Pantoum for Dream Girls

By Allison Joseph

Who knows where words can take a girl-
what palaces or haunted aisles?
What better way to cruise the world
than travel, pen in hand, for miles?

In palaces or haunted aisles
or beaches wide with shifting sands,
your words can travel far, for miles,
your poems crossing borders, lands.

On beaches wide with shifting sands,
the words will come to you like tides,
your poems crossing borders, lands,
your stories rising from inside.

When words come rising, swift as tides,
don't hesitate against their flow-
when stories rise up from inside
make time for them before they go.

Don't hesitate against that flow-
what better way to cruise the world?
Make time for words before they go.
Who knows where they can take a girl?

The girl/world off-rhyme is pretty common and usually feels contrived, but in this case it works pretty well. It isn't easy to breathe new life into something so familiar, but here the music carries everything along very nicely indeed.
Richard

Sam, what's happening here, you are starting to freak me out. This one is more rigidly an iambic doof doof machine that the last.

Who KNOWS where WORDS can TAKE a GIRL-
what PALaCES or HAUNted AILES?
What BETter WAY to CRUISE the WORLD
than TRAVel, PEN in HAND, for MILES?


kaCHOOF kaCHOOF kaCHOOF kaCHOOF.

Is this what's getting published now to represent metrical poetry? - Lord have mercy.

Yawn.

------------------
Mark Allinson

Oh dear, her words haven't taken her very far, have they!

I'm afraid the Pantoum just reminds me of the "nice" poetry I was given as a child, which all seemed to be on those lines of using your imagination and flying away to any land you choose... I don't know. It's not SAYING anything, is it? And if it is, is it true?

I Googled Allison Joseph, she seems to have a large presence and lots going on. So here's another poem, but it also seems dull, anecdotal, untransformative. The level of craft isn't high, with awkward metaphors and not too much else going on.

I've seen so many people think they've reached a state of "poetry" when all they've really reached is "permission to own my experiences," which is actually just a condition that might ALLOW poetry. It's a beginning.

Well - to my mind. I could be a doily-weaver! This is very much political poetry, which has a lineage and tradition of its own. What was the King James Version if not political poetry? I'm sure lots of people feel heartwarmed and completely validated when they read these poems.

I note particularly that her content is much more authentic in free verse than it is in form, where she suddenly goes all sugary.

Of course the crux, in terms of it being high art, is where "what it's FOR" is more important than "what it IS." But this seems more than useful for giving to kids who need to know you can write your own experience. It's like A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, remember that?

Here's where the pantoum comes back in. It was clear to me on first reading that it's also a political poem. The dream girls are the disempowered ones. She's writing a poem for girls (& they are out there) who have no choices in life. It seems old-fashioned because it's not a concept we're accustomed to these days and the sugar hasn't helped! These days the girls might be more interested in Kim Addonizio.

My take, anyway.


Disobedience

Do I really want it back,
that pen for chipped
furniture, my room the last
stop for the peeling bureau,
the sagging mattresses
my grandmother once slept on?
Do I want to re-live
that shedding green carpet,
my unsteady desk with its
wobbly wooden chair,
the room cold no matter
the season, so clammy
no space heater could
warm it fully? I sat
in that room, engrossed
in library books, afraid
my father might find
my overdue copy of Fear of Flying,
that I read fitfully in the almost-dark,
astonished over its sex scenes.
Or I pecked at my stolid gray Royal,
striking stiff keys one at a time,
fingers hesitant on the heavy
machine, pressing out poems.
I taught myself new words
from someone's set of vocabulary
records, knitted long scarves
only to rip them apart.
Who wants to know that self
too timid to live beyond books,
too restless to make anything
enduring from yarn, words?
Do I really have to welcome
that girl back, the one
who loved transistor radios,
crochet hooks, who hoarded
pennies in a ripped purse?
I don't want her back
but she's here anyway:
gangly, ashamed,
disobedient daughter
who never seems to leave
her room, sneaking out
only when necessary,
leaving her dinner untouched,
sink of dishes unwashed.

BANNED POST




[This message has been edited by Katy Evans-Bush (edited February 20, 2005).]

Political? Sounds to me like a retake of "There is no frigate like a book." Maybe a little sing-songy, but a nice subject for a pantoum, I thought.

I heard the riffs on "There is no frigate like a book", too, but I also would identify this as a feminist poem, and to that extent political. The beginning is a bit trite and predictable, but from "stories rising from inside" I start to hear "Who knows where they can take a girl?" as a question about real life, not just journeys of imagination.

Victoria, I read it as metaphor. "travel, pen in hand . . ."

