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The Final Voicemails: Poems
“Even present tense has some of the grace of past tense, / what with all the present tense left to go.” From Max Ritvo—selected and edited by Louise Glück—comes a final collection of poems fully inscribed with the daring of his acrobatic mind and the force of his unrelenting spirit. Diagnosed with terminal cancer at sixteen, Ritvo spent the next decade of his life pursuing poetry with frenetic energy, culminating in the publication of Four Reincarnations . As with his debut, The Final Voicemails brushes up against the pain, fear, and isolation that accompany a long illness, but with all the creative force of an artist in full command of his craft and the teeming affection of a human utterly in love with the world. The representation of the end of life resists simplicity here. It is physical decay, but it is also tedium. It is alchemy, “the breaking apart, / the replacement of who, when, how, and where, / with what.” It is an antagonist—and it is a part of the self. Ritvo’s poems ring with considered reflection about the enduring final question, while suggesting—in their vibrancy and their humor—that death is not merely an end. The Final Voicemails is an ecstatic, hopeful, painful—and completely breathtaking—second collection.
- GenresPoetry
88 pages, Hardcover
Published September 18, 2018
13 people are currently reading
427 people want to read
About the author
Max Ritvo
12 books18 followersMax Ritvo (1990-2016) wrote Four Reincarnations in New York and Los Angeles over the course of a long battle with cancer. He was also the author of The Final Voicemails, edited and introduced by Louise Glück, and co-authored Letters from Max with Sarah Ruhl; both books were published posthumously. Ritvo's poetry has appeared in the New Yorker and Poetry, among many other publications.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 58 reviews
October 12, 2018
Max's first book of poems, Four Reincarnations, came out shortly after his death in 2016. Based on letters exchanged (and documented in Letters in Max by Sarah Ruhl) and his highly prolific writing in the last year of his life, his poetry teacher Louise Gluck was able to compile and only slightly edit an another book of his poems, as collected here in The Final Voicemails.
I can't quote from them because they are in ARC form, I will invite you to watch him read his poetry on YouTube, because you can see his joy, how his mind works, how he connects to people, how much his body is how he thinks, and it is a loss indeed. But still amazing at the same time, since many assumed Four Reincarnations was his last work, and here it is, the gift of this collection.
I received an ARC of this from the publisher, and it came out 18 September 2018.
I can't quote from them because they are in ARC form, I will invite you to watch him read his poetry on YouTube, because you can see his joy, how his mind works, how he connects to people, how much his body is how he thinks, and it is a loss indeed. But still amazing at the same time, since many assumed Four Reincarnations was his last work, and here it is, the gift of this collection.
I received an ARC of this from the publisher, and it came out 18 September 2018.
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November 24, 2018Edited 10/30/18: I just got my review placed on the Indolent Books blog in an effort to help this beautiful book reach more readers:
https://www.indolentbooks.com/jenna-l...
https://www.indolentbooks.com/jenna-l...
May 1, 2020
It is difficult to read these poems without thinking about the author’s death at such a young age and the potential that was lost. The poems in the first half felt more personal and I enjoyed those more. As is to be expected, many of them center around him coming to terms with his impending death.
June 20, 2025
— 3rd time reading this since January, this little book has everything there is in it. I don’t really need any other book
September 22, 2018
This exceptional poetry is intensified by the author’s quickly approaching death. The urgency, the emotions of dying young, of being a mind alive in a perishing body enhance this work. The ways he writes about time in particular are brilliant and most memorable. Once in a while as a non-academic I was a little lost, but never far off the path and it was a good challenge to find my way back. I wish there had been more rather than the old “Mammals” collection being included as they feel distinctly different. This is the first I’ve read of Ritvo. I will certainly seek out his prior work.
September 13, 2018
Honest, brutal, urgent, beautiful poems.
The inclusion of his undergraduate thesis- most of which had been refined and published in his first collection and chapbook was an interesting coda to this collection of poems written before he died- many of which have been published, suggesting some level of completeness, but in many ways we’ll never know if they are truly the final versions.
The inclusion of his undergraduate thesis- most of which had been refined and published in his first collection and chapbook was an interesting coda to this collection of poems written before he died- many of which have been published, suggesting some level of completeness, but in many ways we’ll never know if they are truly the final versions.
