The Library of Alexandria burned
And our knowledge of the classic world
Was reduced to a scrap
a whisper, a shadow.
My great grand father died
And my knowledge of him
Consists of a single photo,
That he owned a saw mill
Which burned down,
And a story that he didn’t like
To wear new cloths
So he had his man servant wear them
Until they were broken in.
Of my grand father I know hardly more.
He was a sales man,
Who survived the depression
Selling snake oil door to door.
He cheated when he played baseball
With his grandchildren.
My father didn’t like him.
Perhaps that is why
I am writing this now
so my children might know me;
So that a thousand years from now
After some fanatic has set of
A nuclear bomb in the
Library of congress.
Someone will find a poem of mine.
(I print them on archival paper
just in case.)
And the students of that future age
Will curse me for writing this crap
That they will be tested on
At some future date.
A contest entry
- When an Old Man Dies, A Library Burns Down by ea.
700 points, ended October 20, 14 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Comments
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Thought poem went to another level
with rambling in perfect order
great piece here
enjoyed the read
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It's interesting that you bring in the Library of Alexandria and the classical world because further googling has led me to discover that this saying may have African roots (Well, Timbuktu is the oldest known library so it is possible.) I especially like the description of the great grandfather (an occupation, a photo, and an anecdote) because these are the few details a life most often boils down to, even when you did grow up around the person or at least people who knew him... In fact that would be a great contest to run - what three things will your grandchildren live to know about you? It is strange to contemplate what our own "immortality" might shake down to in subsequent generations. As for archival paper, speaking personally, maybe a few are worth bothering with that for.
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I like this - especially 'a scrap, a whisper, a shadow' in the first stanza. Yet, as little as we know about our forefathers, in an essential sense we are them, and we carry on their lives.
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