It’s time for your monthly dose of poetry that resulted from a hyper focus.

Like Vasquez, I had Red Harvest’s poetry form chosen before I had a good idea of what I was going to write, though I did have a good nugget of inspiration to work with. Red Harvest had been told that he was meant to walk a different path away from his tribe and that intrigued me. It was portrayed as being an unusual life choice as when Red Harvest first shows up, the rest of the Seven and as well as Emma Cullen and Teddy Q immediately start looking for other members of Red Harvest’s tribe. As it turned out, Red Harvest found a new tribe, even if it was temporary.

Though most of the Seven accept Red Harvest easily, there is some lingering tension with Jack Horne, who made his name as a killer of Native Americans. That tension seems mostly one-sided, though, and fades quick enough.

A man of few words, Red Harvest speaks mostly in his native tongue, which only Chisholm can understand, but he does speak -and presumably understand- some English. Mostly, though, he cuts a figure as a silent, stoic warrior, skilled with a bow as well as a gun and a knife. He paints his face as well as the face of his horse, but not always, marking himself when battle is expected. There is a quiet certainty about him. This is his path and he will walk it.

I chose a nonet for his poem. It’s a diminishing poem. The first line has nine syllables (hence the name nonet), the second line has eight, third line seven, and so on, the last line ending the poem with a single syllable. I felt it a fitting form for a character who was sent out on his own to find his place knowing it might be temporary.

Behold my mastery of disappearing syllables.

Red Harvest

Alone, his path a prairie, shaded
with hidden purpose. Guided by
winds he knows by soul, leading
him to his only fate.
Tying him to lives
he cannot save
for a place
not his
home.

Poetry punishment is back, but lucky for you, this poem marks the half-way point.

I adore Billy Rocks. A man of few words and brilliant knives, he’s a loyal friend to Goodnight Robicheaux. We’re introduced to Billy through Goodnight, who explains that he had a warrant for Billy’s arrest, but when he saw him easily taking care of a room full of men, he knew he couldn’t arrest him and they’d been partners ever since, making a living by betting on Billy’s skills against the unsuspecting.

Though Goodnight had a warrant for Billy’s arrest, it’s implied that Billy’s less an outlaw and more a victim of circumstance due to his race. He wouldn’t be whooping everybody’s ass all over here and there if they kept their racism to their damn selves. And though there’s definitely some racism in regards to Vasquez and Red Harvest, it’s explicitly pointed out in Billy’s backstory.

I love Billy’s friendship with Goody. As a result, that ended up being the main theme of his poem.

I chose the sijo poetic form for Billy’s poem. It’s a Korean form that’s meant to be sung. It’s three lines with 14 to 16 syllables per line. The first line introduces the subject, the second line develops it, and the third features a twist and conclusion. The syllable breakdown per line traditionally is 3-4-4-4, 3-4-4-4, 3-5-4-3, and there’s supposed to be a pause in each line.

Did I do all that? Well, mostly. I think I got pretty close.

I got my point across, anyway.

Billy Rocks

Miles and years away from his birth, his face a stranger.
His blades carve himself a partner, notch himself a place to belong.
His home is a grave with his dearest friend his closest neighbor.

It’s time for your monthly punishment of poetry.

I had the form for Vasquez’s poem chosen before I had an idea of what I was going to write. He’s an interesting character in that of the Seven, he is unquestionably an outlaw. Chisholm has a warrant for his arrest and trades his freedom for his participation. We glean a little of his character -he’s proudly Mexican and his granddaddy fought at the Alamo (maybe killing Goodnight Robicheaux’s granddaddy at that same battle, which, as Goodnight says, is a charming thought)- and he’s quickly established as Faraday’s frenemy, but we’re never explicitly told what he’s done that landed his warrant in Chisholm’s hands. Judging by the way he handles his gun and his pride, I’m guessing it’s murder-related.

But our Mexican outlaw must have a heart of gold, or at the very least some kind of honor, to go along with Chisholm’s plan to defend the town from a guy doing way worse than Vasquez would ever dream.

For his poem, I decided on an Espinela, named after the form’s creator Vincente Espinel. It’s a ten line poem broken into two stanzas with four lines in the first stanza and six in the second. There’s eight syllables per line and the rhyme scheme is abba/accddc. One of the easier forms I chose for the Seven.

Also, I got to use the word “loam”. A criminally underused word, in my opinion.

Vasquez

The writ claims he’s a wanted man,
his survival against the law.
His life a wound opened and raw.
Taking whatever edge he can.

Unaware of a change in plan.
The path he crosses on his roam,
leading him to fight on the loam.
The worst he’s done put to good use.
The battle within brought to truce.
He knows the cost of losing home.

Yes, it’s only been a minute since the last poem, but I’m struggling with my schedule right now. If I have to suffer, so do you.

This was the second to the last poem I wrote for The Magnificent Seven experiment, and I’ll be honest, Faraday is my least favorite of the Seven. Chisholm was last because he brought the Seven together and it seemed appropriate to write everyone else’s poems before his. Faraday, though, I procrastinated. I struggled to tell his story.

I chose deibide baise fri toin as his poetic form, which is an Irish quatrain form. One thing I learned about Irish poetry forms is that they have a lot of rules. The rules of this form are four line stanzas (or the whole poem is four lines), rhyme scheme is aabb, lines one and two rhyme on a two-syllable word, lines three and four rhyme on a monosyllabic word, line one has three syllables, lines two and three have seven syllables, and line four has one syllable.

And this is one of the easier Irish forms.

I can’t say this made writing Farady’s poem easier for me, but I do think it turned out pretty okay and it might not have turned out at all without the stricter rules.

Farady

Home traded
for chips in a life jaded,
finds the good use for his gun
done.

Hopes bolster.
Dynamite in his holster.
All in, throws down his last card
hard.

I had the most terrible idea while I was struggling to come up with a blog post for the week. Yes, I could have just skipped -I doubt anyone would notice- but this idea came to me and I couldn’t pass it up.

I realized that there are seven months until National Poetry Month in April. And I wrote a poem about each member of the Magnificent Seven (2016) as an exercise to experiment with more poetry forms.

Do you see where I’m going here?

Yes! I will be subjecting you to my bad poetry outside of the confines of the month of April. I will be posting my Magnificent Seven poems on a monthly basis as a way to lead into National Poetry Month. Aren’t you excited?

I’m sure you’re ecstatic.

To make it worse, I’m going to go identify and explain the poetic form I chose for each poem.

No doubt you’re tingling with anticipation by now, so let’s get to it.

The first poem I’m posting is actually the last one I wrote for the Seven. I decided on a sonnet for Chisholm. You might remember that from English class when you were studying Shakespeare. 14 lines, usually rhymes, often has iambic pentameter. I managed the 14 lines and the traditional ababcdcdefefgg rhyme scheme, but aside from getting 10 syllables a line, really didn’t go hard for the iambic pentameter.

Close enough for bad poetry.

I also totally admit to incorporating a line from the movie into the poem. It was too good not to.

Chisholm

A man in black riding alone, trouble
he finds for his wage. Come the day
an offer is made and from precious rubble
emerges an old monster to be slain.
The promise of gold no match for his past,
he rounds up others who cannot resist
the lure of this flame, this fight to the last.
A challenge. Now his reason to exist.
Plans well laid, graves well dug, vengeance well sought
to save a home not his for one he lost.
Blood that’s spilled added to battles he’s fought,
the price he’s paid multiplies in its cost.
What the fires consumed, lost in flashes,
he finds it again sifting through ashes.