May 25, 2019
Superb poetry.
March 6, 2019
The last poems from a poet who died at the age of 26 from Ewing's Sarcoma. Grim but not humorless. Worthwhile reading.
October 16, 2018
Louise Gluck edited this book posthumously and she wrote the introduction. Max Ritvo died in 2016 from Ewig's sarcoma at 30 years old. Tragically young and he lived nearly half his life with his diagnosis. He is exalted by many including Helen Vendler. There are two books in one, the second half of the book are his Mammals poems from 2013.
In the beginning writes about his illness, in the title poem of the book, The Final Voicemails, in section I. "I was told my proximity/to the toxin would promote/changes in my thinking, speech, and behavior." After which he goes to an image of his inner little girl who is led away from the scene by "silent figures/in white suits". In section 2 of this 4 section poem, he writes, "I'm glad she's gone, and not just for her sake:/without her I feel somehow better equipped/to be what I am becoming—//which is, I suppose, preoccupied./Nobody ever tells you how busy loneliness is—".
A poem from the first half of the book, The Final Voicemails:
Your Next Date Alone
The stage is empty.
How do you fill it?
With music.
The words will be the play,
and the tune will be the body
carrying the words,
shaking with tears,
the towel torn
so what he'd like hidden
is exposed—
where his flesh is like a bruised heart.
If you wish to see me
you'll have to sing.
I will soon have none
of the ways earth plays
along with the soul:
no grass, no wind.
A poem from the second section of the book: Mammals:
Us and The Good Guest
You took a picture of the chocolates
brought to us by the good guest
so you could send him the picture of the chocolates.
Half-eaten by us happily at your perplexing insistence.
You did this to tell him he was a good guest,
and had been a good boy, who did a good job,
And look at how happy he had made us.
And how happy we can be.
In the beginning writes about his illness, in the title poem of the book, The Final Voicemails, in section I. "I was told my proximity/to the toxin would promote/changes in my thinking, speech, and behavior." After which he goes to an image of his inner little girl who is led away from the scene by "silent figures/in white suits". In section 2 of this 4 section poem, he writes, "I'm glad she's gone, and not just for her sake:/without her I feel somehow better equipped/to be what I am becoming—//which is, I suppose, preoccupied./Nobody ever tells you how busy loneliness is—".
A poem from the first half of the book, The Final Voicemails:
Your Next Date Alone
The stage is empty.
How do you fill it?
With music.
The words will be the play,
and the tune will be the body
carrying the words,
shaking with tears,
the towel torn
so what he'd like hidden
is exposed—
where his flesh is like a bruised heart.
If you wish to see me
you'll have to sing.
I will soon have none
of the ways earth plays
along with the soul:
no grass, no wind.
A poem from the second section of the book: Mammals:
Us and The Good Guest
You took a picture of the chocolates
brought to us by the good guest
so you could send him the picture of the chocolates.
Half-eaten by us happily at your perplexing insistence.
You did this to tell him he was a good guest,
and had been a good boy, who did a good job,
And look at how happy he had made us.
And how happy we can be.
February 18, 2019
LEISURE-LOVING MAN SUFFERS UNTIMELY DEATH
You ask why the dinner table has been so quiet.
I’ve felt, for a month, like the table:
holding strange things in my head
when there are voices present.
And when the voices die,
a cool cloth and some sparkling spray.
I’m on painkillers around the clock,
and I fear it’s always been
just the pain talking to you.
The last vision was of the pain leaving—
it looked just like me as it came out
of my mouth, but it was holding a spatula.
It was me if I had learned to cook.
The pain drifted to the kitchen.
He hitched himself to the oven, was a centaur
completed by bread, great black loaves
bursting from the oven,
and then the vision vanished.
I followed, and stood where he had stood.
The knives rustled in the block,
the pans clacked overhead.
I’m sterile from chemo,
and thought of that.
Sure, I wish my imagination well,
wherever it is. But now
I have sleep to fill. Every night
I dream I have a bucket
and move clear water from a hole
to a clear ocean. A robot’s voice barks,
This is sleep. This is sleep.
