Series Apocalypse

This blog is supposed to be about the end of the world, dinghy sailing, and other things. Other things seem to have taken over of late, mouse poems, cat poems and reflections on the mundane have held sway.

I have been prophesying doom for many years, I remember years ago as I was sweating about global warming a wise old friend replied that there has always been an approaching apocalypse; world wars, famine, nuclear annihilation. ..

I don’t reject the scriptures I was brought up with, although I never paid them much attention, I think the two stories are compatible, even complimentary.

It is a question of perspective; for many Jewish people the holocaust was the apocalypse, for some Irish the potato famine was an absolute end. This sounds incomplete as apocalypse translates as “complete and final destruction of the world”, making the post apocalyptic film genre a little flawed. How do we define the world? It would be self indulgent to expect the whole universe to be destroyed to affect my own demise. I am drawn again to the article; the world or a world, my world or your world? There is a worm in my apple, when I cut it open that is his apocalypse.

So I see the next apocalypse as the biggest in a series of misery. I do not concern myself with the finality of human destruction and I don’t expect the earth to burst like a bubble, but it will surely be the end of the world as we know it, the end of most of us, the end of most of the world’s beauty as known to us. I do not want to live through it, and I do not expect to live up to it.

We might speculate on what comes after, but it is only speculation I think it is most likely that humans will self destruct, but who knows? I know very little, but as much as I need to. I will be judged on what I do before the apocalypse, the quality of my mouse poems might just save me.

Published by Schnark

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2 thoughts on “Series Apocalypse

  1. On the day the world ends
    A bee circles a clover,
    A fisherman mends a glimmering net.
    Happy porpoises jump in the sea,
    By the rainspout young sparrows are playing
    And the snake is gold-skinned as it should always be.

    On the day the world ends
    Women walk through the fields under their umbrellas,
    A drunkard grows sleepy at the edge of a lawn,
    Vegetable peddlers shout in the street
    And a yellow-sailed boat comes nearer the island,
    The voice of a violin lasts in the air
    And leads into a starry night.

    And those who expected lightning and thunder
    Are disappointed.
    And those who expected signs and archangels’ trumps
    Do not believe it is happening now.
    As long as the sun and the moon are above,
    As long as the bumblebee visits a rose,
    As long as rosy infants are born
    No one believes it is happening now.

    Only a white-haired old man, who would be a prophet
    Yet is not a prophet, for he’s much too busy,
    Repeats while he binds his tomatoes:
    There will be no other end of the world,
    There will be no other end of the world.

    Warsaw, 1944



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