Don't Let It End Like This Tell Them I Said Something

by Paul Vermeersch

"Don't Let It End Like This Tell Them I Said Something" -- Paul Vermeersch's fifth collection of poetry -- is, as its title suggests, a lyrical meditation on written language and the end of civilization. It combines centos, glosas, erasures, text collage, and other forms to imagine a post-apocalyptic literature built, or rebuilt, from the rubble of the texts that came before.

Genres: Poetry, Canada

Unknown Binding

First published October 14, 2014

About the author

Paul Vermeersch is a poet, multimedia artist, professor, and editor. His eighth collection of poetry, NMLCT, was published in September 2025 by ECW Press. Paul holds an MFA in creative writing from the University of Guelph for which he received the Governor General's Gold Medal. He is currently a professor at Sheridan College where he serves as the editor-in-chief of The Ampersand Review of Writing & Publishing. He is also the senior editor of Wolsak and Wynn Publishers where he created the poetry and fiction imprint Buckrider Books. He lives in Toronto. Instagram: @paulvermeersch

Reviews

[Maggie Gordon · Rating 5 out of 5]

And just when I thought dystopias couldn't surprise me anymore, I pick up a poetry book about the end of the world. Vermeersch uses a variety of techniques to put his readers on edge, teasing at the chaos and unpredictability of the apocalypse. It's an uncomfortable, yet striking read with a wide range of different types of poems. Even if you aren't a poetry reader, this is a fantastic volume that is worth a read!

[Luigi Sposato · Rating 5 out of 5]

Truly grasps at almost every aspect of poetry before combining and separating them into one amazing collection. The poetry and language are commanded in a way only few can do.

[Jacqueline Valencia · Rating 4 out of 5]

Postmodernism finds poetry continually cycling through arguments of the lyrical versus the conceptual. Therefore, it’s refreshing to see a poet dare to play amongst the mudslinging.

Paul Vermeersch’s latest poetry collection Don’t Let It End Like This Tell Them I Said Something, is an ode to language left after the end of civilization. Scouring the poetic landscape with various prose harvesting methods such as cut-ups, centos and erasures, Vermeesch collects work and molds it into new structures. He does this on the conceptual setting of future decay. Through that world Vermeesch renders the words anew and reveals the inherent experimental nature of poetry.

My personal favourites are his Sol Le Witt-like recipes in On The Reintegration of Disintegrated Texts: “Select a novel at random. To the end of it, add the line ‘And then Count Anthrak the Destroyer appeared and slayed them all.’

Call it ‘They Suspected Nothing’”

Poetry is experiential in its existence: in its use of rhythms, aesthetics, and the means by which it is made. Poets play and form new ways of expression. Whether it results in abstract or expressive work, it doesn’t matter. What matters is how the poet progresses the medium with their methods. Vermeesch renders a beautiful view that we can still rehash the medium with old methods, even creating new ones in the process. What better way to do that but through the images of traditional childlike play in crisis: “I had a wooden dog on a yellow string,/and a wooden train that would not go,/and a wooden car that went.

But it wouldn’t last. In 1973, the Age of Wood was in decline./The dolls abadoned their dollhouses/and let them fall like eyesores on the shore.”

I highly recommend this book, not just for the poetry war fanatics, but because its great poetry.

[Hannah Champion · Rating 4 out of 5]

I bought this because I loved the title. I'm not saying you should always do that, but sometimes it's exciting. This time it turned out to be wonderful.

Despite being a book of poetry about the end of the world, the words often feel relevant to the present moment, or the very near future, or even the past. I felt sucked into the depths of it all, hanging where time doesn't necessarily exist, lost in lines about the peculiarities of being human and being alive and what's left when there is hardly any trace of that.

Every poem is interesting and intelligent and different. They all make me want to think harder and faster. I like that feeling.

[M.W.P.M. · Rating 4 out of 5]

Don't Let It End Like This Tell Them I Said Something is divided into six parts: "Magog", "The Rediscovery of Architecture", "The Technology of the Future Will Emerge Hungry", "The Toys of the Future Escape Me", "On the Reintegration of Disintegrated Texts: A Manual for Survivors", and "Rubble". The titles accurately reflect the post-apocalyptic and/or dystopian overtone of the poems of this collection, with postmodern undertone.

