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Best Famous Pantoum Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Pantoum poems. This is a select list of the best famous Pantoum poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Pantoum poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of pantoum poems.

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Written by Donald Justice | Create an image from this poem

Pantoum Of The Great Depression

 Our lives avoided tragedy
Simply by going on and on,
Without end and with little apparent meaning.
Oh, there were storms and small catastrophes.
Simply by going on and on We managed.
No need for the heroic.
Oh, there were storms and small catastrophes.
I don't remember all the particulars.
We managed.
No need for the heroic.
There were the usual celebrations, the usual sorrows.
I don't remember all the particulars.
Across the fence, the neighbors were our chorus.
There were the usual celebrations, the usual sorrows Thank god no one said anything in verse.
The neighbors were our only chorus, And if we suffered we kept quiet about it.
At no time did anyone say anything in verse.
It was the ordinary pities and fears consumed us, And if we suffered we kept quiet about it.
No audience would ever know our story.
It was the ordinary pities and fears consumed us.
We gathered on porches; the moon rose; we were poor.
What audience would ever know our story? Beyond our windows shone the actual world.
We gathered on porches; the moon rose; we were poor.
And time went by, drawn by slow horses.
Somewhere beyond our windows shone the actual world.
The Great Depression had entered our souls like fog.
And time went by, drawn by slow horses.
We did not ourselves know what the end was.
The Great Depression had entered our souls like fog.
We had our flaws, perhaps a few private virtues.
But we did not ourselves know what the end was.
People like us simply go on.
We had our flaws, perhaps a few private virtues, But it is by blind chance only that we escape tragedy.
And there is no plot in that; it is devoid of poetry.


Written by Carolyn Kizer | Create an image from this poem

Parents Pantoum

 for Maxine Kumin

Where did these enormous children come from,
More ladylike than we have ever been?
Some of ours look older than we feel.
How did they appear in their long dresses More ladylike than we have ever been? But they moan about their aging more than we do, In their fragile heels and long black dresses.
They say they admire our youthful spontaneity.
They moan about their aging more than we do, A somber group--why don't they brighten up? Though they say they admire our youthful spontaneity The beg us to be dignified like them As they ignore our pleas to brighten up.
Someday perhaps we'll capture their attention Then we won't try to be dignified like them Nor they to be so gently patronizing.
Someday perhaps we'll capture their attention.
Don't they know that we're supposed to be the stars? Instead they are so gently patronizing.
It makes us feel like children--second-childish? Perhaps we're too accustomed to be stars.
The famous flowers glowing in the garden, So now we pout like children.
Second-childish? Quaint fragments of forgotten history? Our daughters stroll together in the garden, Chatting of news we've chosen to ignore, Pausing to toss us morsels of their history, Not questions to which only we know answers.
Eyes closed to news we've chosen to ignore, We'd rather excavate old memories, Disdaining age, ignoring pain, avoiding mirrors.
Why do they never listen to our stories? Because they hate to excavate old memories They don't believe our stories have an end.
They don't ask questions because they dread the answers.
They don't see that we've become their mirrors, We offspring of our enormous children.
Written by Marilyn Hacker | Create an image from this poem

Ivas Pantoum

 We pace each other for a long time.
I packed my anger with the beef jerky.
You are the baby on the mountain.
I am in a cold stream where I led you.
I packed my anger with the beef jerky.
You are the woman sticking her tongue out in a cold stream where I led you.
You are the woman with spring water palms.
You are the woman sticking her tongue out.
I am the woman who matches sounds.
You are the woman with spring water palms.
I am the woman who copies.
You are the woman who matches sounds.
You are the woman who makes up words.
You are the woman who copies her cupped palm with her fist in clay.
I am the woman who makes up words.
You are the woman who shapes a drinking bowl with her fist in clay.
I am the woman with rocks in her pockets.
I am the woman who shapes.
I was a baby who knew names.
You are the child with rocks in her pockets.
You are the girl in a plaid dress.
You are the woman who knows names.
You are the baby who could fly.
You are the girl in a plaid dress upside-down on the monkey bars.
You are the baby who could fly over the moon from a swinging perch upside-down on the monkey bars.
You are the baby who eats meat.
Over the moon from a swinging perch the feathery goblin calls her sister.
You are the baby who eats meat the ***** wolf hunts and chews for you.
The feathery goblin calls her sister: "You are braver than your mother.
The ***** wolf hunts and chews for you.
What are you whining about now?" You are braver than your mother and I am not a timid woman: what are you whining about now? My palms itch with slick anger, and I'm not a timid woman.
You are the woman I can't mention; my palms itch with slick anger.
You are the heiress of scraped knees.
You are the woman I can't mention to a woman I want to love.
You are the heiress of scaped knees: scrub them in mountain water.
To a woman, I want to love women you could turn into, scrub them in mountain water, stroke their astonishing faces.
Women you could turn into the scare mask of Bad Mother stroke their astonishing faces in the silver-scratched sink mirror.
The scare mask of Bad Mother crumbles to chunked, pinched clay, sinks in the silver-scratched mirror.
You are the Little Robber Girl, who crumbles the clay chunks, pinches her friend, givers her a sharp knife.
You are the Little Robber Girl, who was any witch's youngest daughter.
Our friend gives you a sharp knife, shows how the useful blades open.
Was any witch's youngest daughter golden and bold as you? You run and show how the useful blades open.
You are the baby on the mountain.
I am golden and bold as you.
You run and we pace each other for a long time.

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