Endgame (or Unfinishing the Finished)
i
Here’s a poet
who hates to see
self in a mirror
Too much gray
Too many lines
Not as fine
as a clock
or calendar
though all three remind
of the finitude
of time
time
time
ii
Who says
poeming is careering
how does it trump (no pun)
a job
I used to write truths for print (and was good [not great])
Now I only write to learn
and every lesson burns
with kindling left unlearned
iii
Frost
or Warren
or Heaney
or Thomas
(not I)
It’s not my place
to poem of place
my roots so rotted as the suburbs
my diction
so much fiction
or just plain tired
(((Truth)))
Then what
and how
is this
careering
iv
Back to that blasted mirror
reflecting more than gray & lines
so little time
to change the endgame
(or with the endgame just the same unfinish
the finished)
rewrite the rhyme
however little the final verse
may rhyme
Damn time
10 thoughts on "Endgame (or Unfinishing the Finished)"
Leave a Reply
You must be logged in to post a comment.
Love it. The ending is perfect.
love: “Now I only write to learn / and every lesson burns”
yep:
Damn time
Thank you to all who have read my work. Let me say it, so you need not deny it: It has a lot of weaknesses. But the secret to good poetry is not to quit. I won’t.
Damn time, indeed. You have such a unique voice Lee. It’s always a pleasure to sit with it. Better not quit. Poetry ghost will haunt you!
Love this piece. It’s thoughtful and the form works, love the use of sound and rhythm and repetition: “my diction/so much fiction” is just great too. It’s been a pleasure sharing LexPoMo with you this June!
Love the playing with font size on the word “time” here. And woohoo, once again we made it through LexPoMo! Good work!
It’s been great reading you this month, Lee. See you next year!
I love the honesty of the voice and message, which the form supports so well.
Revision:
i
Here’s a poet
hating to see
himself in a mirror
Too much gray
Too many lines
Not as fine
as a clock
or calendar
all three remind
of the finitude
of time
time
time
ii
Who says
poeming is careering
How does it trump (no pun)
a job
I used to write truths for print
(and was good [not great])
Now I write to learn
Every lesson burns
with kindling left unlearned
iii
Frost
or Warren
or Heaney
or Thomas
(not I)
It’s not my place
to poem of place
my roots so rotted
as the suburbs
my diction
so much fiction
or just plain tired
(((Truth)))
Then what
and how
is this
careering
iv
Back to that blasted
mirror
reflecting more
than gray & lines
so little time
to change the endgame
(or with the endgame
just the same unfinish
the finished)
rewrite the rhyme
however little
the final verse
may rhyme
Damn time