The Last Poem
First poem,
unfinished poem,
a poem filled with mistakes
A flowing poem,
a speaking poem,
a poem that suffers pain and loss
A poem in the clouds,
a poem upon the clouds,
a poem in the sky,
and within that same poem,
the earlier poem of clouds again
And all these lines,
the poem of this very line
A shore poem,
a river-current poem,
a flag placed upon the height of mountains poem,
and the one who placed it
is himself a poem.
A poem of the day
written in the night,
a poem of the night
that I am writing now.
A poem of beautiful forests,
a poem that everyone chose,
a poem that everyone wishes to leave behind
A poem of thoughts,
a poem of questions,
a poem of poems,
the poet’s poem,
life’s poem,
a poem of feelings
the last poem
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Hello Amit,
this is one of the most beautiful "ars poetica" poems I have read in a long time. Truly, very beautiful.
It feels like the poet is trying to gather every part of life and lay it gently on the page. There’s something really touching in the way each image becomes its own small world — clouds, rivers, mountains, forests — all held together by this quiet sense of wonder. The repetition gives the poem a kind of drifting rhythm, like someone thinking out loud and circling back to memories they don’t want to lose. I love how the poet keeps blurring the line between the poem and the person, as if both are made of the same material. There’s a softness in admitting that some poems are chosen and others are left behind, just like moments in a life. And when it calls itself “the last poem,” it doesn’t feel final at all. It feels more like someone pausing, taking a breath, and realizing that everything they’ve lived has already become part of the story they’re telling.