Pantoums
March 2009
For this prompt, we looked at "Something About the Trees" by Linda Pastan
In the poem, she asks, "When will I be most myself?" That line is what our prompt focused on.
Write a poem that addresses the age in which you, or the voice of your poem, were, or will be, most yourself. That's not an easy question.
Placing your answer in a form may actually make it easier to write. (This sounds counterintuitive, but is often true.)
You certainly could try a true pantoum form, but we will accept poems that follow these 3 imperfect rules:
1. You must use quatrains (4 line stanzas)
2. The first 4 lines must reappear in exactly the same format in some subsequent stanzas at least once more, and
3. the poem's first line must also be its last.
Pastan's poem talks about her parents and her childhood belief that set them at an age when they seemed just right and where "they both would live forever." Her father, at 50, suggesting that "There is an age when you are most yourself" is what puts the poem in motion.
The circling, lullaby feel of a pantoum (because of the interlocking lines and repetition) seems right for the subject.
I recommend that you listen to her read the poem from the video online as well as read the poem in order to study the form.
If you do decide to try a true pantoum, take a look at this How To page - you might find it easier to number your lines, for example.
There is much more about the pantoum form and many other prompts and things poetic on the Poets Online blog.
Linda Pastan
THE PASSING OF THE SEASONS
I always knew change would come,
yet turning sixty was especially hard.
The woods were quiet and called to me.
So much looking back on what has been.
Turning sixty was especially hard.
I measured years in things left undone.
So much looking back on what has been,
Time to turn around and face what will be.
I measured years in things left undone.
All those dreams are now just memories.
Time to turn around and face what will be,
March is here and the garden needs work.
All those dreams are now just memories.
I go outside where the air has turned warm.
March is here and the garden needs work,
Time to cut back the buddleia so it will bloom.
I go outside where the air has turned warm,
Already bulbs are shouting with life.
Time to cut back the buddleia so it will bloom.
The garden now awakens to spring.
Already bulbs are shouting with life,
but the woods are quiet and call to me.
The garden now awakens to spring.
I always knew change would come.
Mary Kendall
U-DAYS
It no longer matters that I'm not good at basketball.
Who cares that I'm the oldest of nine.
Don't follow my example now!
University is the place to discover myself.
Who cares that I'm the oldest of nine?
My high school dates were awkward and pimply.
University is the place to discover myself
and ace Philosophy.
My high school dates were awkward and pimply --
now every man is mine for the dreaming.
Who knew that I would ace Philosophy
and move from the prairies to the sea?
Now every career is mine for the dreaming
though inbred practicality never forsakes
even when I move from the prairies to the sea
settle in as a teacher.
Inbred practicality never forsakes.
Don't follow my example now
settle in as a teacher
where it matters again that I'm not good at basketball.
Violet Nesdoly
THE SEASON I’LL BE MOST MYSELF
Overnight the creek washed out the fences.
So much rain letting go
from the hillsides ravaging soil,
making new gullies and ruts.
So much rain letting go
carrying people’s once-treasures,
making new gullies and ruts
in what I thought of as mine.
Carrying people’s once-treasures,
too heavy a load –
what I thought of as mine,
all those years of keys and chains.
Too heavy a load.
What held the fence in place?
All those years of keys and chains
I kept collecting as if they’d keep me.
What held the fence in place,
these lands no one owns forever.
I kept collecting as if they’d keep me
from giving up to the wild spring flow.
These lands no one owns forever –
my rutted face rain-washed
from giving up to the wild spring flow –
is this myself now, muddy, raw, and singing?
My rutted face, rain-washed
from the hillsides ravaging soil,
is this now myself, muddy, raw, and singing?
Overnight the creek washed out the fences.
Taylor Graham
MOTHER SELF
My first child in winter
Second in autumn
Four more arrived
On alternate weekends
Did I know myself then?
My first child in winter
When I saw my own body
And what it could do.
Second in autumn
Years at the hospital
Long corridor days
Slow nights of fatigue
Did I know myself then?
As I took us away
In the spring of that year
Four more arrived
Four more arrived
Did I know myself then?
Our house set to burst
With you and your pride
We could still be friends
On alternate weekends
Did I know myself then?
As you moved yourself out
My cold hand in yours
At a raised metal bed
Did I know myself then
For a second in autumn?
My babies with babies
Their eyes filled with love
Did I know myself then?
My first child in winter
Iris Lavell
WAITING ON ME
When will I be most myself?
I ask this every year
A tear is shed of her former self
She thought she was most herself the prior year
A tear is shed of her former self
Every year for this she sheds a tear
She thought she was most herself the prior year
When will I be most myself?
Every year for this she sheds a tear
This for the most true self that has passed
When will I be most myself?
I guess it will be next year that will pass
A new beginning each year she promises
Because her former self has passed
She has been waiting on recognition
There are too many unanswered questions she has asked
Because her former self has passed
She still waits on recognition
There are too many unanswered questions she has asked
Which has her in this compromised position
When will I be most myself?