I’d drink the water, but I’m worried the next
night I’d regret it.
I might need every last drop. Nobody will tell me.
You ask why the dinner table has been so quiet.
I’ve felt, for a month, like the table:
holding strange things in my head
when there are voices present.
And when the voices die,
a cool cloth and some sparkling spray.
I’m on painkillers around the clock,
and I fear it’s always been
just the pain talking to you.
The last vision was of the pain leaving—
it looked just like me as it came out
of my mouth, but it was holding a spatula.
It was me if I had learned to cook.
The pain drifted to the kitchen.
He hitched himself to the oven, was a centaur
completed by bread, great black loaves
bursting from the oven,
and then the vision vanished.
I followed, and stood where he had stood.
The knives rustled in the block,
the pans clacked overhead.
I’m sterile from chemo,
and thought of that.
Sure, I wish my imagination well,
wherever it is. But now
I have sleep to fill. Every night
I dream I have a bucket
and move clear water from a hole
to a clear ocean. A robot’s voice barks,
This is sleep. This is sleep.
I’d drink the water, but I’m worried the next
night I’d regret it.
I might need every last drop. Nobody will tell me.
March 18, 2019
This book of poems is not for people with weak stomachs. But if you want to read something that is both visceral and high-flying, despairing yet humorous, then you should read this work. The book is divided into two sections. The first section is the manuscript Ritvo was working on at the time of his death--and which Louise Gluck finished at his request. The second section is Ritvo’s undergraduate thesis. Throughout the two collections you will find words, lines, and whole poems that will both frighten and inspire you. These poems might be Ritvo’s final words to us, but readers and critics will have more to say about Ritvo’s haunting work. These are poems to live for.
January 2, 2019
Max Ritvo has quickly become a favorite poet of mine, it’s such a tragedy that he had to leave us so soon— truly a beautiful human. his poems are so rich with fantastical imagery and abstractions of daily life, they harken back to the latin american poets who shaped me and my writing such as lorca, paz, and neruda. Ritvo’s poem stick the knife in hilt deep and twist, yet somehow, miraculously, there is humor and hope for beauty after death— there is a great sense of “things will carry on”. Ritvo is a light that will never be extinguished.
April 29, 2019
"This pain thinks thinking is idiotic, embarrassingly juvenile,
and I'm proof of that.
And it's not even the pain foremost,
it is the story of me in pain that is paining me.
I am possessed with self-pity,
and it is expressing itself
out of my mouth."
and I'm proof of that.
And it's not even the pain foremost,
it is the story of me in pain that is paining me.
I am possessed with self-pity,
and it is expressing itself
out of my mouth."
June 13, 2019
I was not prepared for this.
December 27, 2019
There are some real stunners in this collection. Not surprisingly, the most meaningful ones to me dealt with his relationship with his wife, as a young, dying man
December 28, 2021
I was studying with Louise when this book was being edited. It was a huge shadow on her mind. And I can understand why — being asked to select poems for a dying student!!!
I’d never read Ritvo’s work before. It’s taut and the circumstances change line by line — the stanzas are a kind of compact trap. Rather than remain pertinent or related, the lines surprise you at a rate — especially in the poems from Mammals, his undergraduate thesis — that can sometimes feel excessive. When the poems got personal, though, or pertained to a set of known events outside of the page (such as his impending death and his knowledge of it) the surrealism and the quick changes painted a compelling picture of the last flashes / a montage of a life ending in a contemporary hospital environment.
It was sad! It was clever. I loved it best when he gave his observations room, such as in AMUSE-BOUCHE, wherein he likens the faithful of God to those foodies who hunger for the next small plate in the multi-course meal, and already wish for the destruction of the one before them. If he had lived longer I’d have loved to see this movement in his work — from more scattered, freewheeling transformations in tight lines to disciplined meditations with a fascinating jumpy mind.
Rest In Peace Max — deep admiration for how you kept writing through it all.
I’d never read Ritvo’s work before. It’s taut and the circumstances change line by line — the stanzas are a kind of compact trap. Rather than remain pertinent or related, the lines surprise you at a rate — especially in the poems from Mammals, his undergraduate thesis — that can sometimes feel excessive. When the poems got personal, though, or pertained to a set of known events outside of the page (such as his impending death and his knowledge of it) the surrealism and the quick changes painted a compelling picture of the last flashes / a montage of a life ending in a contemporary hospital environment.
