The Last Word

Feb 29 2016

You never begin a poem

with the last word.

Or even begin

sure of how it ends.

All you know

is that it will.

Yet we all set out in life

imagining ourselves immortal;

heroes, on a never-ending quest.

Like bed-time, night after night

when your father’s voice

spins his bottomless tale.

Like the deep read

in which you lose yourself.

How easy, when you're young

for denial to be effortless,

death, hypothetical.

Unless you’re a romantic, that is

and sure to die dramatically;

the burning bright, the suffering

the unrequited love.

Living large

your greatest masterpiece.

While the rest of us

work away methodically,

tinkering, plodding

stumbling along.

Like maze-walkers,

one hand on the wall

feeling our way.

Until too late, we realize

no one’s getting out alive.

Which is when we all become bad poets

looking back;

making meaning

beginning with the end,

constructing narrative

to make our lives make sense.

Although to leave this life

a work of art

is rare.

Mostly

it’s muddle through

from here to there

and hoping someone cares.

Right up to the end;

when death, inevitably

has the last word.

It may be ghost-written

euphemism

or said with certain dread;

but there will be no happily-ever-after,

no deus ex machina

that miraculously descends.

So, which is it?

Because the two

are inextricable.

Death, giving life, its meaning and drive.

And death

making space

for those who follow on;

generations

like relay-racers

passing the baton.

And will it end in sequel, serial

your resurrected soul?

Or will it end

just the way I said?

With the last word.

A  life well-lived …

    … and a good death.

I’ve often said that if I didn’t discipline myself, every poem would be about death. And argue that this isn’t as morbid as it at first seems. Because, as the poem says, death gives life meaning, and drive. After all, how differently would we live if we had all the time in the world?

So in this poem, I went as far as I could with it.  It’s a poem that’s not only about endings and death, but one that ends in death – literally:  death had to be the last word.

This is a hard kind of poem to get away with. Because of its uncomfortable subject matter. Because it’s a poem that keeps calling back to the mechanics of writing; which is too much “inside baseball” for the average reader. Because it touches on some deep philosophical issues; which would be so much easier in prose, where they don’t have to be distilled down to their absolute essence. And because it still has to be readable and  rewarding:  serious; yet whimsical enough to keep the reader engaged.