Since a tritina is just half the size of a sestina, it should be super easy, right?
This form sort of bullied me, honestly. I felt kind of pushed in one direction or another until suddenly, poems! That I had nothing to do with! And that I didn’t necessarily love.
But ok. It’s all about the stretch.
Tritinas. Here are a few….
I roll ice around in my mouth
and even as it melts it is heavy as stone.
I want something light, like hope
something soft, a wafer maybe, hope
held like a promise in your mouth
or tossed tenderly, a skipping stone
but lighter, not this cold stoning
iciness that won’t melt, sitting hope-
less and hard to swallow in the mouth
of the river, mouth of the stone wolf holding out hope between us.
The room sits empty and the night is cold.
With aching bellies we cry open-mouthed:
This is the time for soup made from stone!
What else is there? Pot, sea water, stone.
Who will bring it up to boil from the cold?
Who will add potato, something for the mouth
something real and holy for the mouth
that won’t break teeth or spirits – not stone
nor greed, not ego nor ignorance nor the cold
heart of a cold neighbor mouthing no, no like a stone.
Butter and sugar creamed = sweet.
Winter and morning married = cold.
Each blank page = hope.
I whisk and write with high hopes
in the still dark sweetness,
hands flying through the cold
making something of it. Cold
comfort, but what else is there? Hope
for a warm tart, weak light, words sweet.
Yes, that. Sweet words cut the cold and equal hope.
Ready for more?
Go see the amazing versions my pals did…
And Poetry Friday is here!