Best Famous At The Last Minute Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous At The Last Minute poems. This is a select list of the best famous At The Last Minute poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous At The Last Minute poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of at the last minute poems.

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Written by John Ashbery | Create an image from this poem

Syringa

 Orpheus liked the glad personal quality
Of the things beneath the sky.
Of course, Eurydice was a part Of this.
Then one day, everything changed.
He rends Rocks into fissures with lament.
Gullies, hummocks Can't withstand it.
The sky shudders from one horizon To the other, almost ready to give up wholeness.
Then Apollo quietly told him: "Leave it all on earth.
Your lute, what point? Why pick at a dull pavan few care to Follow, except a few birds of dusty feather, Not vivid performances of the past.
" But why not? All other things must change too.
The seasons are no longer what they once were, But it is the nature of things to be seen only once, As they happen along, bumping into other things, getting along Somehow.
That's where Orpheus made his mistake.
Of course Eurydice vanished into the shade; She would have even if he hadn't turned around.
No use standing there like a gray stone toga as the whole wheel Of recorded history flashes past, struck dumb, unable to utter an intelligent Comment on the most thought-provoking element in its train.
Only love stays on the brain, and something these people, These other ones, call life.
Singing accurately So that the notes mount straight up out of the well of Dim noon and rival the tiny, sparkling yellow flowers Growing around the brink of the quarry, encapsulizes The different weights of the things.
But it isn't enough To just go on singing.
Orpheus realized this And didn't mind so much about his reward being in heaven After the Bacchantes had torn him apart, driven Half out of their minds by his music, what it was doing to them.
Some say it was for his treatment of Eurydice.
But probably the music had more to do with it, and The way music passes, emblematic Of life and how you cannot isolate a note of it And say it is good or bad.
You must Wait till it's over.
"The end crowns all," Meaning also that the "tableau" Is wrong.
For although memories, of a season, for example, Melt into a single snapshot, one cannot guard, treasure That stalled moment.
It too is flowing, fleeting; It is a picture of flowing, scenery, though living, mortal, Over which an abstract action is laid out in blunt, Harsh strokes.
And to ask more than this Is to become the tossing reeds of that slow, Powerful stream, the trailing grasses Playfully tugged at, but to participate in the action No more than this.
Then in the lowering gentian sky Electric twitches are faintly apparent first, then burst forth Into a shower of fixed, cream-colored flares.
The horses Have each seen a share of the truth, though each thinks, "I'm a maverick.
Nothing of this is happening to me, Though I can understand the language of birds, and The itinerary of the lights caught in the storm is fully apparent to me.
Their jousting ends in music much As trees move more easily in the wind after a summer storm And is happening in lacy shadows of shore-trees, now, day after day.
" But how late to be regretting all this, even Bearing in mind that regrets are always late, too late! To which Orpheus, a bluish cloud with white contours, Replies that these are of course not regrets at all, Merely a careful, scholarly setting down of Unquestioned facts, a record of pebbles along the way.
And no matter how all this disappeared, Or got where it was going, it is no longer Material for a poem.
Its subject Matters too much, and not enough, standing there helplessly While the poem streaked by, its tail afire, a bad Comet screaming hate and disaster, but so turned inward That the meaning, good or other, can never Become known.
The singer thinks Constructively, builds up his chant in progressive stages Like a skyscraper, but at the last minute turns away.
The song is engulfed in an instant in blackness Which must in turn flood the whole continent With blackness, for it cannot see.
The singer Must then pass out of sight, not even relieved Of the evil burthen of the words.
Stellification Is for the few, and comes about much later When all record of these people and their lives Has disappeared into libraries, onto microfilm.
A few are still interested in them.
"But what about So-and-so?" is still asked on occasion.
But they lie Frozen and out of touch until an arbitrary chorus Speaks of a totally different incident with a similar name In whose tale are hidden syllables Of what happened so long before that In some small town, one different summer.
Written by Sharon Olds | Create an image from this poem

One Year

 When I got to his marker, I sat on it,
like sitting on the edge of someone's bed 
and I rubbed the smooth, speckled granite.
I took some tears from my jaw and neck and started to wash a corner of his stone.
Then a black and amber ant ran out onto the granite, and off it, and another ant hauled a dead ant onto the stone, leaving it, and not coming back.
Ants ran down into the grooves of his name and dates, down into the oval track of the first name's O, middle name's O, the short O of his last name, and down into the hyphen between his birth and death--little trough of his life.
Soft bugs appeared on my shoes, like grains of pollen, I let them move on me, I rinsed a dark fleck of mica, and down inside the engraved letters the first dots of lichen were appearing like stars in early evening.
I saw the speedwell on the ground with its horns, the coiled ferns, copper-beech blossoms, each petal like that disc of matter which swayed, on the last day, on his tongue.
Tamarack, Western hemlock, manzanita, water birch with its scored bark, I put my arms around a trunk and squeezed it, then I lay down on my father's grave.
The sun shone down on me, the powerful ants walked on me.
When I woke, my cheek was crumbly, yellowish with a mustard plaster of earth.
Only at the last minute did I think of his body actually under me, the can of bone, ash, soft as a goosedown pillow that bursts in bed with the lovers.
When I kissed his stone it was not enough, when I licked it my tongue went dry a moment, I ate his dust, I tasted my dirt host.
Written by Jennifer Reeser | Create an image from this poem

Civic Centre (for Kathryn)

 Moscow ballet at seven in the evening.
You look at everything.
You lay your cheek against my shoulder, smoothing down my sleeve, the Russian blizzards somehow less than bleak, portrayed with whimsy on the backdrop screens in dolloped watercolors as they are.
I ask if you know what their movement means.
You wish our situation not so far.
And everywhere, the audience defies convention and conformity, some dressed as though they had been made to improvise at the last minute, some in black-tie best.
You’re happy, in new satin, having run your fingers countless times from hip to hem – Anastasia, whereas I am anyone in tan, beside a jade and garnet gem.
With clarity and ease like these a-stage, comparison with any else in life seems but the smart annoyance of an age, scissors beside a blunted paperknife.
“Sit up.
Pay close attention.
Sugar Plum is dancing with such dignity,” I tell you, half-disheartened, when I hear you hum, you know Tchaikovsky’s symphony so well.
Written by W S Merwin | Create an image from this poem

Term

 At the last minute a word is waiting
not heard that way before and not to be
repeated or ever be remembered
one that always had been a household word
used in speaking of the ordinary
everyday recurrences of living
not newly chosen or long considered
or a matter for comment afterward
who would ever have thought it was the one
saying itself from the beginning through
all its uses and circumstances to
utter at last that meaning of its own
for which it had long been the only word
though it seems now that any word would do