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Endpoint and Other Poems
A stunning collection of poems that John Updike wrote during the last seven years of his life and put together only weeks before he died for this, his final book.
The opening sequence, “Endpoint,” is made up of a series of connected poems written on the occasions of his recent birthdays and culminates in his confrontation with his final illness. He looks back on the boy that he was, on the family, the small town, the people, and the circumstances that fed his love of writing, and he finds endless delight and solace in “turning the oddities of life into words.”
“Other Poems” range from the fanciful (what would it be like to be a stolen Rembrandt painting? he muses) to the celebratory, capturing the flux of life. A section of sonnets follows, some inspired by travels to distant lands, others celebrating the idiosyncrasies of nature in his own backyard.
For John Updike, the writing of poetry was always a special joy, and this final collection is an eloquent and moving testament to the life of this extraordinary writer.
The opening sequence, “Endpoint,” is made up of a series of connected poems written on the occasions of his recent birthdays and culminates in his confrontation with his final illness. He looks back on the boy that he was, on the family, the small town, the people, and the circumstances that fed his love of writing, and he finds endless delight and solace in “turning the oddities of life into words.”
“Other Poems” range from the fanciful (what would it be like to be a stolen Rembrandt painting? he muses) to the celebratory, capturing the flux of life. A section of sonnets follows, some inspired by travels to distant lands, others celebrating the idiosyncrasies of nature in his own backyard.
For John Updike, the writing of poetry was always a special joy, and this final collection is an eloquent and moving testament to the life of this extraordinary writer.
97 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 2009
About the author
John Updike
917 books2,473 followersJohn Hoyer Updike was an American writer. Updike's most famous work is his Rabbit series (Rabbit, Run; Rabbit Redux; Rabbit Is Rich; Rabbit At Rest; and Rabbit Remembered). Rabbit is Rich and Rabbit at Rest both won Pulitzer Prizes for Updike. Describing his subject as "the American small town, Protestant middle class," Updike is well known for his careful craftsmanship and prolific writing, having published 22 novels and more than a dozen short story collections as well as poetry, literary criticism and children's books. Hundreds of his stories, reviews, and poems have appeared in The New Yorker since the 1950s. His works often explore sex, faith, and death, and their inter-relationships.
He died of lung cancer at age 76.
He died of lung cancer at age 76.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 52 reviews
February 7, 2021
Those who know me know that I'm rather obsessed with fiction - and so rarely turn to poetry. It's a failing of mine, what can I say?
Those who know me also know I'm rather obsessed with John Updike, so it's really because of him that I read this collection of poetry.
This is the last volume he saw through to publication before his death in 2009. So the themes you'll find here are nostalgic, and an elegant reconciliation to the inevitable. The first poem, Endpoint, which is actually a series of poems spanning thirty-three pages, and the seven years before the author's death, was the most engaging for me. Engaging because I'm truly interested in the person who wrote it. Many of the poems were written on Updike's birthdays, and are reflective on all that came before, with humour, honesty, pain, generosity.
Age, I must, but die I'd rather not.
We understand, Mr. Updike. We all understand.
Describing himself as a "limp sea-wrack", he ponders:
A life poured into words - apparent waste
intended to preserve the thing consumed.
For who, in that unthinkable future,
when I am dead - will read?
If you only knew, Mr. Updike.
Recalling his hey-day in the publishing world, he recalls:
And then to have my spines
line up on the shelf, one more each year,
however out of kilter ran my life!
I drank up women's tears and spat them out
as 10-point Janson, Roman and ital.
And I thank you for that, Mr. Updike.
He wonders, what is left of me? Is this the end? And when in the hospital, suffers through the niceties of those visiting a dying man:
Must I do this, uphold the social lie
that binds us all together in blind faith
that nothing ends, not youth nor age nor strength,
as in a motion picture which, once seen,
can be rebought on DVD? My tongue
says yes; within, I lamely drown.
Other sections were less interesting to me but still impressive, showing a man who in his end years was still very much an active participant in the world, his poems peopled with Payne Stewart and Queen Latifah, travels, commentary on current news stories. There's also a section of sonnets (of course he mastered the sonnet, this writer who is unparalleled in his command of the English language).
But it's one of his more simple poems near the end of the book that touched me most:
REQUIEM
It came to me the other day:
Were I to die, no one would say,
"Oh, what a shame! So young, so full
Of promise - depths unplumbable!"
Instead, a shrug and tearless eyes
Will greet my overdue demise;
The wide response will be, I know,
"I thought he died a while ago."
For life's a shabby subterfuge,
And death is real, and dark, and huge.