The first part, "Magog", is a sequence of poems that contain references to the poet's deceased father (the collection is dedicated to his father), frequent use of playful alliteration, and a recurrent fill-in-the-blank motif...

Remember the old ones - absent father
- 1, pg. 11


Burn it for the hundred-handed fathers
of the ruined world.
Offer them this sacrifice.
- 4, pg. 14


A marching song to make the hawk-faced
fathers come marching home? [...]
- 7, pg. 17


our centipede fathers dancing on feathery,
eyelash feet, wearing kidskin undershirts
- 12, pg. 22


[...] The leafy fathers of the wood
remain at a distance.[...]
- 14, pg. 24


of the blankety blank, of the ageless abyss -
- 1, pg. 11


with his breasts and eternal erection,
arranged its bones around a round rosette.
- 4, pg. 14


"Don't move" and [your name here], they'd whisper.
- 2, pg. 12


The _____ gods are _____. And we want their love.
- 4, pg. 14

Vermeersch doesn't seem to believe in "discovery". Instead, his titles emphasize the idea that everything has been discovered, and can only be "rediscovered". This is present in Vermeersch's previous collection of poetry, The Reinvention of the Human Hand , and in the second part of this collection of poetry, "The Rediscovery of Architecture".

The most interesting poems of "The Rediscovery of Architecture" have a loose structure, both in their content and form, with words and sentences broken up and seemingly drifting across the page...

A shallow pit where heads rolled White

 marble stretched over red brick Fragments

of equipment Containers for food The trap doors

 through which the lions sprang unchained

Helmets of iron and bronze Helmets

 of fibreglass Some objects to be determined

later The remains of a stone O like a fairy

 ring collecting detritus A slave's chain

A mouthguard Some scraps of Astroturf
- Stadium, pg. 30



Blown-out windows empty paneless black

 swimmer's ear an awkward gown a mouthful

of the Trauma Ward's missing double doors

 offered to a patient they can't help

one-way hospital green the size of peas

 of every shade an urgent shot of Demerol?


 What purpose do these wordless chambers serve?
- Hospital, pg. 38

Contrary to the title, "The Technology of the Future Will Emerge Hungry", the poems of the third part primarily describe nature, weather, animals. Even a poem entitled "Machine" is devoid of any of the "technology" promised by the title. Which leads me to believe that Vermeersch is describing "the quiet before the storm"... the storm of industrialization...

It was like a balloon, like a fire
in the distance. The steed rollicked
across the lake like a bee. There was
never much to fear. Death, yes,
bu not the machine that repeated
questions, the cursive alphabet
of a condemned populace. Why
am I telling you this? It doesn't
really make a difference. The old
mare had the glorious desire
to run, and the river wore a coat
of flamingos. The technology of
the future will emerge hungry
as if all of it had never happened.
- Machine, pg. 48

Each of the poems of the fourth part,"The Toys of the Future Escape Me", is prefaced by a quote from a poet or notable person. The poets are Frederick Seidel, Edward Young, Gwendolyn Brooks, Mona Van Duyn, Margaret Atwood, and A. F. Moritz. The notables are Nostradamus and Helen Keller.

The most interesting of these poems is "Their Humility Makes Them Magnificent", which begins with a quote by Edward Young, follows by a quote by Gwendolyn Brooks that is a response to Young's quote, followed by Vermeersch's poem... I must say, however, that I'm not sure what to make of Vermeersch's poem. He seemingly aligns himself with Brooks by using her words, and yet he retains Young's tongue-in-cheek humorous tone by telling us about Pygmies - what they are and what they do...

Pygmies are pygmies still, though percht on Alps
- Edward Young

Pygmies expand in cold impossible air,
Cry fie on giantshine, poor glory which
Pounds breast-bone punily, screeches, and has
Reached no Alps; or, knows no Alps to reach.
- Gwendolyn Brooks, in response to Edward Young

