The chant poem is about as old as poetry itself. In fact, it may be the first form poetry took. Chant poems simply incorporate repetitive lines that form a sort of chant. Each line can repeat, or every other line. It’s easy to find many poetic forms that incorporate chanting with the use of a refrain. However, a chant poem is a little more methodical than a triolet or rondeau.
Here’s my attempt at a chant poem:
“Santa Carla”
He can see all the birds lift from the grass;
there’s another missing child on the radio.
The trees appear to be covered in glass;
there’s another missing child on the radio.
He knows the many shades of wrong and right;
there’s another missing child on the radio.
If there’s a city waiting in the night,
there’s another missing child on the radio.
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MAKING A MESS OF THINGS
He chases superficial gain
A new graffiti dawns
Spray-painted tenets leach his soul
A new graffiti dawns
Fidelity repulses him
A new graffiti dawns
Her mousy brown bleeds into brash
A new graffiti dawns
The Tunnel
So far away, just a point of light
The light at the end of the tunnel
Ever so slowly, increasingly bright
The light at the end of the tunnel
Brighter and bigger, closer than before
The light at the end of the tunnel
Then all of a sudden, it was no more
The light at the end of the tunnel
Who turned off the light
At the end of the tunnel
Did day turn to night
At the end of the tunnel
Will the light reappear
At the end of the tunnel
Will we stand in fear
At the end of the tunnel
What’s the deal
This tunnel
Is it real
This tunnel
What’s the hap
This tunnel
It’s a trap
This tunnel
A little different; but there is a chant that runs through this one. (I was actually writing this before I saw the prompt/challenge–very synchronous!)
Turn of the Year
This is the way that the hunter came
with the bones, with the bones of the deer,
a white jawbone points to red morels,
yellow violets glint in the space that is clear,
Between the pines the carcass was dragged,
oh, those bones, oh, those bones of the deer,
here is a leg joint by the lush bear grass,
in the shade shimmers an orchid in fear,
Pond-side willow whispers the name
of the bones, of the bones of the deer,
creek runs fast with a gurgle and plop,
and streaks old stones with tears,
Just a short way from the wooded path
and the bones, and the bones of the deer,
ants have eaten the flesh of the grouse,
left feathers and bone; Death is near.
Actually, I very much like your interpretation — works for me, bravo!
i don’t know if anybody comes back to see comments left days after the fact, but i’m quite enchanted by this poem form and my mouth overfloweth!!
Sleepy Town
I drive the streets
in the glow of overhead lights.
I drive the streets,
and the roadside is in shadows.
I drive the streets
changing stations on the radio.
I drive the streets
and look for the right song to end the day.
I drive the streets
and look at the stream of cars going home.
I drive the streets
and fight off desires to sleep.
I drive the streets
to find a place to sing.
I drive the streets
with a song in my heart.
I drive the streets
while the rest of the town sleeps.
That’s cool–seeing the repeated line for the first line. i love the way it turned out!
Just Desserts
Life’s a crispy, crunchy, chocolate chip mess.
That’s the way the cookie crumbles.
It’s what I’m used to now, I must confess.
That’s the way the cookie crumbles.
I don’t mind a milk-mustachioed receipt.
That’s the way the cookie crumbles.
My personal viewpoint? Dunk. Bite. Chew. Repeat.
That’s the way the cookie crumbles.
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i especially love that first line!
Crossing
“You can’t cross the sea by merely standing and staring at the water.” ~Rabindranath Tagore
I opened the door before I even heard the doorbell ring.
I knew there was something for me to do.
I stood in the archway. I said, “You. What forecast do you bring?”
I knew there was something for me to do.
I waited for a word, ‘though I knew none would be forthcoming.
I knew there was something for me to do.
Fat raindrops began to fall; to their beat, I started humming.
I knew there was something for me to do.
To stay in the archway was a decision. So was moving.
I knew there was something for me to do.
I went outside, in the rain. But were my prospects improving?
I knew there was something for me to do.
Standing still is always safe. But it covers little distance.
I knew there was something for me to do.
And even straight lines stir more than the path of least resistance.
I knew there was something for me to do.
So in that moment, I knew exactly what I had to do.
I knew there was something for me to do.
I had to dance in the asphalt-tinted puddles. Wouldn’t you?
I knew there was something for me to do.
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LOL! my ending would have been something to do with going back inside and having a cup of coffee…but i like your story better!
Oooooh …. love it!!
The Memory Remains
The wind through the trees
The memory remains
The sun breaking through the clouds
The memory remains
Skipping stones on the still waters
The memory remains
Our first kiss in the boat house
The memory remains
You said “yes”
The memory remains
For better or for worse
The memory remains
The pain on her face
The memory remains
Feeling helpless
The memory remains
‘Til death do you part
The memory remains
“You have to let her go”
The memory remains
i felt physical pain on the last bit of that poem, what a picture….
Great work here guys…thank you for the form and challenge, Robert.
Craven Calms
In a forest of wonder
a heart broken
His emotion did ponder
a heart broken
Glass casket deep inside
a heart broken
Kissing him slowly it untied
a heart broken
Very nice, Ber!
Robert -terrific poem – I can see the power of the ancient origins of this form..in your case repetition chilling! Walt , in yours the repetition underscores the pulsing urgency. Nice.
TIME AND TIDE
The wind whips up across the lake,
time and tide waits for no man.
Churning waters in its wake,
time and tide waits for no man.
I stand at shore side gazing out,
time and tide waits for no man.
Questioning this life of doubt,
time and tide waits for no man.
Sunset settles long past rising,
time and tide waits for no man.
Hopes and dreams on new horizons,
time and tide waits for no man.
OOOH. Haunting.
Indeed!
Note: Chant poems do not have to rhyme or maintain a certain meter or syllable count. They just need to incorporate a chant.
Robert, your poem is spooky good.