I've just become reacquainted with the pantoum after a number of years. Victor Hugo and Charles Baudelaire are crdited by many with introducing and popularizing the form, yet, I've been unable to locate a poem by either that employs the structure. Can anyone help?

According to the following website, Hugo may not have written any of his own: [www.noggs.dsl.pipex.com]

Les

Here are some poems by Hugo, do any fit the pattern?

[gbarto.com]


Les

Here's one by Baudelaire:

"Harmonie du soir"
--Charles Baudelaire



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.

=====================================================================================

"Evening harmony"
Charles Baudelaire (translated by Peter Low)

Here come the moments when, quivering on its stem,
each flower gives off fragrance like a censer;
the sounds and perfumes circle in the evening air,
a melancholy waltz, a languid dizziness!

Each flower gives off fragrance like a censer;
the violin trembles like a heart in distress,
a melancholy waltz, a languid dizziness!
The sky is sad and beautiful like a vast altar.

The violin trembles like a heart in distress,
a tender heart, which hates the huge, dark void!
The sky is sad and beautiful like a vast altar;
the sun has drowned in its own congealing blood.

A tender heart, which hates the huge, dark void,
gathers up every relic of the harmonious past!
The sun has drowned in its own congealing blood, -
the memory of you shines in me like a monstrance!


Les

In the anthology "The Making of a Poem" there is a segment on Pantoum. I don't have the book anymore, but I did find this on-line:

Pantoum
by John Ashbery

Eyes shining without mystery,
Footprints eager for the past
Through the vague snow of many clay pipes, And what is in store?

Footprints eager for the past
The usual obtuse blanket.
And what is in store
For those dearest to the king?

The usual obtuse blanket.
Of legless regrets and amplifications
For those dearest to the king.
Yes, sirs, connoisseurs of oblivion,

The usual obtuse blanket.
Of legless regrets and amplifications
For those dearest to the king.
Yes, sirs, connoisseurs of oblivion,

Of legless regrets and amplifications,
That is why a watchdog is shy.
Yes, sirs, connoisseurs of oblivion,
These days are short, brittle; there is only one night.

That is why a watchdog is shy,
Why the court, trapped in a silver storm, is dying.
These days are short, brittle; there is only one night And that soon gotten over.

Why the court, trapped in a silver storm, is dying Some blunt pretense to safety we have And that soon gotten over For they must have motion.

Some blunt pretense to safety we have
Eyes shining without mystery,
For they must have motion
Through the vague snow of many clay pipes.

(from The Making of a Poem: A Norton Anthology of Poetic Forms, edited by Mark Strand and Eavan Boland (New York: WW. Norton and Company, 2000)

Here's another one by Carolyn Kizer: [www.poets.org]

HTH,
V.

Pantoum of the Great Depression
--Donald Justice

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 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 have 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.

Les




Edited 2 time(s). Last edit at 06/01/2022 10:05AM by lg.

[www.newpoetspress.com]

[www.washingtonpost.com]

Sorry, Hugh, I thought the credit at the bottom of your second post there referred to the author of the poem, and not the author of the article. I've given Mr. Justice due credit above.


Les

Poetic Justice

> Poetic Justice

"Truth is stranger than fiction"...I found that in the pocket of my Pantoums.


Les