The News
Hannah Louise Poston
Tom Howard/Margaret Reid Poetry Contest 2020 (view all the winners)
Honorable Mention, Margaret Reid, Traditional Verse
It is, I promise, worse than you think.
—David Wallace-Wells, "The Uninhabitable Earth"
It's in the news: the world will end in fire.
The world will end in natural disaster,
and every record of desire,
and every work of art by every master,
and fields of oleaster—
and fields of oleaster—
and poison oaks and scarlet oaks and pin oaks,
and town after town after town,
and you in Montreal will die of heat stroke,
and here in California I will drown.
O world, I cannot hold you close enough,
your sweet cold plums, your shopping malls—
world, world I cannot get you close enough,
your television shows, your waterfalls—
*
It's in the news: the world will end in fire.
The world will end in nuclear disaster,
and nothing will be emptier or vaster,
and nothing will require
attendance or attention or intent,
and monuments of jade and alabaster,
and halls of alabaster—
and fields of purple aster—
O world, we cannot hold you close enough,
we have to drive a billion cars upon you—
world, world we cannot get you close enough,
we drill in you and cling to you and throng you,
and hunger for your salt and cinnamon,
and learn your songs by heart—
here such a passion is
as stretcheth you apart—
*
It's in the news: the coast will be upon us
before we know it, freakishly proceeding
inland, water breeding, water bleeding,
submerging even hunger, even meaning,
and city streets and poignancy and pleasure
and freshly sharpened pencils,
and wristwatches and clocks (time
will go on but not be measured),
and daydreams, and magnificent credentials—
submerging childhood, and thoughtlessness, and pretty shoes,
and baby grand pianos and designer cutlery—
gone, gone utterly—
it's in the news—
and language gone, and dark nights of the soul,
and every herd of horses,
every pair of mated swans—
and being heartbroken, and being left wing,
and women laughing for the sake of it—
All things
must perish from under the sun,
Music alone shall live, we used to sing—
*
This is the final century of life.
At best, the next-to-last.
I fill my home with books of poetry
and history, and hang the walls with art,
and try to walk down Seventh Street with style,
and try to feel complete,
and try to know if I should have a child.
O world, we cannot hold you close enough,
your saturated wild winds, your wild indigo—
world, world, we cannot get you close enough,
we'll cherish you to death, we love you so—
*
I see my books gliding like crenellated
jellyfish through the underwater city—
I see yours burning like the Library at Alexandria—
my darling, what I've tasted of desire—
I see miles of Queen Anne's lace on fire—
and every work of art by every master,
and fields of purple aster—
and fields of purple aster—
