#pantoun

[christinesgsblog]

[randomfoggytiger]

I am too young for tears— Teach me to smile again. There will be other years; Sorrow can wait till then. Teach me to smile again. I shall be old some day— Sorrow can wait till then. Now I must have my way. I shall be old some day; Grief will be easy then. Now I must have my way— Teach me to smile again. Grief will be easy then— Then, in the after years. Teach me to smile again! I am too young for tears.

A Pantoun

Margaret De Laughter 

[llovelymoonn]

favourite november poems

marilyn chin little girl études

muriel rukeyser the speed of darkness: “poem (i lived in the first century of world wars)”

sanna wani lately i am trying

tory dent collected poems: “the moon and the yew tree”

maya mior re: your listing

marvin bell nightworks: poems 1962-2000: “obsessive”

lauren k. alleyene how could i have known i would need to remember your laughter

charles bernstein with strings: “a test of poetry”

carl phillips this far in

laura wetherington (& hannah ensor) feel piece 4

dean young dear friend

robyn schiff a woman of property: “gate”

margaret de laughter a pantoun

rick barot the flea

elsa gidlow oversoul

carl phillips stop shaking

warsan shire the unbearable weight of staying

manuel arturo abreu klangfarbenmelodie

marianne boruch keats is coughing

evan knoll blood makes the blade holy

risk (@mechanicrisk) my son, the two headed calf

francine sterle nude in winter: “self-portrait as an allegory of painting”

luci tapahonso a radiant curve: “elegy for my younger sister”

matthew sweeney alone

david harsent from “a dream book”

sanna wani tomorrow is a place

rachel blau duplessis: from eurydics: snake

hannah brooks-motl family dollar

matthew olzmann letter beginning with two lines from czesław miłosz

janice lobo sapigao silhouette

kofi

[jeanetjeannepatin]

Mercredi 21 mai 2019 à 19H sur Radio-Radio, (en hertzien Toulouse : 106.8 Mhz ou sur https://www.radioradiotoulouse.net) dans la Petite Boutique Fantasque Catherine Kauffmann Saint-Martin présentera la nouvelle saison estivale de Musique en dialogue au Carmélites. Liste des morceaux diffusés : 1) La Chabraque (Pia Colombo) 2) Polo (Manuel de Falla) joué par Carmen Martinez et Angel Luis Quintana 3) El Pano moruno (Manuel de Falla) joué par Carmen Martinez et Angel Luis Quintana 4) Valzer (Clara Schuman) chanté par Organe Moretti, accompagné par Hya Rashkovskiy 5) Rafaga (Turina) joué par Sébastien Llinares 6) Les Berceaux (Gabriel Fauré) joué par Elsa Grether et François Dumont 7) Pantoun (Maurice Ravel) par Denis Pascal et Svetlin Roussev 8) Danse chinoise (Tchaïkovsky) tirée de Casse noisette, transcription pour piano jouée par Cyril Guillotin 9) Difficult blues (Solal / Lockwood) 10) Achey sham rai (Parvathy Paul) 11) Blues in the morning (Keith Richards) Pour ceux qui auraient piscine indienne, ou toute autre obligation, il y a une possibilité de rattrapage avec tous les podcasts de la PBF. Attention l'émission qui correspond à cette publication est le plus bas de la liste : PBF 2019.14T https://www.mixcloud.com/…/playl…/petite-boutique-fantasque/

[zmwisethepoet]

12

Published in Ginosko Literary Journal

Elderly fisherman, swimming in the arroyo and warming his ideas in the shanty during the frost and ice season. Elevator door man, driven insane by the mundane vertical up and down playlist.

Twenty two year old jester, chuckling at city misfits, socialite drama, urbanite capitalism, cranes flying overhead, where order to the world serves as one concentric circle of laughs.

Omega poet in the corner, observing a word as a face, a sound as a color, and paper as shielding parchment. The other eleven might as well have their brains quarantined.

Shamanic medicine woman, viewing every flash forward as scenes inside a West Virginia mind. Her peyote ramblings exit her lips as villanelles, pantouns, and ghazals. Oh, will her unbiased mastery be inherent in her child’s psychotropic genes?

Previously used bookseller, tiptoeing on her expiration date. Of all the documents that weaved their way through her ruby curls, the photocopied report, crumpled by edgy fingers, gave her judgment free insight beyond clairvoyance.

Middle-aged astrophysicist has lost her inner conscience. Freedom of choice lies beyond the outer reaches of this radar blip of a galaxy. Flight in the tabernacle arms!

