Not the Last Poem
This is not the last poem I will write
no final statement to read at my grave
nothing of great significance to anyone
imperfect, unrevised, rough. Words float
to the page, profound or unpolished,
it matters not, as there will be another poem
tomorrow and tomorrow after that, but someday
I will write the perfect poem to capture my life
will then be able leave this earth satisfied
that I have created the last poem I will write.
No revisions to poem or life possible,
life's work complete.
This is a poem I wrote in 2008 - unrevised - before ANYONE was reading my poetry. One of the first poems blogged. I like my early work much better than anything I write now, to be honest. Sometimes I truly am amazed at the 'good stuff' I discover when I look back.
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I love it, Mary. I did my best work a few years back, too. Now i am too distraught with the state of the world, I think. I do love this poem. I think i have already written the poem that will be read at my funeral.
ReplyDeleteAlways interesting to look back indeed and sure wasn't your last by far.
ReplyDeleteThis is the kind of piece that gives me pause, Mary. I cannot imagine what the last poem of my life would contain - or even, if I would be conscious of the fact that I had just written my last poem.
ReplyDeleteI do, however, know the line that I would like to be remembered by (by my family). It is from one of the first poems that I wrote: The Swans in Beacon Hill Park, from a time when Mike and I lived in Victoria (one of the happiest - freest - periods in my life). Mike and I had gone on a great rambling walk one Saturday and, as the sun was setting, we found ourselves on the bridge overlooking the park lake. We were both exhausted in an almost dreamlike state of mind and two swans (they mate for life, you know) sailed out of the mist towards us and there-we-were - transfixed - the swans staring at us, and we at the swans. It only lasted a minute or two, but - for both of us - it was the most transcendent moment of our lives (the swans, the mist, the quietude, the palpable connection to everything in that moment).
Over the years, we have spent time with members of our family in that park … and it has always been lovely and special. So-o-o-o the line I would like our family to remember us by is …
They had spent the whole time rambling
and - more sleepy than awake -
they stopped atop the arch stone bridge
that spans Good Acre lake …
Loved your awesome poem, Mary … it definitely inspired a contemplative reflection.
I too wonder what my last poem would convey. It might be a short poem consisting of the last words I utter. It might be as simple
ReplyDeleteas good-bye, I chose the frequency of love.
You have written so many wonderful poems, I cannot imagine not reading your words again.
I'm very glad it's not the last poem - you have many good poems under your belt
ReplyDeleteSometimes I think that the poem I wrote waaaaaay waaaaay back was the last real poem I'll ever write. One never knows. But I admire your take. Salute!
ReplyDeleteThis is a beautiful poem Mary. Our earlier poems are that way probably because we haven't been swayed by others styles and presentation.
ReplyDeleteI have a title for a poem called "The Last Poem I'll Ever Write" but no poem yet and just an attention getting title. I do have one that I think speaks for my last, called When Packing a Suitcase for the Afterlife Goes Wrong and it's set in my beloved home beach town. This one certainly got us thinking. I like the part where you say you don't worry about the poem being great because there will be others. That takes the pressure off
ReplyDeleteThis is such an evocative write, Mary!❤️ I have a poem which I wrote this April that I feel should be read at my funeral and by which I should be remembered by.
ReplyDeleteI love this... and it also tells me that I would forever fear myself writing the perfect poem. Reminds me too much of the jisei - the death poem a samuraj should write...
ReplyDeleteYou're right: This is good stuff. But better is to come, of course...the perfect poem to sum up your life. Keep writing!
ReplyDeleteIt’s hard to judge what is ‘better to come’ with such an honest piece of work. I love this one. I look at poetry as an echo of your soul. It may change over time- depending on your muse.... but I’m certain that all your poems- even your last one will be as beautiful as this.
ReplyDeleteyes, sometimes looking back at the old journals, we can be amazed at what we have written.
ReplyDeleteI have some poems which are always "in progress" (i have a digital folder for them) so maybe my last poem will be from them. :)
The sense of possibility & hope give this poem a nice swing. I've felt the same way with some of my older work...although I'm slowly coming to the belief that what I see is the work separated from all the possibilities that existed around it at the time. I've given it time to dry into a single thing, perhaps.
ReplyDeleteYour poem led me to the conclusion that our lives are themselves our best poem. I do love how you embrace how meaningless it is if we don't like the poem in front of us, as another, better one will come. I think our days are like this too. This is a wonderful write, Mary!
ReplyDeleteI agree with H. Our lives are our best poems. I don't know if I will know if the poem I write is my last poem. I hope not.
ReplyDeleteMary, for you the last poem you will ever release will be your obit that you wrote years before. I need to do mine, but now I have been asked by a 92 year old lady to help her with hers. They have their own format and with an outline they aren't hard to write. Brag for one last time when you don't need to play it down.
ReplyDelete..
This piece offers a lot things to contemplate. I don't think I've written my Magnum Opus as a poet. I'd probably sabotage myself if I tried. All I can do is express my thoughts as best as the moment allows, and hope that I can touch on something real.
ReplyDeleteMary,
ReplyDeleteIt's a beautiful, honest poem, reflecting a time and a place in your thoughts.
I too like the absolute honesty, attached to my earlier poems. They were written as the words fell upon the page. Basic but profound:}