550 poems

I preferred Jimmy’s poem “Prophet Township” to mine, so I used it for my starting point.

“Nostalgia”

In those days, people weren’t granted the luxury of prolonged grieving,
Even if their present was lived in life’s valleys.
There was no time for deeper questions
Or deeper pain
With work to be done.

A pause by you will not pause life.

While you sit in your chair with your head in your hands,
The snow will still be falling.
The fire left unstoked and unfed will be burning down to ashes.
Questions won’t keep you warm.

Divinity?
Yes, there’s a loved one in the attic until spring,
But thinking about it won’t get you “through till spring.”
Folded hands won’t break the ice on the horse trough.

Right now the ground is too hard to probe for the meaning of life
Or death
Especially when you have to actually live one in order to stay a step ahead of the other.

Those questions are better left for spring.


I had a really hard time finding a poem I hated, let alone one I disliked intensely. I settled on one that confounded me, “Some Last Questions” by W.S. Merwin. I'm sure that if I give it enough thoughtful contemplation, I will like it. In fact, after rereading it a couple times, this is becoming the case. But, I still don't completely understand it, and I find his imagery disturbing. I’m fairly certain that he’s talking about the dead body. But, I also think he’s using multiple definitions of some words, like feet (stumps, like the one’s attached to auction paddles) and hands (farm-hands or deck-hands). Nonetheless, I still don’t entirely understand it.

“Some Last Questions”

What is the head
A. Ash
What are the eyes
A. The wells have fallen in and have
Inhabitants
What are the feet
A. Thumbs left after the auction
No what are the feet
A. Under them the impossible road is moving
Down which the broken necked mice push
Balls of blood with their noses
What is the tongue
A. The black coat that fell off the wall
With sleeves trying to say something
What are the hands
A. Paid
No what are the hands
A. Climbing back down the museum wall
To their ancestors the extinct shrews that will
Have left a message
What is the silence
A. As though it had a right to more
Who are the compatriots
A. They make the stars of bone

I don’t feel right satirizing this poem because there is undoubtedly a beautiful and deeper meaning that I, in my superficiality and ignorance, am missing. So, I’ve decided to take his approach, but address the body as it is living, instead of as it is dead.

What is the head
A. Means to insight
What are the eyes
A. Full of and for sight – therefore insightful, too
What are the feet
A. Marching in a poetic unit
No what are the feet
A. Under them many roads are moving
They are a solid base
What is the tongue
A. A flash of fire that licks up the wall
No what is the tongue
A. Tasting
What are the hands
A. Holding on and letting go
What is the silence
A. As if noise were better
Who are the compatriots
A. They make the silence more precious