Writing in the Afterlife

Writing in the Afterlife


I imagined the atmosphere would be clear,
shot with pristine light,
not this sulphurous haze,
the air ionized as before a thunderstorm.

Many have pictured a river here,
but no one mentioned all the boats,
their benches crowded
with naked passengers,
each bent over a writing tablet.

I knew I would not always be a child
with a model train and a model tunnel,
and I knew I would not live forever,
jumping all day
through the hoop of myself.

I had heard about the journey
to the other side
and the clink of the final coin
in the leather purse of the man
holding the oar,
but how could anyone have guessed

that as soon as we arrived
we would be asked to describe
this place and to include
as much detail as possible—
not just the water, he insists,

rather the oily, fathomless,
rat-happy water,
not simply the shackles,
but the rusty, iron,
ankle-shredding shackles—
and that our next assignment

would be to jot down,
off the tops of our heads,
our thoughts and feelings
about being dead,
not really an assignment,
the man rotating the oar
keeps telling us—

think of it more as an exercise,
he groans,
think of writing as a process,
a never-ending, infernal process,
and now the boats have become
jammed together,

bow against stern,
stern locked to bow,
and not a thing is moving,
only our diligent pens.


Billy Collins

Posted over on Poetry Foundation