I need to live forever —
Not like the mythic Greek gods
But rather their crude etchings
Pin pricks of any three stars
Form Orion’s belt —
While he may have passed to mist
His name lives on in the sky.
So this verse I write
Will be forgotten next morn
Read by only few
But etched on the electrons
Lighting the vast world online.
Tomorrow my mind
May go SPICK! SPACK! SPLUT! Flatlined
In a cruel second.
A body far too mortal;
Verses typed in electric stars.
Maybe, just maybe
In a far flung future time
A young archivist
Will sift through forgotten words
And discover our attempts.
Then we live again.
Voices of the long dead past;
Our second coming!
Resurrected past our graves,
You and I, now immortal.
NOTE: I really expected that haiku to be the last poem for a while. Well… this one got to me just a few minutes ago. Thought it would be a nice coda. It really was what was driving me forward through the whole NaPoWriMo thing. Death is always on my mind… moreso nowadays. Recently, I’ve have to visit my wife’s uncle, the victim of a stroke, in a hospital quite often lately. I know that few people, relatively, are reading my poems. (Though for those of you who did drop by, thank you very much!) But…
Well, it was like those cavemen who drew out their daily lives on the walls of a cave. We’ll never know who they are, of if they were the greatest artists of their day. But they provided a very valuable service. Without them, we have no idea what life was like when they were around. Maybe no one will ever know my name. Or yours. But I think one of the great things I discovered — not just through my poetry, but through reading others’ — is that what we’re doing is providing a glimpse into our lives that can’t be fully captured in photographs or prose or newspaper articles.
Poetry is us. This is what’s in our hearts. And maybe, just maybe, one of these days some researcher wants to reconstruct life in the 20th and 21st century. And maybe he reads one of our poems and he thinks, “Hmmm… this is quite an insight! Everything we knew about 2013 was wrong!” Maybe he’ll only know me as a guy who photographs himself in a wrestling mask. Or perhaps he only knows you as an icon of a deer that the thought was a rockstar in a black bandana.
What’s important, in the end, is that we wrote it. We wrote us.
Thank you to everyone who wrote poems this last month.