I ask this every year
A tear is shed of her former self because
She thought she was most herself the prior year.
Brandy Facey
THE LIGHT REFLECTING OFF SHIPROCK
The day I awoke to the sunlight reflecting off Shiprock
When I thought extra terrestrials or the ancestors had landed
That was the day I most felt like myself, full of life and fearless
Ready to walk into the bright light of the world and find a place in it
When I thought extraterrestrials or the ancestors had landed
It was just Sara coming through the hogan door to stir the fire
Ready to walk into the bright light of the world and find a place in it
She was a master at weaving dreams into life with all its beauty and mistakes
It was just Sara coming through the hogan door to stir the fire
A light that never goes out and is always burning below the ashes
She was a master at weaving dreams into life with all its beauty and mistakes
Imperfectly perfect like all of creation
A light that never goes out and is always burning below the ashes
The hope of another chance to be better next time
Imperfectly perfect like all of creation
In a spirit line woven across the fabric of our lives
The hope of another chance to be better next time
We remember our shortcomings as lessons
In a spirit line woven across the fabric of our lives
I saw the beauty before me and walked into the future
We remember our shortcomings as lessons
Letting go of the past helps us live in the present
I saw the beauty before me and walked into the future
The day I awoke to the sunlight reflecting off Shiprock
Odilia Galván Rodríguez
PEAK EXPERIENCE
My perfect multitude, with imperfections, waits
Through timeless Time awaiting Curtain Time;
Then, prologue, scenes, acts, terrors, ecstasies
Stream forth in countless story lines
Through timeless Time awaiting Curtain Time
Again. We fly apart on fateful choices,
Stream forth in countless story lines;
Though multiplied, my nature's yet the same.
Again we fly apart on fateful choices
With all my dreams fulfilled, my heart is seared;
Though multiplied, my nature's yet the same
Through tears and bliss and sins of blood and lust.
With all my dreams fulfilled, my heart is seared:
I've mourned my passion's ashes, stained in guilt.
Through tears, and bliss, and sins of blood and lust,
All joys of love and play arose and flew.
I've mourned my passion's ashes, stained in guilt --
I see them all, in state forever graved.
All joys of love, and playtimes arose and flew,
Stood icy still and predetermined.
I see them all, in state forever graved;
Then, prologue, scenes, acts, terrors, ecstasies
Stood icy still and predetermined:
My perfect multitude, with imperfections, waits.
NINETEEN
I was nineteen then
And I knew who I was
My mistakes lay before me
Each one adding a scar
And I knew who I was
Each morning I woke
Each one adding a scar
A small new memory
Each morning I woke
With a terrible headache
A small new memory
Time passes me by
With a terrible headache
Smells of stale beer linger
Time passes me by
It comes to an end
Smells of stale beer linger
In the cold dorm room
It comes to an end
I’ve been so stupid
In the cold dorm room
My mistakes lay before me
I’ve been so stupid
I was nineteen then
CHANGELING
There isn’t enough love to go around
My life, fragmented by that careless word.
Words wound the tongue that cannot grind them smooth.
Do I mean by "love" what real people mean?
My life fragmented by that careless word,
By mother-love that bore and cast aside.
Do I mean by love what real people mean?
They always ask how it feels to be me.
By mother-love that bore and cast aside,
My phantom heart feels twinges of real life.
They always ask how it feels to be me.
I look real, but they know. They always know.
My phantom heart feels twinges of real life;
My back is hollow, yes, but I can dance
(I look real, but I know. I always know)
You down to dawn and back before I fade.
My back is hollow, yes. But I can dance
More prettily than sharp edges can shine
You down to dawn and back--before I fade,
I know a wildness you will never know.
More prettily than sharp edges can shine,
My life, fragmented by that careless word.
I know a wildness you will never know.
A jagged brokenness reflects me whole,
My life fragmented by that careless word.
There isn’t enough love to go around.
A jagged brokenness reflects me whole.
Words wound the tongue that cannot grind them smooth.
Laurel Jenkins-Crowe
SELF REALIZATION
i lingered a little longer at the market that day
tasted my exhales for the first time
plucked and pondered the perfect plum,
my soundtrack-concertos over hip hop.
tasted my exhales for the first time
wistful whiffs of cotton candy left my lips
my soundtrack-concertos over hip hop
hips sambaed under my indigo broomstick skirt.
wistful whiffs of cotton candy left my lips
as poems permeated thick august breezes
hips sambaed under my indigo broomstick skirt
the children gathered mocking my rhythm.
as poems permeated thick august breezes
i embraced the woman i have become
the children gathered mocking my rhythm
while holding out their hands for fruit.
they thirsted for knowledge’s nectar as i
plucked and pondered the perfect plum,
because i am woman, teacher, poet
i lingered a little longer at the market that day.