A New Year; A New Pantoum
Lines of place and sound and thinking
Dear friends,
Happy New Year.
I woke early this morning, 3 a.m. It’s not too unusual, although I always do hope to sleep past 4. It was snowing outside — maybe sleeting is a more accurate verb — on the streets of Hell’s Kitchen. Chilly and fresh; January 1st. I’d gone to bed early (I can’t remember the last time I was awake for midnight on New Year’s Eve) and woken intermittently to the sound of fireworks, the occasional siren, and passing parties on their way from one place to another.
It’s a long way from the village where I grew up to Hell’s Kitchen. We were — in the 1980s anyway — a mile or a mile and a half from the village proper, so, apart from nights with (delicious) storms, there was very little nighttime noise.
These days, when I wake at night, I can hear:
The sounds of a city that’s a patchwork of villages
and someone shouting on the avenue five flights down
at someone else to turn their music off.
My neighbour’s dog barks when we bark
and there’s a tick of a clock I think I should change.
I hear my own breathing, sometimes strained
and the sound of a man’s body turning on linen.
How many more changes can I make?
So I arrange this into a pantoum:
I hear the sounds of a city that’s a patchwork of villages and on the avenue five flights down at someone’s shouting at someone else to turn their music off. My neighbour’s dog barks when she hears barking and someone shouting on the avenue five flights down. There’s the tick of a clock I need to change and my neighbour’s dog barks when I move. I hear my own breathing, sometimes strained, and there’s a tick of a clock I think I should change. A man’s body, turning on linen, makes a rough sound, I hear asthma breathing, sometimes strained. How many more changes can I make? Rough linen must scrape skin cells off, surely, and I wonder if my neighbour hears my radio on low. How many more changes can I make, working my way from city to city, home to home.
It’s a small assemblage of a poem, this, about a place I’ll soon move from. The change is there, hidden in the 12th line (repeating at the 15th). Sometimes I think that poems about a strong feeling are best written when something else is being described: senses especially. I’m looking forward to 2026’s changes (about which, more here, but don’t worry: Poetry Unbound will continue).
So, this is your New Year’s Substack exercise. Write eight lines (I’ve put some ideas for prompts below). Number them, and arrange them in the pantoum form. As lines repeat, feel free to punk them up a bit.
1 ______ 2 ______ 3 ______ 4 ______ 2 ______ 5 ______ 4 ______ 6 ______ 5 ______ 7 ______ 6 ______ 8 ______ 7 ______ 3 ______ 8 ______ 1 ______
What emerges for you when you place your lines in the unexpected patterns established by this extraordinary Malaysian form? Share yours in the comments, and we’ll be with each other in the revealing patterns of the lines.
Poetry Unbound, season 10, starts off on January 12. We’ll have 16 episodes over eight weeks: one episode on Monday and the other on Friday.
I’ll see you in the comments, friends. Prompts below.
Prompts for the Pantoum
— You just need to write eight lines
— Number each one, 1-8, and then arrange them in the shape put above.
— As you arrange them in the shape, feel free to modify the repetition; some new idea may emerge.
Where are you? What place? A village? a guest house? A city?
What’s a night sound from outside you hear regularly?
What’s a night sound from inside you hear regularly?
What can you see in the dark?
Who is nearby? Neighbours? Owls? Mice? What’s happening for them?
What’s time doing?
What physical sensations can you feel when you wake at night?
What’s one thing that’s on your mind when you wake?
The Latest from Poetry Unbound
Bonus Episode: “Poetry Unbound in Conversation — Marie Howe”
You can also listen on Spotify, poetryunbound.org, or wherever podcasts are found.
Poetry in the World
A list of my events: Online and in the US (Minneapolis, MN; Berkeley, CA; Washington, DC; Manhattan, Kingston, and Rhinebeck, NY; Orlando, FL; Notre Dame, IN) and the UK (Iona, Scotland)
Save the date for an online conversation between me and poet and novelist Reshma Ruia. (For more info, click on the date heading.)
January 16, Minneapolis, Minnesota
Come join me at the Hope Arts Center, where I’ll give a reading followed by a conversation with poet G.E. Patterson and a book signing. It all begins at 7 p.m. (For more info and to secure your tickets, click on the date heading.)
January 17, Minneapolis, Minnesota
I’m leading a generative workshop on the space between poetry and prayer at The Loft Literary Center at 10 a.m. (For more info and to secure your tickets, click on the date heading.)
January 18, Saint Paul, Minnesota
Join me at Gloria Dei Lutheran Church, we’ll be reading, writing, and discussing poems together, beginning at 3:00 p.m. (For more info, click on the date heading.)
January 29, Berkeley, California
I’ll be presenting an evening keynote at The Center for Faith and Justice. (For more info, click on the date heading.)
January 31, Palo Alto, California
I’ll be leading a morning retreat at All Saints Episcopal Church, beginning at 10:00 a.m. (For more info, click on the date heading.)
February 2, Washington, District of Columbia, and Online
Join poet Marilyn Nelson and me for a conversation at the Washington National Cathedral at 7 p.m ET. (For more info, click on the date heading.)
I’m directing an evening workshop on lyric address through Poets House, beginning at 6:00 p.m. (for more info, click on the date heading.)
February 19, Manhattan, New York
I’m giving a lecture on storytelling and narrative poetry at The Morgan Library at 6:30 p.m. (For more info, click on the date heading.)
I’m giving a keynote address at Training Magazine’s annual exposition. (For more info, click on the date heading.)
February 26–March 1, Kingston, New York
I’m leading a weekend retreat workshop called “Poems of Longing”. (For more info, click on the date heading.)
I’ll be giving the keynote for a symposium at the Raclin Murphy Museum of Art. (For more info, click on the date heading.)
May 31–June 5, Rhinebeck, New York
This spring, I’m leading a six-day workshop at the Omega Institute. We’ll read and examine poems and also write and discuss our own. I’d love to see you there. (For more info, click on the date heading.)
June 27–July 3, 2026, Iona, Scotland
Krista and I will be leading a week of conversation (with some musical guests) on Iona, an island off an island off the west coast of Scotland. It is filled, but if you want to be on a waiting list, you can email the Saint Columba hotel by clicking on the title just above here. (For more info, click on the date heading.)




On a hillside, in a home shaped by these hands
Coyotes call and the wind rattles tin
The dog’s soft snore, air moving through ducts
Moonlight slips through parted blinds
Coyotes call and the wind rattles tin
Her body turns slowly in dream, my son’s floors creak
Moonlight slips through parted blinds
Time is like a slingshot between wakings
Her body turns slowly in dream, my son’s floors creak
My heart knocks, twisted back
Time is like a slingshot between wakings
Will I live it right?
My heart knocks, twisted back
The dog’s soft snore, air moving through ducts
Will I live it right
On a hillside, in a home shaped by these hands?
I’m ashamed, living in Singapore, that I don’t even know this form. I try to make up for that:
oh, peace prize.
of blood, money, power & oil.
laurels laid on quiet graves.
a medal rinsed in sanctioned fire.
of blood, money, power & oil.
they call it history, shaking hands.
a medal rinsed in sanctioned fire.
the cameras blink, the ledgers smile.
they call it history, shaking hands.
children count the nights by drones.
the cameras blink, the ledgers smile.
silence learns its accolades.
children count the nights by drones.
laurels laid on quiet graves.
silence learns its accolades.
oh, peace prize.