It was sad! It was clever. I loved it best when he gave his observations room, such as in AMUSE-BOUCHE, wherein he likens the faithful of God to those foodies who hunger for the next small plate in the multi-course meal, and already wish for the destruction of the one before them. If he had lived longer I’d have loved to see this movement in his work — from more scattered, freewheeling transformations in tight lines to disciplined meditations with a fascinating jumpy mind.
Rest In Peace Max — deep admiration for how you kept writing through it all.
March 15, 2019
On death, love, and other things.
Lovely. Imaginative. Morose.
Lovely. Imaginative. Morose.
November 18, 2019
4.8/5
wasn't as crazy in love with it as i was "four reincarnations" but this is still an excellent & beautiful book. i am infinitely grateful to have discovered max ritvo.
favs: (it was so hard to choose which to quote)
- The Final Voicemails
- The Soundscape of Life Is Charred By Tiny Bonfires
- Delphi
- Earthquake Country Before Final Chemotherapy
- My New Friend
- Down With the Landlord
- December 29
- Name My Time of Death And See What I Do To You
- Cachexia
- Leisure-Loving Man Suffers Untimely Death
- Too Much Breath
- Atlas
- Let's Talk About Banalities
- To C
- January 8
- Listening, Speaking, and Breathing
quotes from my favs:
"Clear, the doctor says to your heart
before bolting it.
She's saying this to clear away
everything else in the room.
Clear! I say, Your heart is clear! Clear as a fishbowl!"
—Clear
"I am writing you from the bathtub
where I am trying to ease my joints.
The pain seems to move from the front half
of a joint to a back half.
I can't track it across my body,
My pain is mild but deep—like it's reminding
my body of something it once was.
It thinks I'm a baby:
Look at the oatmeal prepared for you daily,
and your electric blankets,
and it's me you choose to lavish your attention on?
You have so much more than me,
though you had me first, when you were a Worm.
This pain thinks thinking is idiotic, embarrassingly juvenile,
and I'm proof of that.
And it's not even the pain foremost,
it is the story of me in pain that is paining me.
I am possessed with self-pity,
and it is expressing itself
out of my mouth. It sounds like a whole flock of sheep suddenly
realizing the flock is an imposed externality.
—My Bathtub Pal
wasn't as crazy in love with it as i was "four reincarnations" but this is still an excellent & beautiful book. i am infinitely grateful to have discovered max ritvo.
favs: (it was so hard to choose which to quote)
- The Final Voicemails
- The Soundscape of Life Is Charred By Tiny Bonfires
- Delphi
- Earthquake Country Before Final Chemotherapy
- My New Friend
- Down With the Landlord
- December 29
- Name My Time of Death And See What I Do To You
- Cachexia
- Leisure-Loving Man Suffers Untimely Death
- Too Much Breath
- Atlas
- Let's Talk About Banalities
- To C
- January 8
- Listening, Speaking, and Breathing
quotes from my favs:
"Clear, the doctor says to your heart
before bolting it.
She's saying this to clear away
everything else in the room.
Clear! I say, Your heart is clear! Clear as a fishbowl!"
—Clear
"I am writing you from the bathtub
where I am trying to ease my joints.
The pain seems to move from the front half
of a joint to a back half.
I can't track it across my body,
My pain is mild but deep—like it's reminding
my body of something it once was.
It thinks I'm a baby:
Look at the oatmeal prepared for you daily,
and your electric blankets,
and it's me you choose to lavish your attention on?
You have so much more than me,
though you had me first, when you were a Worm.
This pain thinks thinking is idiotic, embarrassingly juvenile,
and I'm proof of that.
And it's not even the pain foremost,
it is the story of me in pain that is paining me.
I am possessed with self-pity,
and it is expressing itself
out of my mouth. It sounds like a whole flock of sheep suddenly
realizing the flock is an imposed externality.
—My Bathtub Pal
January 15, 2019
4.5 Stars. I really enjoyed this collection. The poems were so raw--so honest and so urgent.
July 26, 2019
A full review to come shortly.
