Life As We Know It - Dec 4 2023

 

Life As We Know It

Dec 4 2023

My sense of dread

at the state of the world

gets more and more intense.

The existential threats

seem to multiply,

politics

sinks deeper into the swamp,

and ignorance of history

means we’re bound to repeat.

So I've withdrawn

into my small hermetic life.

As the world burns

democracy dies

and the death toll rises,

washed my hands of it

and thrown up my arms in disgust.

This is the luxury

of an old man

who accepts his powerlessness.

Who, with so little time left

feels exempt from consequence,

and so can afford

to ignore the future;

which, after all

has no place for him.

Yes, a misanthrope and pessimist.

But also a realist

who knows that civilizations end,

and the only thing that will save us

is ourselves.

Which is hardly grounds for hope.

And who himself

is expert in complacency,

having lived most of his life

aimless and adrift,

waiting

for it to begin.

And now

having had more than enough

of magical thinking

and losing track of years,

I'm waiting still;

but this time, for its end.

Jeffrey Goldberg, the editor of The Atlantic, wrote in his introduction to the Dec/Jan ('23/'24) edition — which is all about the dangers of a 2nd Trump Presidency — I encourage you to read all of the articles in this special issue carefully (though perhaps not in one sitting, for reasons of mental hygiene!)

I made that mistake. Which explains this poem. Not that I needed the prompt to want to write it. More a case of it becoming too hard to restrain myself from a subject I try to avoid, regarding it as unsuitable for poetry as well as inexcusably self-indulgent.