on, stop your screaming.
Out there in New York, there are no hyenas
and you won't have to save your rations
like it's wartime." "Baba, it's not about the rations
nor the burns on my arms this ancient stove
has all the right to inflict. Are you sure
there are no hyenas where you ask to send me?
Where none of the children seem to suffer,
where none of them cry and scream?"
The sun sets. The tourists leave the café
with their new child. The grinning hyena
rubs her back against the dying stove,
her rations lying in a pile behind the café.
Another scream.
I really like this sestina, the subject and arrangement,
I reformatted it to see if the subject still held up, if the repetitions we're effective or forced. I like the idea of being strict with meter or endlines for the form, or use the form as a stepping stone to a better poem. I think there's no excuse for forced endlines if you aren't restricting your syllables or verb tenses. Don't get me wrong, I really like the poem and am fine if you leave it. Sestinas are some of my favorites to practice and justmercedes used to write like one a week. I hope you give the form another go, and thanks for all the LPIA you've shared.
Peanut butter honey banana sandwiches