pantouming on a tuesday
Wabi Sabi Pantoum
We might think we're rusted out and finished.
But there's a hole and that's where the light gets in.
And if we shape the rusted out parts of ourselves,
shape the wearing away into love, only love,
where there's a hole, that's where the love gets in,
and we'll find we aren't so finished after all. Not yet.
After shaping the wearing into love, always love,
the memory of love remains, the light beyond
and we find we aren't finished, not at all, not at all,
there's always more rust to chip away, those scars
where the memory remains, of light beyond
and stardust filters into our veins, our veins
and there's always more rust to chip out our scars
but even if we think we're rusted out and finished.
that starlight keeps filtering slowly through our veins
into the rusted shaped parts of love, always love
This poem started off with three or four lines that I wasn't initially thinking would be a poem, but then after I wrote them (and I was thinking, "what next") I took away the line breaks and thought, hmmm... maybe this is the start of a villanelle.
And then in the further writing, it turned out to want to be a pantoum, not a villanelle.
That's the weird thing about formal verse, to me. How the poem dictates the form. And how that usually happens in the writing, but sometimes in the editing. And it just happens. Kind of like poeming in general, actually.
(And then how I can mess with the form, just because: wabi sabi.)
Repetitive lines, but in fours instead of threes, and with more repetition because I liked the strength of each of the first four lines. But with my own cracking in the repetition because I always, always, love that wabi sabi feeling of cracked imperfection.
Because: wabi sabi.