It was a challenging collection to finish, by virtue of it being heavy and, at times, a bit harrowing. I don't think I would be able to be a long-term superfan/reader of Ritvo's work (not that I have a choice after his unfortunate and untimely passing). But the experience contained in this collection (credit to his editor here too) was well worthy of being ranked 5 stars as are many of the poems contained within. And I think the new poems contained within were so deeply shaped by the knowledge of his own knowledge (yes, I meant to repeat this) of his imminent passing that aspects of this collection are unique and irreplicable.
In short, Ritvo was an extremely skilled writer and it shows, but the collection itself and the circumstances leading to it likely elevated my impressions of it. It is unique and it is infused with sentiment and emotion leaden with individuality. I recommend picking it up, but wouldn't fault you for not being able to finish it.
It was a challenging collection to finish, by virtue of it being heavy and, at times, a bit harrowing. I don't think I would be able to be a long-term superfan/reader of Ritvo's work (not that I have a choice after his unfortunate and untimely passing). But the experience contained in this collection (credit to his editor here too) was well worthy of being ranked 5 stars as are many of the poems contained within. And I think the new poems contained within were so deeply shaped by the knowledge of his own knowledge (yes, I meant to repeat this) of his imminent passing that aspects of this collection are unique and irreplicable.
In short, Ritvo was an extremely skilled writer and it shows, but the collection itself and the circumstances leading to it likely elevated my impressions of it. It is unique and it is infused with sentiment and emotion leaden with individuality. I recommend picking it up, but wouldn't fault you for not being able to finish it.
July 20, 2019
The Final Voicemails is a collection of Ritvo's later work, edited by Louise Gluck. It is an extraordinarily mature collection from one so young.
"... and in time the working mind knows only itself, which is loneliness." (From the title poem)
"some people were born to be guests. Like me." (From 'My New Girlfriend')
As she writes in her editor's note, "Poets who die at twenty-five do not commonly leave bodies so urgent, so daring, so supple, so desperately alive."
And yet these poems are remarkable for their lack of anger or self-pity.
It did remind me of Philip Hodgins' first work "Blood and Bone", although a more immediate account of illness.
"... and in time the working mind knows only itself, which is loneliness." (From the title poem)
"some people were born to be guests. Like me." (From 'My New Girlfriend')
As she writes in her editor's note, "Poets who die at twenty-five do not commonly leave bodies so urgent, so daring, so supple, so desperately alive."
And yet these poems are remarkable for their lack of anger or self-pity.
It did remind me of Philip Hodgins' first work "Blood and Bone", although a more immediate account of illness.
January 4, 2019
Really enjoyed the first half. I would have given than 5 stars.
January 11, 2020
I don't know if I will ever be able to express the importance Max Ritvo has had on my life. His poems continue to push at my perceptions of poetry. He teaches me what is possible. I don't know of anyone doing images as well.
As a cancer survivor, Max is the go-to. He writes about it better than anyone. Many poems made me laugh. Many made me cry. He captures that intricate middle ground of living with severe illness.
As a cancer survivor, Max is the go-to. He writes about it better than anyone. Many poems made me laugh. Many made me cry. He captures that intricate middle ground of living with severe illness.
January 2, 2019
5 stars for The Final Voicemails, 3 stars for Mammals
November 21, 2018
Absolutely enjoyed his poems. Just so powerful.
February 19, 2019
A vibrantly beautiful look at a life lived short but deep - haunting.
January 18, 2024
Perhaps I went into this with too high expectations, as I was left breathless from Max's Four Reincarnations and Letters from Max. Perhaps those other collections struck home for me, as I reconciled with the loss of my mother to cancer.
I struggled with The Final Voicemails, because I don't think it was meant to be a collection (as it stands). I understand the brilliant Louise Gluck compiled this upon Max's request, posthumously, but I'm at a loss of how to breach this work. I was so incredibly drawn to Four Reincarnations, because of the urgency and striking imagery. Max embodied every single poem and made it accessible to his audience. That collection was his one great final act of desperation to share a gift with the world, and I find myself returning to it often. In the case of this text, I find these poems less embodied, with more lift that I'm not privy to board. There is no arguing that Max is brilliant, but with many of these poems, there's no point of entry; no welcome for an audience. I get lost in the language and imagery. It was an interesting choice to include Mammals (his undergraduate thesis), but I'm again left underwhelmed. This feels more like a portfolio to me, than a body of work.