Paranoid, trigger-happy fighter, suffering from delusions of preventive victories by an authoritarian nation with a stiff bottom lip. Egalitarian beliefs: open mind with success of a chameleon.

Old codger of the sea of anger, regurgitating him back to the sands of limited time only. He is a modern day Jonah, being deprived of the guilty pleasures that rare breezes want to feel. Pluck yourself because it feels amazing.

Teenage-minded animal rights activist, hands on experience, paws on protection, yet all reliability drifts to the accomplices in the West. People…humanity…past existent hobbies.

Fury-fighting feminist heroine, well dressed for each court date, eyes on the common folk who can sniff out the lying water dogs in the quick of gun-drawing suspenseful seconds. She who shoots last is a semi-pacifist.

Materialistic queen of the shops! All hail those who win the suit and spend half at the Vancouver mall and half on a hall of alcohol. Money-grasping marsupials, feeding off of the concept of hovering over green paper air.

Single mother in mid twenties, only wants the best for the son of the abandoning cretin. Put the guilty in their place. Put on the shackles and imprison those who do not desire freedom.

Twelve irate souls converse their combined ways of combat.

Weed out the naysayers. ‘Tis a guilty group of felons, nothing more than housebroken rats, voluntarily soiling cages.

If the facts would appear and present themselves, then every cold case would ice the nearest informer for squealing out of turn.

Opening statements are first legal impressions.

The gamblers take their chance. Jurors now swim in two entirely different seas. Curse the storm of spontaneity and the mullah mindset!

Separation of Church and State? Highly illogical when holy literature binds one’s verbal contract to speak of the truth and its entirety.

And as the rabbit runs, dogs are out for the hunt. Without a witness, this case shall take a nosedive into gentle obstruction.

Release the river from which the dam held captive after fifty years of nature restriction.

All it takes is eight for the final verdict, to tell the tale for a high and mighty six dollars a day.

Civic duty put the righteous three weeks behind the rent. The decision has been reached. Hold the final number for ransom. Keep the two cents.

March 31, 2014

Copyright © Z.M. Wise 2014

[riguetblogw]

La pluie la plage par Catimini Plume

La pluie la plage par Catimini Plume

La pluie a dévasté la plage par Catimini Plume Pluie sur le sable de la plage

La pluie a dévasté la plage la cabane en bois se délite les larmes sur ton beau visage ruinent ton rimmel anthracite. Suite au dernier appel à textes de la Revue Pantun Sayang sur le thème de la Beauté, j’ai le plaisir de vous présenter ce pantoun faisant partie des propositions sélectionnées.

via La pluie a…

[lebaldesours]

Pantoun Breton

Inébranlable sarcophage! Piètre planche de salut. Dans sa robe de coquillages Gît sa carcasse vermoulue.

Piètre planche de salut, Qu’Anteros me vienne férir! Gît sa carcasse vermoulue; Qu’à la mer nul ne vient quérir.

Qu’Anteros me vienne férir, Le substitue à ton reflet! Qu’à la mer nul ne vient quérir, Varech en friche aux voiles navrées.

Le substitue à ton reflet, Le tain enchanté du miroir. Varech en friche aux voiles navrées, Piteux cheval de corbillard!

Le tain enchanté du miroir, Que pourtant fêle cette moue. Piteux cheval de corbillard, Perd figure,  oncques ne s’ébroue.

Que pourtant fêle cette moue; Morne souris! Triste visage! Perd figure, oncques ne s’ébroue, Inébranlable sarcophage!

[montepoetry-blog]

Poem Peer Response & Workshop

This was an assignment I really enjoyed. I really like the classmate I was paired with, well, I asked her to be my partner. I wasn’t technically paired with her. Anyway, I really enjoyed her poem, which was in the form known as a pantoum.

I will post the pantoum form at the end of this post, for you to see. But first I must post my Peer Response & Workshop paper:

“Poems Illumination,” by Renalisa Lauengco, is a poem that looks to bring about the question upon the reader, “If a poet does not poet, will poetry exist?” I think it is most relevant in the 3rd stanza,

 If the other leaves the space

And accumulates the mind of another

What becomes of the poet,

But a mere man, whose words shudder in the abyss

 The last line in this stanza “But a mere man, whose words shudder in the abyss” really seems to “crack the code” of her poem for me. To think of a poets words falling into an empty void with no-one to feel the feels of the authors emotions. Which bring me to the title, “Poems Illumination,” I think it works for the poem. I feel Renalisa was going for a “spiritualness” vibe with the title.  And since I feel the poem, at its core, is about existence of poetry, it works.