Pygmies vanish under handmade quilts. They detonate
when lied to, sprout wings in the presence of snakes.
Pygmies figure prominently in foreign mythologies.
They understand things about electrons and threading
the smallest needles that taller people will never understand.
They resist the urge to destroy the sun. They are not always
tiny; Pygmies expand in cold impossible air, and hiss
when disdain for the tallest Englishmen who remain
always the same size. These fools, say the Pygmies,
are content to thread enormous needles and destroy
the sun. Pygmies are close with the earth, but they spit
on the earthbound - show them a snake and they're gone.
They turn their backs on the material finery of Guinness
Book of Records fame, cry fie on giantshine, poor glory which
coats the bright windows of giant-homes with a milky film.
Pygmies know their humility makes them magnificent
in a quiet, unseen way. What good is it to stand in the middle
of the shouting field shouting? Better to stay home and feel
the warmth of the undestroyed sun shining through clean,
clear windows. What good is it if some Englishman goes
to the shouting field, pounds breast bone punily, screeches,
and has no quiet, unseen magnificence? Doesn't he know
what could happen to the sun? Doesn't he know the secret
of electrons and how to thread needles so small that one
might stitch a quilt of invisibility? Of course not! This fool,
say the Pygmies, this fool cannot imagine such subtle power.
This fool, they say, cannot imagine how to expand in Alpine air.
They say he has reached no Alps: or, knows no Alps to reach.
- Their Humility Makes Them Magnificent, pg. 64-65

The poems of "On the Reintegration of Disintegrated Texts: A Manual for Survivors" begin with instructions. The resulting poems seem to be derived from the following of these instructions. This is the ironic / postmodern portion of the collection. Some experimentation, but it's more on the boring / repetitive side of experimentation (a bit like Ted Berrigan). I must say, I don't know how to feel about the class and race implications of this poem, or the fact that the poet addresses the subject of "rape" so lightly...

Starting with the person nearest you, and then the next person
and so on, type out the names of every living person on Earth.

Call it "Roster"

*

Write the names of endangered species all over your body.
Whenever a species goes extinct, surgically remove the corre-
sponding body part.

Call if "Dodo"

*

Transcribe every word from Shakespeare's The Tempest and
Michael Bay's Transformers, alternating as you go.

Call it "The Mirandacon"

*

Returning to your hometown, and using the "middle name + the
street you grew up on" formula, record everyone's "porn name."

Call it "Credits"

*

Move to a poor, crime-riddled city. Watch the local evening
news for one year, recording the testimony of hysterical neigh-
bours.

Call it "Eye Witness"

*

Something is wrong here. I heard screaming. I'm eating
my McDonald's. I come outside. I see this girl going nuts
trying to get out of her house. I heard screaming. Well,
I woke up to get me a cold pop, and then I thought
somebody was barbequing. I said oh lord Jesus it's a fire.

Ain't nobody got time for that. So I go on the porch, and
she says, "Help me get out. I've been in here a long time."
I'm eating my McDonald's. I heard screaming. I come
outside. He's climbing in your windows. He's snatching
our people up, trying to rape them. Something is wrong here.

I got bronchitis. I'm eating my McDonald's. So, you know,
I figured this is a domestic violence dispute. Ain't nobody
got time for that, so I opened the door, but we can't get in
that way. Then I ran out. I didn't grab no shoes or nothing.
They're raping everybody out here. Jesus, I ran for my life.

And then the smoke got me. I got bronchitis. Soemthing
is wrong here. So you all need to hide your kids hide
your wife, and hide your husband because they're raping
everybody out here. I thought somebody was barbequing.
I said oh lord Jesus it's a fire. So we kicked the bottom

and she comes out with a little girl, and she says, "Call 911.
I'v been in here a long time. That's when the smoke got me.
He's snatching your people up, trying to rape them." Well,
I knew something was wrong when a little pretty white
girl ran into a black man's arms. Something is wrong here.
- Eye Witness, pg. 81-84

"Rubble", like the first part, "Magog", is a sequence of poems. It feels like the continuation of the poems of the third part, "The Technology of the Future Will Emerge Hungry". If the third part was the calm before the storm, this is the storm...

Warning! Maintain the quarantine.
Deadly force will be used to protect
this area. When the big one finally
hits L.A., spewing flames that scorch
the earth, it's a bad day to be human.
Pray for the last man alive because
he's not alone. No child has been born
for 18 years. Beyons the horizon
lies the secret to a new beginning.
It's closer than you think. Man eating
plants! Spine chilling terror! Nature
has spoken. We've sensed it. We've
seen the signs. Now . . . It's happening.
You'll never close your eyes again.
- 1, pg. 101

[Margaryta · Rating 4 out of 5]

**this review was first published in Alternating Current's online review column The Coil**

It’s not
their place to hear our prayers. Instead,
they heed the prayers of shrikes, and the shrikes’
saviour is a mouse impaled on a thorn, and
the Messiah of the mouse is the unsweepable
crumb, and the god of that crumb is the ant,
delving in spongiform pathways, scissor-faced
and legion.

