Pantoums Are Fun

try it, you'll see

Greetings from a sunny winter day.

Writing can be fun. Really.

Lately, I’ve been writing lots of poetry, thanks in part to some wondrous poets who inspire and support my dabblings. (Namely, Barbara Krasner, Katharine Cristiani, Joanne Brown, Rasma Haidri, and Julian Gunn, as well as the other many brave souls who write such fresh evocative poems in my current poetry series.)

Last week, we played with the poetic form of a pantoum.

The pantoum originated in Malaysia in the fifteenth century as a short folk poem typically made up of two rhyming couplets that were recited or sung. However, Western writers altered and adapted the form, and the importance of rhyming and brevity diminished.

The pantoum can be of any length, composed of four-line stanzas in which the second and fourth lines of each stanza serve as the first and third lines of the next stanza. The last line of a pantoum is often the same as the first.

It was pointed out to me that the pantoum is often written on account of an obsession, hence the repetition.

And so… here are two of my attempts. I invite you to have a go with any topic of your choosing.

Photo by Roxanne Desgagnés on Unsplash

Before the Thaw

When we speak of ice,

how it melts and freezes,

we believe, perhaps, that it’s up to us

but the truth is, our hands are small.

Ice melts and freezes,

the way our hearts open and close.

The truth is, our hands are small—

we reach but cannot touch.

Just as ice, our hearts melt and freeze,

open and close like spring and winter.

We reach but fail to touch;

we sink before the thaw.

We open and close like spring and winter

as if the choice is ours.

We are sinking, I’m bound to tell you,

since we are speaking of ice.

---

Without You

Without you crowding my hours,

I wander in open spaces.

Now anything is possible,

probable and terrifying.

I wander this open space

certain that my dream was real,

probably, terrifyingly, possibly portentous.

My face so cold in the mirror.

So certain that my dream was real,

I thought to call you home, but

I saw my cold face in the mirror,

blurred as it was, and did not cry.

Should I call you home now,

or are all dreams a lie?

Blurred as it all is, I refuse to cry,

without you crowding my hours.

I’d love to read your pantoum. You can put it into the comment section and I’ll be happy to comment too about what I like about it. Because that’s the way we AWAers roll