The shock of it will register
Nowhere but where it will occur.
Not true, Mr. Updike.
Those who know me also know I'm rather obsessed with John Updike, so it's really because of him that I read this collection of poetry.
This is the last volume he saw through to publication before his death in 2009. So the themes you'll find here are nostalgic, and an elegant reconciliation to the inevitable. The first poem, Endpoint, which is actually a series of poems spanning thirty-three pages, and the seven years before the author's death, was the most engaging for me. Engaging because I'm truly interested in the person who wrote it. Many of the poems were written on Updike's birthdays, and are reflective on all that came before, with humour, honesty, pain, generosity.
Age, I must, but die I'd rather not.
We understand, Mr. Updike. We all understand.
Describing himself as a "limp sea-wrack", he ponders:
A life poured into words - apparent waste
intended to preserve the thing consumed.
For who, in that unthinkable future,
when I am dead - will read?
If you only knew, Mr. Updike.
Recalling his hey-day in the publishing world, he recalls:
And then to have my spines
line up on the shelf, one more each year,
however out of kilter ran my life!
I drank up women's tears and spat them out
as 10-point Janson, Roman and ital.
And I thank you for that, Mr. Updike.
He wonders, what is left of me? Is this the end? And when in the hospital, suffers through the niceties of those visiting a dying man:
Must I do this, uphold the social lie
that binds us all together in blind faith
that nothing ends, not youth nor age nor strength,
as in a motion picture which, once seen,
can be rebought on DVD? My tongue
says yes; within, I lamely drown.
Other sections were less interesting to me but still impressive, showing a man who in his end years was still very much an active participant in the world, his poems peopled with Payne Stewart and Queen Latifah, travels, commentary on current news stories. There's also a section of sonnets (of course he mastered the sonnet, this writer who is unparalleled in his command of the English language).
But it's one of his more simple poems near the end of the book that touched me most:
REQUIEM
It came to me the other day:
Were I to die, no one would say,
"Oh, what a shame! So young, so full
Of promise - depths unplumbable!"
Instead, a shrug and tearless eyes
Will greet my overdue demise;
The wide response will be, I know,
"I thought he died a while ago."
For life's a shabby subterfuge,
And death is real, and dark, and huge.
The shock of it will register
Nowhere but where it will occur.
Not true, Mr. Updike.
January 8, 2021
One of the nice things about the pandemic (I can't believe I just typed that phrase) was that it got me to appreciate poetry again.
With a couple of exceptions, I hadn't picked up a volume of poems and read it all the way through since university, which was, well... a very long time ago.
But something about John Updike's Endpoint – the last book he saw to publication before his death in January 2009 – called out to me from my bulging, overstuffed bookshelves.
I had just read and reviewed Margaret Atwood's Dearly, and found myself completely absorbed by her precise, distilled observations on death and getting older, among other themes.
Plus, something about end-of-the-year stock-taking and the solitary nature of a usually very social time (no travelling or visiting friends or family for me) drew me to Updike's slim book. (Aside: does anyone turn to poetry when they're really happy?)
The eponymous suite of poems that make up the first part of the book drew me in. Here, Updike has included poems penned on some of his last birthdays. The tone is casual yet frank: "Raw days, though spring has been declared. / I settle in, to that decade in which, / I'm told, most people die." That same poem ends like this:
One of my favourite poems is "The Author Observes His Birthday, 2005," in which Updike thinks about a life spent producing books, touching on his childhood love of comics and his early reading, then recalling producing his own books ("to have my spines / line up upon the shelf, one more each year, / however out of kilter ran my life! / I drank up women's tears and spat them out / as 10-point Janson, Roman and ital." Stunning.
The later poems in the suite then deal with his final illness, which he recounts with clarity, precision and total unsentimentality. It also makes him reflect on other deaths he's witnessed, and the continuation of nature.
The rest of the book collects late poems on a variety of subjects and themes. He addresses some of his youthful crushes or pastimes: Doris Day, Doo-wop groups, the golfer Payne Stewart. In one of the most memorable poems, "Death of a Computer," he captures an experience we've all had with failing hardware, finding in the rather banal experience something marvellous and mysterious.
In the brilliant "Tools," he begins wittily by asking "how do the manufacturers of tools / turn a profit" and then goes on to describe the various sturdy items in his tool box, comparing them to his aging self: "the tape rule, its inches unaltered though I have shrunk; the carpenter's angle, still absolutely right though I / have strayed." Wow.
He travels. He observes. He finds language to capture – just so – an experience.
I didn't love all of these poems, but perhaps, in time, I will learn to appreciate them before my own endpoint.
