If unexpectedly I were to die,
then this at least is here for all to see -
something of mine, a collection of what was I;
to survive the flesh, what could beat poetry?
Hubris begs me "Don't leave this world unknown!"
In secret I agree, but as for pride,
it tugs my sleeve and beckons with a groan,
"Are you worthy of such a haughty stride?"
Thus, I compromise, only my best work
will here be shown. The rest I’ll bring along,
gravebound for that eternal gloomy murk
beyond the mortal, to the ghastly throng.
Alas, the end is nigh, the poem closes,
I only ask my tomb be strewn with roses.
Got Jack riding shotgun here,
Kerouac is reading some of his beat poetry
it kind of feels old school now,
but this is a first edition write
and he rocks it gently
on its heels
like a whispering Buddha.
Jack grins,
taps me on the shoulder:
"Hey man
you know where we're we going?"
I have to shout over the
throaty throb of the 1949 Hudson.
"To an auction house dude,
one day you're gonna be famous."
Jack lights another cigarette
closes his eyes
dreams of a distant country
that never arrives.
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.