 I feel the speakers perspective is understandable, the language is appropriate and easy to grasp, the stanza break at every four lines works and that is because the poem is a Pantoun. Renalisa follows the Pantoun style and it is not only evident, but she does a great job making the lines mean something different in their second lives on the paper. The fourth line in the first stanza, “With the absent of light?” questions can one stand without the other, the poem and the poet. Then in the next stanza as it is now the 3rd line, it leads you into the next question vs being the question itself. I found this to be an effective use of the style.

 I think the poem offers a fresh look at an age old question, “If a tree falls in forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?” The answer is yes, according to physics, but in Renalisa’s poem we are left to ponder, and that is sometimes what poetry is meant to do, make you think.  And that is exactly how she closes the poem, making you think.

 The poem ends by questioning, “But then what of the man, if poetry leaves again, [line break] Can one stand, in the midst of a crowd?” I don’t know, can one? That is up to the reader, and I think is an effective question to button the poem with.

 In the end, I think it is a solid poem. There was one part of the poem was unclear to me, and that was in the fourth stanza, the first two lines:

 And accumulates the mind of another,

Poet, perhaps who waits in silence

The pantoum form is as follows:

Stanza 1 A B C D Stanza 2 B E D F Stanza 3 E G F H Stanza 4 G C H A  

[tendayiolga]

What the Writers’ Retreat Taught Me

For the last couple of weeks I have been running around frantically trying to get everything ready and perfect for my writer’s group writing retreat. The weekend retreat was last weekend and when the day finally arrived I was far from ready and things were far from perfect. This wasn’t my first time giving a writers workshop but previously I was just invited, I wasn’t the host.

 However, that didn’t stop the retreat from moving forward and turning out to be a wonderful experience. It was a real opportunity to learn and participate in other writing forms outside of our traditional ones. One of our members is a poet and poetry master. I always joke with her about how, in our feedback sessions, I can’t give her anything useful because I don’t fully understand how poetry works. This member hosted a workshop on form poetry and by the end of it, I had written not one- but two full Pantouns! Who woulda thunk it?

 A workshop I was really looking forward to was the one on dialogue because as a writer of YA Fantasy Fiction, dialogue plays a role central in shaping character and even setting the scenes through the narrator’s monologue. It was a truly enlightening workshop that helped me see reason behind the factual rules I follow without even thinking. A screenwriter showed one of his independent films, "Love is multicoloured"(Matriculas Abertas, Vagas Limitadas), and some writers did readings in front of the fireplace.

  So often, as writers, much of our work takes place in isolation and it was encouraging to be among peers to do what we do as a collective- separately ;) The main thing that was useful about the retreat was that it was a time dedicated to our craft in all its forms. There wasn’t just one person leading or presenting, everyone got a chance to share their expertise and we all left with new or more knowledge and skills than we did coming in.

 Check out BookHQ to see some of the resources for competitions shared during the retreat and other fun and useful writing tidbits.

[monstrous-femme]

Your hands are thin paper sheets. I want to cover them with words, make an impression. You've already forgotten me.

I want to cover them with my hands, skin to skin, but you've already forgotten me. I can't tell if it's blood or ink. 

My hands, skin to skin, but touching nothing. You're stained red. I can't tell if it's blood or ink obscuring your pages.

Touching nothing.You're stained red, words make an impression, obscuring your pages. Your hands are thin paper sheets. (I miss you.)

[avant-sad]

pantoun replied to your post: sources tell me today is your birthday. is that true? if it is. happy birthday. i'm sorry i don't have anything to give you except good vibes but maybe next time!

happy birthday! ^^)

thx bby!

[artpigeon]

pantoun replied to your post: pantoun answered your question: i’m coming down...

you should check out SIlent Shout sometime, it’s absolutely flooring. It’s my favorite electronic dance record :)

4sure sometime. there's so much good music out there that i get overwhelmed ya know?? i'll check it out when i can tho 

[poetrycan]

The Butterfly

I saw a butterfly dying on a leaf

A monarch, tiny little thing

It’s wings traced in orange black

Nestled on a milkweed plant

  A monarch, tiny little thing

In late October I found this odd

Nestled on a milkweed plant

It ought to have migrated south by now

  In late October I found it odd

It seemed to shiver in the dying sun

It ought to have migrated south by now

I noticed a tear across its wing

  It seemed to be shivering in the dying sun

Clinging to the fading plant

I noticed a tear across its wing

She will never fly again

  Clinging to the fading plant

It’s wings traced in orange and black

She will never fly again

I saw a butterfly dying on a leaf