We shall not last

Sunday, 9 December 2012

even if a trem­ble of por­tents are
as­suaged by the dark chil­dren of fu­ture decades

even if we dodge prob­a­bil­ity with some nim­ble
math­e­mat­ics barely ap­pre­hended

     even if our fi­nal bal­ance of dawdling
     fills no more than a thim­ble

even if we are for­given

     I say: if com­bat­ant claims di­vide our at­tempts
     to hold close the atomic pile of our ge­net­ics

     if our last days are made shorter by a
     hunger re­fined through a tense trig­ger fin­ger

if these thin words are our only ranked bul­warks
against calamity 

if only po­ets write 

This form is called a wry­neck, and was cre­ated by poet R.A. Villanueva. I’m still not very good with it, prob­a­bly mostly be­cause I don’t like leav­ing things open ended. I was think­ing about how writ­ing can seem ex­is­ten­tially fu­tile, but also how writ­ing (or any cre­ative en­deavor) is an act of de­fi­ance in the face of ex­is­ten­tial fu­til­ity. Being stub­born is what keeps us ex­tant.

The in­dent­ing sep­a­rates sec­tions of sim­i­lar theme. Here, in par­tic­u­lar, the in­dented sec­tions are de­struc­tive and the reg­u­lar sec­tions are (ar­guably) cre­ative in theme.