In Singapore I went to a toastmasters club where a speaker who is bilingual in England and Malay told us about the Malay form of poetry, the pantoum. Afterwards i looked it up online. In Wikipedia and other places.
I looked in my own poetry book, Poetry Workshop and discovered I had listed the form in the appendix where I gave the structures of sonnets, haikus, pantoums etc. Later I discovered that I had actually written a pantoum. However, here's my latest version, based on the English oak tree.
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A little seed grew a flower
A little acorn grew a tree
Over time an oak tree's bower
Was the grand view our street could see
A little acron grew a tree
Higher and higher over time
A place where squirrels built their nests
And boys with ladders and ropes climb
Higher and higher over time
A place for birds, a lure for cats
And boys with ladders and ropes climb
Rooks, parakeets, owls, maybe bats
A place for birds, a lure for cats
Until one day a giant storm
Rooks, parakeets, owls, maybe bats
Scattered to earth fearing some harm
Until one day a giant storm
Over time an oak tree's bower
Scattered to earth fearing some harm
A little seed grew a flower,
-ends-
I have a sample pantoum and the rhyming scheme in my book POETRY WORKSHOP which you can buy from Lulu or Amazon.
I need to reprint the book and add that Victor Hugo who revived the Pantoum was the author of Les Miserables.
Please share links to your favourite posts.
Regers & Hammerstein example from the Flower Drum, published in 1958, still in copyright so I shall repeat only the last 2 verses.
There's especially one I like.
There is something about his face.
It's the father's first son I like.
He's the reason I love the place.
There is something about his face.
I would follow him anywhere.
If he goes to another place,
I am going to like it there."
Harmonie du soir
Voici venir les temps où vibrant sur sa tige
Chaque fleur s'évapore ainsi qu'un encensoir;
Les sons et les parfums tournent dans l'air du soir;
Valse mélancolique et langoureux vertige!
Chaque fleur s'évapore ainsi qu'un encensoir;
Le violon frémit comme un coeur qu'on afflige;
Valse mélancolique et langoureux vertige!
Le ciel est triste et beau comme un grand reposoir.
Le violon frémit comme un coeur qu'on afflige,
Un coeur tendre, qui hait le néant vaste et noir!
Le ciel est triste et beau comme un grand reposoir;
Le soleil s'est noyé dans son sang qui se fige.
Un coeur tendre, qui hait le néant vaste et noir,
Du passé lumineux recueille tout vestige!
Le soleil s'est noyé dans son sang qui se fige...
Ton souvenir en moi luit comme un ostensoir!
— Charles Baudelaire
See also Charles Baudelaire's Flowers of Evil. One poem has been translated several times by different authors. See how you would translate it.
https://fleursdumal.org/poem/142
Evening Harmony
The season is at hand when swaying on its stem
Every flower exhales perfume like a censer;
Sounds and perfumes turn in the evening air;
Melancholy waltz and languid vertigo!
Every flower exhales perfume like a censer;
The violin quivers like a tormented heart;
Melancholy waltz and languid vertigo!
The sky is sad and beautiful like an immense altar.
The violin quivers like a tormented heart,
A tender heart, that hates the vast, black void!
The sky is sad and beautiful like an immense altar;
The sun has drowned in his blood which congeals...
A tender heart that hates the vast, black void
Gathers up every shred of the luminous past!
The sun has drowned in his blood which congeals...
Your memory in me glitters like a monstrance!
— William Aggeler, The Flowers of Evil (Fresno, CA: Academy Library Guild, 1954)
Evening Harmony
Now comes the eve, when on its stem vibrates
Each flower, evaporating like a censer;
When sounds and scents in the dark air grow denser;
Drowsed swoon through which a mournful waltz pulsates!
Each flower evaporates as from a censer;
The fiddle like a hurt heart palpitates;
Drowsed swoon through which a mournful waltz pulsates;
The sad, grand sky grows, altar-like, immenser.
The fiddle, like a hurt heart, palpitates,
A heart that hates oblivion, ruthless censor.
The sad, grand sky grows, altar-like, immenser.
The sun in its own blood coagulates...
A heart that hates oblivion, ruthless censor,
The whole of the bright past resuscitates.
The sun in its own blood coagulates...
And, monstrance-like, your memory flames intenser!
— Roy Campbell, Poems of Baudelaire (New York: Pantheon Books, 1952)
Evening Harmony
Now comes the time when quivering on its stem
Each flower exhales like a censer;
Sounds and perfumes turn in the evening air;
Melancholy waltz and languorous vertigo!
Each flower exhales like a censer;
The violin sobs like an afflicted heart;
Melancholy waltz and languorous vertigo!
The sky is as sad and beautiful as a great altar of rest.
The violin sobs like an afflicted heart,
A tender heart, which hates the huge black void!
The sky is as sad and beautiful as a great altar of rest.
The sun drowned in its blood which coagulates.
A tender heart, which hates the huge black void,
Welcomes every vestige of a luminous past!
The sun drowned in its blood which coagulates…
Your memory shines in me like a monstrance!
— Wallace Fowlie, Flowers of Evil (New York: Dover Publications, 1964)
Evening Harmony
The hour approacheth, when, as their stems incline,
The flowers evaporate like an incense urn,
And sounds and scents in the vesper breezes turn;
A melancholy waltz — and a drowsiness divine.
The flowers evaporate like an incense urn,
The viol vibrates like the wailing of souls that repine.
A melancholy waltz — and a drowsiness divine,
The skies like a mosque are beautiful and stern.
The viol vibrates like the wailing of souls that repine;
Sweet souls that shrink from chaos vast and etern,
The skies like a mosque are beautiful and stern,
The sunset drowns within its blood-red brine.
Sweet souls that shrink from chaos vast and etern,
Essay the wreaths of their faded Past to entwine,
The sunset drowns within its blood-red brine,
Thy thought within me glows like an incense urn.
— Cyril Scott, Baudelaire: The Flowers of Evil (London: Elkin Mathews, 1909)
Harmonie du soir
the hours approach when vibrant in the breeze,
a censer swoons to every swaying flower;
blown tunes and scents in turn enchant the bower;
languorous waltz of swirling fancies these!
a censer swoons in every swaying flower;
the quivering violins cry out, decrease;
languorous waltz of swirling fancies these!
mournful and fair the heavenly altars tower.
the quivering violins cry out, decrease;
like hearts of love the Void must overpower!
mournful and fair the heavenly altars tower.
the drowned sun bleeds in fast congealing seas.
a heart of love the Void must overpower
peers for a vanished day's last vestiges!
the drowned sun bleeds in fast congealing seas...
and like a Host thy flaming memories flower!
— Lewis Piaget Shanks, Flowers of Evil (New York: Ives Washburn, 1931)
Evening Harmony
Now is the time when trembling on its stem
Each flower fades away like incense;
Sounds and scents turn in the evening air;
A melancholy waltz, a soft and giddy dizziness!
Each flower fades away like incense;
The violin thrills like a tortured heart;
A melancholy waltz, a soft and giddy dizziness!
The sky is sad and beautiful like some great resting-place.
The violin thrills like a tortured heart,
A tender heart, hating the wide black void.
The sky is sad and beautiful like some great resting-place;
The sun drowns itself in its own clotting blood.
A tender heart, boring the wide black void,
Gathers all trace from the pellucid past.
The sun drowns itself in clotting blood.
Like the Host shines O your memory in me!
— Geoffrey Wagner, Selected Poems of Charles Baudelaire (NY: Grove Press, 1974)
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