The Last Poem Ever Written

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William Haskins

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And on that day
that surely awaits us

.....when tides,
.....no longer denied
.....their dominion,
.....rise above the
.....edge of all;

.....when plagues,
.....no longer allayed
.....by the learned,
.....mock us as we
.....writhe and fall;

.....when wars,
.....no longer by sword
.....but by maelstrom,
.....desolate the
.....sapient mind;

.....when fields,
.....no longer to yield
.....but to crumble,
.....snatch the bread from
.....kin and kind

some last line
put to one last page,

some bookend pressed
against the sinews

of history, tracing
its bloodline to that

first rush of passion
or crush of madness

burning from the inside out
some dark and ancient heart,

will show us to the door,
the very same that we came in.
 

CassandraW

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I despise you for posting a poem just as I'm packing to go away for the weekend and getting ready for bed. I'll mull it over on the train tomorrow. Meanwhile, a quick note to tell you I loved this bit of body imagery/metaphor:

some bookend pressed
against the sinews

of history, tracing
its bloodline to that

first rush of passion
or crush of madness

burning from the inside out
some dark and ancient heart


 

Stew21

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Oh my god.
I can't even.
William.
Even the title put ice in my veins.
The actual poem though, wait.
Yes. I think it might have killed me.
For fuck's sake, man.
The words take excellent marching orders at your command.
This is unreal. Poised, smart, strong, and it stings.
Just awesome.
 

Sarita

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The sentiment that poetry ties us (the collective human race) to intelligence, higher learning, I feel, has always been an undercurrent in your work. Because you create an inexorable desire in the reader to understand some deeper emotion, philosophy, piece of art, or idea. But pinning poetry right on the tail of the beast? I'm floored. And you managed to work 2 of my favorite words into one stanza. This one's headed straight down the hippocampus highway, my friend.
 

Kylabelle

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Poetry has the last word and thereby refuses the apocalypse.

I'll meet you at the door.
 

CassandraW

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Still struck, on multiple readings with the bit I quoted above. The throbbing human life in it -- the sinews, the bloodline,the crushing, rushing passion coursing through, burning out the dark, ancient heart -- poignantly makes me feel the inevitable end of it, in a way no other choice of metaphor or imagery would do.
 

Perks

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The thing about being sapient is that we're charged with working the puzzle that all our efforts are vastly important and simultaneously futile. You can deny it, ignore it, or make peace with it, but there it is.

The tone of this poems just captures that for me. It's wonderful.
 

Magdalen

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This is particularly poignant for me at this time.

Edits noted:

will show us to the door,
the very same that we came in.

[will show the doorway to us,
the very same one we came through.]

or
[will show us the doorway out -
same one (that) we came in.]



My suggestions for an already wonderful poem, made in deep contemplation of last poems, read and written. Thanks for posting this.