With a couple of exceptions, I hadn't picked up a volume of poems and read it all the way through since university, which was, well... a very long time ago.
But something about John Updike's Endpoint – the last book he saw to publication before his death in January 2009 – called out to me from my bulging, overstuffed bookshelves.
I had just read and reviewed Margaret Atwood's Dearly, and found myself completely absorbed by her precise, distilled observations on death and getting older, among other themes.
Plus, something about end-of-the-year stock-taking and the solitary nature of a usually very social time (no travelling or visiting friends or family for me) drew me to Updike's slim book. (Aside: does anyone turn to poetry when they're really happy?)
The eponymous suite of poems that make up the first part of the book drew me in. Here, Updike has included poems penned on some of his last birthdays. The tone is casual yet frank: "Raw days, though spring has been declared. / I settle in, to that decade in which, / I'm told, most people die." That same poem ends like this:
Nature is never bored, and we whose lives
are linearly pinned to these aloof,
self-fascinated cycles can't complain,
though aches and pains and even dreams a-crawl
with wood lice of decay give pause to praise.
Birthday, death day – what day is not both?
One of my favourite poems is "The Author Observes His Birthday, 2005," in which Updike thinks about a life spent producing books, touching on his childhood love of comics and his early reading, then recalling producing his own books ("to have my spines / line up upon the shelf, one more each year, / however out of kilter ran my life! / I drank up women's tears and spat them out / as 10-point Janson, Roman and ital." Stunning.
The later poems in the suite then deal with his final illness, which he recounts with clarity, precision and total unsentimentality. It also makes him reflect on other deaths he's witnessed, and the continuation of nature.
The rest of the book collects late poems on a variety of subjects and themes. He addresses some of his youthful crushes or pastimes: Doris Day, Doo-wop groups, the golfer Payne Stewart. In one of the most memorable poems, "Death of a Computer," he captures an experience we've all had with failing hardware, finding in the rather banal experience something marvellous and mysterious.
In the brilliant "Tools," he begins wittily by asking "how do the manufacturers of tools / turn a profit" and then goes on to describe the various sturdy items in his tool box, comparing them to his aging self: "the tape rule, its inches unaltered though I have shrunk; the carpenter's angle, still absolutely right though I / have strayed." Wow.
He travels. He observes. He finds language to capture – just so – an experience.
I didn't love all of these poems, but perhaps, in time, I will learn to appreciate them before my own endpoint.
September 27, 2020
I
A leitura ensina-me muito.
Com este livro aprendi a fazer poemas —
coisa que me parecia impossível.
II
Não acreditam?
Pois aprendam comigo —
como eu aprendi com Updike.
III
Não posso rir muito alto — para não
acordar o gato
que está refastelado no braço do sofá.
Mas,
antes de adormecer,
esteve a comer-me o cabelo.
Deve achar que está demasiado grande.
IV
Com isto da Covid-19,
nem ao cabeleireiro vou,
e nem preciso, que o Tobias vai-lhe dando um jeito.
V
Digam lá se não está um poema tão bonito.
E grande... como o meu cabelo...
A leitura ensina-me muito.
Com este livro aprendi a fazer poemas —
coisa que me parecia impossível.
II
Não acreditam?
Pois aprendam comigo —
como eu aprendi com Updike.
III
Não posso rir muito alto — para não
acordar o gato
que está refastelado no braço do sofá.
Mas,
antes de adormecer,
esteve a comer-me o cabelo.
Deve achar que está demasiado grande.
IV
Com isto da Covid-19,
nem ao cabeleireiro vou,
e nem preciso, que o Tobias vai-lhe dando um jeito.
V
Digam lá se não está um poema tão bonito.
E grande... como o meu cabelo...
November 22, 2017
My first Updike, if you’d believe it. I heard about this from
The Violet Hour
by Katie Roiphe, one chapter of which concerns Updike’s last illness and death. My favorites of these poems are the ones that tell stories, and the choice of vocabulary and use of alliteration, especially, is always flawless. “Endpoint” includes reflections written on six of his last seven birthdays, reminiscences from his Pennsylvania childhood, and the dawning knowledge that his lung cancer would kill him.
Of the other poems, I most liked “Levels of Air,” describing the insects and birds he sees at different heights in the sky; “Chambered Nautilus,” about the many rooms one occupies in life; and “To a Well-Connected Mouse,” an update of Robbie Burns based on the genetic similarity between man and mouse. [5* to “Endpoint”; 4* to “Other Poems”; 3* to “Sonnets” and “Light and Personal” = 4* overall.]