If pantoums are the topic, here is the poem by the late great New Zealand poet, Allen Curnow, which he wrote in his old age to express the fury all New Zealanders felt at the French (and other) nuclear bomb tests in the Pacific. I posted it here to resounding silence a few months ago. The lines explode in our faces like fireworks.

go darPacific 1945--1995

go darker stiA Pantoum

goo...if th'assassination
goocould trammel up the consequence, and catch,
goowith his surcease, success; that but this blow
goomight be the be-all and the end-all...here,
goobut here, upon this bank and shoal of time
goowe'ld jump the life to come...

might be the be-all and--Macbeth

Quantifiable griefs. The daily kill.
goOne bullet, with his name on, his surcease.
"The casualties were few, the damage nil"--
goThe scale was blown up, early in the piece.

One bullet with his name on, his surcease.
goLaconic fire, short work the long war mocks.
The scale was blown up, early in the piece--
goHow many is few? After the aftershocks.

laconic fire--short work! The long war mocks,
godragging out our dead. What calibration says
how many is few, after the aftershocks,
of just such magnitude? We heard the news,

dragging out our dead. What calibration says,
goright! You can stop crying now, was it really
of just such magnitude? We heard the news
goagain, the statistical obscene, the cheery

right! You can stop crying now, was it really
gothe sky that fell, that boiling blue lagoon?
Again, the statistical obscene, the cheery
gosalutation and bright signature tune.

The sky that fell! That boiling blue lagoon!
goJacques Chirac's rutting tribe--with gallic
salutation and bright signature tune--
gothermonuclear hard-on. Ithyphallic

Jacques! Chirac's rutting tribe, with gallic
goeye for the penetrable, palm-fringed hole--
thermonuclear hard-on, ithyphallic
goBANG! full kiloton five below the atoll.

Eye for the penetrable, palm-fringed hole,
gowhose trigger-finger, where he sat or knelt down--
BANG! full kiloton five, below the atoll
gohad it off, bedrock deep orgasmic meltdown--

whose trigger-finger, where he sat or knelt down,
gofifty years back, fired one as huge as then
had it off bedrock deep, orgasmic meltdown--
gowhose but Ferebee's--Hiroshima come again!--

fifty years back, fired one as huge as then
gofireballed whole cities while "People...copulate, pray..."
Whose but Ferebee's?--Hiroshima come again!--
gobombadier, U. S. Army? Enola Gay

fireballed whole cities while "People...copulate, pray..."
goNot God fingering Gomorrah but the man,
bombadier, U.S. Army. Enola Gay
goshuddering at 30,000 feet began--

not God fingering Gomorrah, but the man,
gothe colonel her pilot who named her for his Mom--
shuddering at 30,000 feet began--
go'Little Boy' delivered--her run for home:

the colonel her pilot, who named her for his Mom,
goflew her to roost (at last) in the Smithsonian.
"Little Boy" delivered her run for home
golighter by the Beast's birth, her son's companion:

flew her to roost (at last) in the Smithsonian:
goare tourists' hearts and hopes, viewing her there,
lighter by the Beast's birth, her son's companion?
goJacques' Marianne's delivery, is that near?

Are tourists' hearts and hopes, viewing her there,
gopronounced infection-free and safely tested--
Jacques' Marianne's delivery, is that near?--
goWhat effluent, what fall-out's to be trusted?

pronounced infection-free and safely tested
gofor carcinogenic isotope unseen fall-out--
what effluent, what fall-out's to be trusted?
goThe Beast once born, who's answering the call-out?

For carcinogenic isotope, unseen fall-out,
gofor the screaming city under the crossed hairs,
the Beast once born. Who's answering the call-out?
gono time even to know it's one of THEIRS--

for the screaming city under the crossed hairs,
go"The casualties were few, the damage nil"--?
No time even to know! It's one of theirs--
goquantifiable griefs. The daily kill.


quantifiable griefs. The daily kill.October--November, 1995




[This message has been edited by Janet Kenny (edited March 07, 2008).]

Sam, that's exactly how I read it - but because of the specific mention of girls it comes across as being agenda-driven. And also strangely old-fashioned! It's like a boarding school teacher of something: "Come along, girls!"

I feel better now that Victoria saw it the same way. And obviously my impression was deepened by the Googling exercise!

KEB

[This message has been edited by Katy Evans-Bush (edited February 21, 2005).]

I'll have to admit to being underwhelmed by this. It goes under the category of "nice enough" but is hardly the best poem I've read in a while, or even the best pantoum.

Looking at it from the "Mastery" angle, it does deal nicely enough with the mechanics of the pantoum, but then again, I've never tackled the form myself so I can't say how difficult I find that task. Probably should remedy that.