Keeping hope alive on the cosmic struggle bus
Annie! That gorgeous song! Pure poetry and grief medicine, my friend. What a gift. Thank you. 💙
Quoted poem by Lenny Lianne. Check out Jack Gilbert as a poet.
The Last Word
after Jack Gilbert
When the angels came, he was working
on the Sunday crossword puzzle.
He’d filled in “apple” for forbidden fruit
and, down from the first letter,
penciled in “agape” in the squares,
then stopped, caught more off-guard
by the incongruous intersection
of greed and ungrudging goodwill
than by the two sinewy, winged figures
who looked like extras in a Zeffirelli film.
All he asked was could he continue
the puzzle. Both angels shrugged
so he took up his pencil again.
The two drew near, leaned over him,
close enough for him to discern
the faint scent of his favorite flowers,
lilies of the valley, those delicate bells
that never ring. Hemingway, one said,
pointing toward a five-letter space.
Donne, the other countered dryly.
“But I have so much more to finish,”
the man mewled, showing them
a baffling expanse of vacant spaces.
By the time he put down the final
letter, the sky had given its last
rosy show of the day and the man
said he would slip on his sweater.
When the angels led him toward
a brightness, he tried to let go,
arguing, “I don’t know if I gave
the right answers.” No one does
was the angels’ reply.
Annie! That gorgeous song! Pure poetry and grief medicine, my friend. What a gift. Thank you. 💙
Quoted poem by Lenny Lianne. Check out Jack Gilbert as a poet.
The Last Word
after Jack Gilbert
When the angels came, he was working
on the Sunday crossword puzzle.
He’d filled in “apple” for forbidden fruit
and, down from the first letter,
penciled in “agape” in the squares,
then stopped, caught more off-guard
by the incongruous intersection
of greed and ungrudging goodwill
than by the two sinewy, winged figures
who looked like extras in a Zeffirelli film.
All he asked was could he continue
the puzzle. Both angels shrugged
so he took up his pencil again.
The two drew near, leaned over him,
close enough for him to discern
the faint scent of his favorite flowers,
lilies of the valley, those delicate bells
that never ring. Hemingway, one said,
pointing toward a five-letter space.
Donne, the other countered dryly.
“But I have so much more to finish,”
the man mewled, showing them
a baffling expanse of vacant spaces.
By the time he put down the final
letter, the sky had given its last
rosy show of the day and the man
said he would slip on his sweater.
When the angels led him toward
a brightness, he tried to let go,
arguing, “I don’t know if I gave
the right answers.” No one does
was the angels’ reply.