By William Matthews
This is often the touchingly entitled number of poems William Matthews had accomplished presently earlier than demise, simply after his fifty-fifth birthday in November 1997. Is demise ever solely unforeseen? no longer, probably, via a collector of expertise, a connoisseur of language, who can consult with "death flickering in you love a pilot light." In in any case, Matthews appears having a look his final on all issues beautiful: song, nutrition and wine, love. within the attractive critical poem, "Dire Cure," which types a type of backbone to the ebook, he describes the extraordinary implications of the "heroic measures" that kept the existence and restored the well-being of his spouse from "a children's melanoma (doesn't that possessive holiday your heart?)." He conjures up the dying of his favourite jazz musician, Charles Mingus. He speaks of cats, canines, pigs, sheep, of the previous, of background, of joys proposed, yet in particular, together with his attribute secure wit, of language and its quiddities: "My love says i feel too rattling a lot and perhaps she's right." in the end is the final word from some of the most pensive and scrumptious of all our poets.
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Additional resources for After All: Last Poems
Harsh shadowy plumage, the grass spread it one morning. Sudden splits in the walls confirmed it day after day, charcoal traces on stone, transparent spiders, winds. And suddenly when night spilled over, it dangerously overflowed the closed showcases, tight knots, hands that could hardly hold the stormy pressure. A great black bird fell onto your plate. Like wrapping around some fire--dark, taciturn, breathlessit came from far away, piercing as it passed the pure skin of every day. Now you notice how this chilling harvest smokes.
Don't let her pass. Cut off her path with a wildfire from the tree split by lightning. Cast her reflection where the waters run so she can never return. Bury her shadow's length under your house so earth can reclaim her through its mouth. Name her with the name of the deserted. Name her. Name her with cold and burning, with wax melted like dirty snow where her life's form falls, 37 con las tijeras y el puiial, con el rastro de la alimafia herida sabre la piedra negra, con el humo del ascua, con la fosa del imposible amor abierta al rojo vivo en su costado, con la palabra de poder n6mbrala y matala.
Oh, you, the inclement angels of time, who still live in the distancethat oblivion which is too rebelliousyou, who carry my abandoned and angry heart off to the darkness, to its withered idols, still eternal: you cannot take from me this little life between two dreams, this body of vines and leaves that is falling tenderly, dying inside, the way the grass dies. 51 LES JEUX SONT FAITS jTanto esplendor en este dfa! jTanto esplendor inutil, vado, traicionado! zY quien te dijo acaso que vendrfan por ti dfas dorados en afios venideros?