Some favorite lines:
Of the other poems, I most liked “Levels of Air,” describing the insects and birds he sees at different heights in the sky; “Chambered Nautilus,” about the many rooms one occupies in life; and “To a Well-Connected Mouse,” an update of Robbie Burns based on the genetic similarity between man and mouse. [5* to “Endpoint”; 4* to “Other Poems”; 3* to “Sonnets” and “Light and Personal” = 4* overall.]
Some favorite lines:
Nature is never bored, and we whose lives
are linearly pinned to these aloof,
self-fascinated cycles can’t complain,
though aches and pains and even dreams a-crawl
with wood lice of decay give pause to praise.
Birthday, death day—what day is not both?
(from “March Birthday 2002, and After” from “Endpoint”)
All would be well, I felt, all manner of thing.
The needle, carefully worked, was in me, beyond pain,
aimed at an adrenal gland. I had not hoped
to find, in this bright place, so solvent a peace.
Days later, the results came casually through:
the gland, biopsied, showed metastasis.
(from “Needle Biopsy 12/22/08” from “Endpoint”)
Baseball was
invented in America, where beneath
the good cheer and sly jazz the chance
of failure is everybody’s right,
beginning with baseball. (from “Baseball”)
Salt water, just beyond, is steely blue,
bedecked by mooring-balls and colored buoys,
beneath a sky where tufts of cirrus hang
like combings from a pampered, moon-white dog.
(from “Claremont Hotel, Southwest Harbor, Maine”)
October 5, 2012
Would You Rather
If you had your choice between a quick, painless death and a long, drawn out, painful death. Which would you choose?
For me, there’s no easy answer. On one side, a quick death allows for an elimination of pain. Let’s be honest; pain is no fun.
But with a quick, painless death, you don’t have a chance to say goodbye. You don’t have a chance to finish the last tasks on your bucket list, to say goodbye to those closest to you.
Nobody wants to face death; I can think of nothing more unpleasant. Yet there’s something poetic about the opportunity to say goodbye, to right your wrongs, and to come to grips with the end of life.
Interestingly, the theme of facing inevitable death is the central refrain of John Updike’s final collection of poetry, Endpoint and Other Poems.
In Consideration of the End
Through beautiful lyricism, Updike opens the window to his pallid decline.
The principle poem in the collection is “Endpoint”. An agglomeration of poems spanning the last decade of his life, Updike uses descriptive language and sharp observations to portray the final stages of a life.
“Mild winter, then a birthday burst of snow.
A faint neuralgia, flitting tooth-root to
knee and shoulder-joint, a vacant head,
too many friendly wishes to parry,
too many cakes. Oh, let the years alone!
They pile up if we manage not to die,
glass dollars in the bank, dry pages on
the shelf. The boy I was no longer smiles” (3).
As the poem unfolds, Updike reveals his innermost thoughts. The reader perceives a man coming to grips with his demise, a person understanding inevitable decline and preparing others for life after he’s gone.
Expectations of the End
Yet no matter the expectation and inevitability of death, the thought of it remains absurd. It is the one universal experience for which we have no reference. When someone dies, we can’t interview them; we can’t gauge the feeling. Strange is the thought of leaving tangible evidence behind.
“Endpoint, I thought, would end a chapter in
a book beyond imagining, that got reset
in crisp exotics type a future I
—a miracle!—could read. My hope was vague
but kept me going, amiable and swift.
A clergyman—those comical purveyors
of what makes sense to just the terrified—
has phoned me, and I loved him, bless his hide” (24).
Aside from “Endpoint,” Updike’s other poems approach death from many angles. Whether observing the passing of time through music, nature, or a power tool, aging and the end remain present on Updike’s mind. Consider, the sonnet, “Tools”.
“Tell me, how do the manufacturers of tools
turn a profit? I have used the same clawed hammer
for forty years. The screwdriver misted with rust
once slipped into my young hand, a new householder’s.
Obliviously, tools wait to be used: the pliers,
notched mouth agape like a cartoon shark’s; the wrench
with its jaws on a screw; the plane still sharp enough
to take its fragrant, curling bite; the brace and bit
still fit to chew a hole in pine like a patient thought;
the taps rule, its inches unaltered though I have shrunk;
the carpenter’s angle, still absolutely right though I
have strayed; the wooden bubble level from my father’s
meager horde. Their stubborn shapes pervade the cellar,
enduring with a thrift that shames our wastrel lives” (79).
While on its surface, Updike ponders the business plan of the tool industry, the underlying notion of the poetry ponders the relationship between a long-lasting tool and its owner as he fades.