(“Magog — 5,” p. 15)

The past several years saw a rise in the popularity of apocalyptic and post-apocalyptic literature, mainly in the realm of the novel. Poetry, on the other hand, has mostly continued to explore the inner realm of human emotions. Up until now, that is. Paul Vermeersch’s collection, Don’t Let It End Like This Tell Them I Said Something, is just as movingly painful to read as its title — taken from the dying words of Pancho Villa — suggests, combining the novel approach to presenting the apocalypse with poetry’s continued fascination in the human condition. The result is a startling series of poems that successfully weaves its way through several time frames, presenting both the extreme apocalypse seen in movies, as well as taking the time to point out the seeds of chaos already ingrained in our society.

The collection is divided into six sections, the title of each one just as startling as the collection title. Moving through them creates a feeling of wading through time, in and out of the present moment, until the timeframe becomes hazy. Vermeersch interchangeably explores both personal and social destruction, convincingly demonstrating how the two coexist. The societal apocalypse side of the poems is filled with familiar imagery of ruined buildings, metal, and a general sense of erosion, presented in such a way that it’s easy to forgot all the clichéd associations with the genre, instead feeling like the movement has only recently occurred, that it is still only beginning to cover the vast territory of possibility.

I personally preferred the inner apocalypse much more, best captured, I found, by the following lines:

You will discover, again, apricots, and again
disappointment.

(“The Palace of Eternal Youth,” p. 40).

The poems in this ‘category’ point out, arguably, everything that is ‘wrong’ with us as humans, yet do so in a way that allows for the reader to connect back to himself, going in search of memories and experiences that bring about a natural empathy and process of analysis that is by no means forced. Poems worth singling out are “They Will Take My Island,” in which the speaker is sitting on an island and pondering the fact that all his past loves and current one will come and conquer him, emotionally and physically, as well as the poem, “I Became Like a Wooden Ark the Lives of Animals Filled Me”. (Vermeersch has a noticeable love of long titles, which are both mesmerizing and always appropriate to the work itself.) The latter is a poem that rapid-fires one brilliant line after another, resulting in both a state of being emotionally overwhelmed but also of feeling enlightened despite the bruising experiences. It’s astounding that lines such as this:

This is an apple. Grenade, I said.
This is a bird. Interceptor, I said.

and this:

One day my clothes didn’t fit,
so they cast me out.

(“I Became Like a Wooden Ark the Lives of Animals Filled me — 2,” p. 42)

can be found on the same page. There is a heap of segments that are quotable for a variety of reasons, constantly reaffirming the fact that Vermeersch is a poet both in tune with the concept but also who knows which words will capture it perfectly, always choosing ones that are ripe for the picking.

One of the other things that stood out about this collection was Vermeersch’s willingness to experiment with form, to pick pieces from other sources and sew them together into a sort of life raft for the reader that would guide him along on the perilous journey. The section “On the Reintegration of Disintegrated Texts: A Manual for Survivors” was a perfect example of this — part musings, part writing prompts, and entirely experimentation and clever imagination. I found myself poring over it the longest, sometimes even taking the time to try writing in my head the kind of poem that the ‘prompts’ proposed.

Don’t Let It End Like This Tell Them I Said Something, taking its name from the last couple lines of the very last poem in the collection, doesn’t need to worry about being forgotten anytime soon. It’s a collection that is both down to earth and prophetic, dirty and hopeful, but always entirely honest and wickedly witty.

[Lynn Tait · Rating 3 out of 5]

Even though I didn't think every poem worked - for the most part these erasure, glosa and cento poems were great reads,. they were smooth, even and delightful for someone like myself who writes and is interested in these delightful poetry forms; so I find this book an educational, informative read as well.

[Jayde · Rating 4 out of 5]

This collection is built from pieced together bits of outside writing. You can feel the rubble and the ruin and the grit. The experience truly feels apocalyptic. I really enjoyed this, even if it isn't my usual cup of tea.

[Lissa · Rating 3 out of 5]

very strange.