Late Poems
–Margaret Atwood

These are the late poems.

Most poems are late

of course: too late,

like a letter sent by a sailor

that arrives after he’s drowned.

Too late to be of help, such letters,

and late poems are similar.

They arrive as if through water.

Whatever it was has happened:

the battle, the sunny day, the moonlit

slipping into lust, the farewell kiss. The poem

washes ashore like a flotsam.

Or late, as in late for supper:
all the words cold or eaten.
Scoundrel, plight, and vanquished,
or linger, bide, awhile,
forsaken, wept, forlorn.
Love and joy, even: thrice-gnawed songs.
Rusted spells. Worn choruses.

It’s late, it’s very late;
too late for dancing
Still, sing what you can.
Turn up the light: sing on,
sing: On.

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