Pantoum Pandemonium
My friend Oliver is teaching a forms class this summer, and he’s been posting about the forms he’s teaching. So I’m reaching in and as any good former Catholic, picking and choosing the ones I want to try. Writing in form is like doing calisthenics–it’s not always fun, but it involves counting and is good for you to exercise certain muscles that you don’t always exercise. So I think it was yesterday he did a pantoum.
The first pantoum I wrote was in Boston College in 1993. I love the form because it reminds me of palindromes, but it’s so hard to do well. Even harder than sestinas, in my book. I’ve seen a few very successful pantoums, and envy them. The first pantoum I wrote, though, actually ended up being performed as part of the first AIDS benefit called The Dead Are Dancing. It was the first (and last) time I ever performed on Robsham Theater’s Main Stage. The benefit meant a lot to me, but so did the director who asked me to participate, and for my poem to be performed. It was sort of an interpretive dance set to music and poetry, and many of us in it were not actors. It was such an important thing to participate in, and I have very fond memories of it. Thanks, Rob. The pantoum itself wasn’t exactly successful, but the music and the dance that went with it, I think, made it successful.
Which brings me to this: sometimes, a poem is better performed than read. I have a lot more to say about that, as a child of Slam, but in the meantime, here’s the new pantoum, for a day:
Gravity’s Problem
*poof*
And for kickers, the pantoum from The Dead are Dancing, originally published in Stylus, Spring, 1994 (I can’t believe I found it)…
Keeping Time
The metronome ticks faster now.
Snow begins to fall in rhythms;
I’ve heard that the dead are dancing,
and winter creeps in black and white measures.
Snow begins to fall in rhythms.
Coughs rattle in too many throats,
and winter creeps in black and white measures,
a million melting drops to quilt the world.
Coughs rattle in too many throats,
breathing meters gasp as they measure the days.
A million melting drops to quilt the world,
a blanket of bald heads reflect the gray.
Breathing meters gasp as they measure the days;
discoveries are slow but steady now.
A blanket of bald heads reflect the gray,
as small red ribbons shine on lapels.
Discoveries are slow but steady now–
Families sit and watch, waiting for a sign.
Small red ribbons shine on lapels,
as icy waters flow with melting winter.
Families sit and watch, waiting for a sign,
as funerals are more frequent now.
Icy waters flow with melting winter;
the band played on in slow Marches.
Funerals are more frequent now–
Over two hundred thousand served.
As the band plays on in slow marches,
tired eyes watch the drifts of white.
Over two hundred thousand served.
Another day begins. Again.
Tired eyes watch the drifts of white,
but the season’s songs end in quiet.
Another day begins again,
and I see the dead are dancing.
The season’s songs end in silence
as the metronome ticks faster now.