It is the way of all things, I can appreciate that now. Someday, without realizing it, someone will write their last poem. And it won’t be merely their last poem, but the last poem— a final verse from a cursed humanity with no one left alive to read it. A few rhymes scrawled across some papers in the shaky light hand of a retching youth. A choked voice rising from pungent vapors with no one left alive to speak the truth.
For me, this poem feels almost biblical in its meditation on endings — like Ecclesiastes, where everything has its season, and Revelation, where the world trembles at the edge of judgment. The idea that someone might write not only their last poem, but the last poem, is haunting.
What stands out is the contrast between destruction and beauty: mushroom clouds, fire, storms, and silence set against gardenias, sunsets, and remembered trees. The final line — “will the cut worm forever resent the plow?” — feels like a proverb about suffering, fate, and the mystery of forces larger than ourselves.
Overall, it reads as a dark but thoughtful reflection on extinction, memory, and the last fragile voice of humanity.
Thank you for such a thoughtful and personal read. There is a general sense of those proportions to this hour of the world, perhaps not felt this deeply since the threat of nuclear annihilation during the cold war years. I may be picking up on that. Our human voices can be fragile, yes, in the face of “forces larger than ourselves,” as you say. But those fragile voices can also call upon our salvation.
This is amazing, Henry. A profound rumination on the last poem ever that took my breath away. I've been feeling this general zeitgeist myself, but to assuage my own fear, wrote "the pub at the end of all time" where the mother god is about to allow the world to be destroyed, but when she sees people living it up in their final days, changes her mind deciding there's something worth keeping in it. I personally lean into the idea we have a bit of free will and the world demands we use it for good, but that higher powers will see the seed of consciousness through any storm of our making or otherwise. In my (too sunny?) view, there will never be a last poem - though perhaps a last poem on earth and that alone is heart-wrenching.
I deeply appreciate your comment, Dave. Thank you. There does seem to be a zeitgeist, and it's no wonder.
I share your sentiment somewhat, as being a self-described Optimistic Romantic Nihilist necessitates it— but I hesitate to labor the point. It is "the way of all things," after all.
I'd love to read or hear "The Pub at the End of All Time."
For me, this poem feels almost biblical in its meditation on endings — like Ecclesiastes, where everything has its season, and Revelation, where the world trembles at the edge of judgment. The idea that someone might write not only their last poem, but the last poem, is haunting.
What stands out is the contrast between destruction and beauty: mushroom clouds, fire, storms, and silence set against gardenias, sunsets, and remembered trees. The final line — “will the cut worm forever resent the plow?” — feels like a proverb about suffering, fate, and the mystery of forces larger than ourselves.
Overall, it reads as a dark but thoughtful reflection on extinction, memory, and the last fragile voice of humanity.
Thank you for such a thoughtful and personal read. There is a general sense of those proportions to this hour of the world, perhaps not felt this deeply since the threat of nuclear annihilation during the cold war years. I may be picking up on that. Our human voices can be fragile, yes, in the face of “forces larger than ourselves,” as you say. But those fragile voices can also call upon our salvation.
I appreciate you taking the time to comment.
This is amazing, Henry. A profound rumination on the last poem ever that took my breath away. I've been feeling this general zeitgeist myself, but to assuage my own fear, wrote "the pub at the end of all time" where the mother god is about to allow the world to be destroyed, but when she sees people living it up in their final days, changes her mind deciding there's something worth keeping in it. I personally lean into the idea we have a bit of free will and the world demands we use it for good, but that higher powers will see the seed of consciousness through any storm of our making or otherwise. In my (too sunny?) view, there will never be a last poem - though perhaps a last poem on earth and that alone is heart-wrenching.
I deeply appreciate your comment, Dave. Thank you. There does seem to be a zeitgeist, and it's no wonder.
I share your sentiment somewhat, as being a self-described Optimistic Romantic Nihilist necessitates it— but I hesitate to labor the point. It is "the way of all things," after all.
I'd love to read or hear "The Pub at the End of All Time."
Henry, I don't video myself very often, but this one I happened to record for some reason. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TL5dDq27rKQ
That was great! Thank you for sharing it with me, Dave.