Final words, or: Oeuvre

My 1st dizain

The poet sat watching the page fill up;
words, once warm, flowed forth freely from his vein;
nothing his heart's oeuvre could interrupt,
that stream of pleasure, love, memories, pain,
for mere existence had become a strain;
came the day when one thing remained to write,
when the writer felt exhaustion's cold bite;
'twas that day when pen was finally spent;
he hoped his final words would set things right,
and that his readers would know what he meant.


Open Link Night

Usually I like to share older poems of mine for d’Verse ‘open link night’, but I just wrote this dizain tonight, and I’ve decided to share it with the community instead.

45 thoughts on “Final words, or: Oeuvre”

  1. Well written David! I celebrate the veracity and power of your words. May you continue always sharing only your authentic self — that alone makes you genuine, meaningful to read, and of worth to be heard! Síocháin!

  2. I read your post and I thought Wow! Words you write about writing! And how! That’s one beautiful dizain 🙂
    You inspire me to try new forms of poetry David. Thank you for writing

  3. This is not your case ( by a long shot) Alhamdulillah, but you paint it beautifully. I join the others, and love the sound of the word ouevre. I too have pondered what mine might be too ❤️

  4. I also like the word “oeuvre,” and the thought of the poet writing his last words. I imagined him dying at his desk with a feathered quill in hand. Perhaps the ink smudged a bit. . .

    I like this form, too. I’m going to have to try it.

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