Of course there were some poems in the collection that were striking, and there is much to admire, but I think I need distance from The Final Voicemails, especially after living in Max's other work for so long, before I can reconcile with what this text is working toward.
I struggled with The Final Voicemails, because I don't think it was meant to be a collection (as it stands). I understand the brilliant Louise Gluck compiled this upon Max's request, posthumously, but I'm at a loss of how to breach this work. I was so incredibly drawn to Four Reincarnations, because of the urgency and striking imagery. Max embodied every single poem and made it accessible to his audience. That collection was his one great final act of desperation to share a gift with the world, and I find myself returning to it often. In the case of this text, I find these poems less embodied, with more lift that I'm not privy to board. There is no arguing that Max is brilliant, but with many of these poems, there's no point of entry; no welcome for an audience. I get lost in the language and imagery. It was an interesting choice to include Mammals (his undergraduate thesis), but I'm again left underwhelmed. This feels more like a portfolio to me, than a body of work.
Of course there were some poems in the collection that were striking, and there is much to admire, but I think I need distance from The Final Voicemails, especially after living in Max's other work for so long, before I can reconcile with what this text is working toward.
September 22, 2018
“Nobody ever tells you how busy loneliness is”. This is still my favorite line of the collection and made it worth reading. However...
As with Four Reincarnations, it seems the sadness and compassion that accompany Ritvo’s tragic story impacts the judgment of a lot of us. And that’s understandable. Knowing the ending of Max Ritvo’s story allows us and compels us to read the word more deeply, more emotionally. I know I read many lines over and over, more slowly with each repetition, allowing the gravity of the moment to level its full weight. There is an undeniable beauty to this that is rare in poetry.
But I want to look past that at the merits of the poems and collections themselves. For me the poetry is not great. It is somewhat childish at times rather than just youthful. It is unpolished, understandably, and maybe it would have evolved and matured if Ritvo had been given the time. But these poems can only
exist in their current state. And they are good for the most part. Certainly the poems in part 2 were good in a lot more places than those it part 1. But they were not great.
As with Four Reincarnations, it seems the sadness and compassion that accompany Ritvo’s tragic story impacts the judgment of a lot of us. And that’s understandable. Knowing the ending of Max Ritvo’s story allows us and compels us to read the word more deeply, more emotionally. I know I read many lines over and over, more slowly with each repetition, allowing the gravity of the moment to level its full weight. There is an undeniable beauty to this that is rare in poetry.
But I want to look past that at the merits of the poems and collections themselves. For me the poetry is not great. It is somewhat childish at times rather than just youthful. It is unpolished, understandably, and maybe it would have evolved and matured if Ritvo had been given the time. But these poems can only
exist in their current state. And they are good for the most part. Certainly the poems in part 2 were good in a lot more places than those it part 1. But they were not great.
April 28, 2023
Max Ritvo is a poem I discovered as he was dying, just before his first book, "Four Reincarnations," was released in 2016. Like many poets we know whose career beginnings and personal end corresponds in this way, it makes reviewing his collections difficult. One experiences the joy of Ritvo's work when one is losing the possibility of his future work. His teacher, the accomplished poet, Louise Gluck compiled and lightly edited this second collection for us. This collection does have an urgency and a wisdom one does not expect of a young poet, but it also doesn't have the cohesion of his first collection. It's a gift to us though and the poems in this collection as tightly crafted.
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August 20, 2023In the introduction of this book, Louise Gluck said: "Poets who die at twenty-five do not commonly leave bodies of work so urgent, so daring, so supple, so desperately alive." It was she who edited this collection as requested by the author before he died. The urgency in the poems here is indeed palpable: What if I ran out of a body to give you? / What would you let me take from you? // A star, a raft, a bloody cloth, a bloody cloud, / my body, my body, I’m running for you only, / and my fear is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. (My Bathtub Pal)
Displaying 1 - 30 of 58 reviews