The Art of Death
Eventually we all will face death. Some might hope for a quick and painless death. The thought of enduring pain is too much. But for others—Updike included—facing demise results in high quality art. Updike’s poetry is beautiful, introspective, and lyrical. His poems during his final days are touching.
If you are a fan of poetry and the observations of a man coming to grips with his death, Endpoint and Other Poems is for you.
Originally published at http://www.wherepenmeetspaper.com
If you had your choice between a quick, painless death and a long, drawn out, painful death. Which would you choose?
For me, there’s no easy answer. On one side, a quick death allows for an elimination of pain. Let’s be honest; pain is no fun.
But with a quick, painless death, you don’t have a chance to say goodbye. You don’t have a chance to finish the last tasks on your bucket list, to say goodbye to those closest to you.
Nobody wants to face death; I can think of nothing more unpleasant. Yet there’s something poetic about the opportunity to say goodbye, to right your wrongs, and to come to grips with the end of life.
Interestingly, the theme of facing inevitable death is the central refrain of John Updike’s final collection of poetry, Endpoint and Other Poems.
In Consideration of the End
Through beautiful lyricism, Updike opens the window to his pallid decline.
The principle poem in the collection is “Endpoint”. An agglomeration of poems spanning the last decade of his life, Updike uses descriptive language and sharp observations to portray the final stages of a life.
“Mild winter, then a birthday burst of snow.
A faint neuralgia, flitting tooth-root to
knee and shoulder-joint, a vacant head,
too many friendly wishes to parry,
too many cakes. Oh, let the years alone!
They pile up if we manage not to die,
glass dollars in the bank, dry pages on
the shelf. The boy I was no longer smiles” (3).
As the poem unfolds, Updike reveals his innermost thoughts. The reader perceives a man coming to grips with his demise, a person understanding inevitable decline and preparing others for life after he’s gone.
Expectations of the End
Yet no matter the expectation and inevitability of death, the thought of it remains absurd. It is the one universal experience for which we have no reference. When someone dies, we can’t interview them; we can’t gauge the feeling. Strange is the thought of leaving tangible evidence behind.
“Endpoint, I thought, would end a chapter in
a book beyond imagining, that got reset
in crisp exotics type a future I
—a miracle!—could read. My hope was vague
but kept me going, amiable and swift.
A clergyman—those comical purveyors
of what makes sense to just the terrified—
has phoned me, and I loved him, bless his hide” (24).
Aside from “Endpoint,” Updike’s other poems approach death from many angles. Whether observing the passing of time through music, nature, or a power tool, aging and the end remain present on Updike’s mind. Consider, the sonnet, “Tools”.
“Tell me, how do the manufacturers of tools
turn a profit? I have used the same clawed hammer
for forty years. The screwdriver misted with rust
once slipped into my young hand, a new householder’s.
Obliviously, tools wait to be used: the pliers,
notched mouth agape like a cartoon shark’s; the wrench
with its jaws on a screw; the plane still sharp enough
to take its fragrant, curling bite; the brace and bit
still fit to chew a hole in pine like a patient thought;
the taps rule, its inches unaltered though I have shrunk;
the carpenter’s angle, still absolutely right though I
have strayed; the wooden bubble level from my father’s
meager horde. Their stubborn shapes pervade the cellar,
enduring with a thrift that shames our wastrel lives” (79).
While on its surface, Updike ponders the business plan of the tool industry, the underlying notion of the poetry ponders the relationship between a long-lasting tool and its owner as he fades.
The Art of Death
Eventually we all will face death. Some might hope for a quick and painless death. The thought of enduring pain is too much. But for others—Updike included—facing demise results in high quality art. Updike’s poetry is beautiful, introspective, and lyrical. His poems during his final days are touching.
If you are a fan of poetry and the observations of a man coming to grips with his death, Endpoint and Other Poems is for you.
Originally published at http://www.wherepenmeetspaper.com
April 20, 2009
It was always hard not to be secretly a little annoyed at the late John Updike for being… well, so good at everything. The famous novels aside, memoir, travel reportage, children's literature, humor, literary criticism and essays on everything from Renaissance painting to Boston Red Sox great Ted Williams poured from his typewriter.
Despite seven previous collections of verse, dating back to 1958, he was perhaps least known for his poetry. "Endpoint and Other Poems" may change that. The slender volume, rushed to publication by Updike's longtime publisher, Knopf, is an accomplished if slightly schizophrenic affair. The title sequence, a series of linked poems written in the months leading up to his January death from cancer, is as measured and poignant as any verse in recent memory.
The language is beautifully cadenced, displaying the same feel for the music of words that made his prose so distinctive and memorable. Death is "a pin-sized prick of light winked out," while the poet's memories "in their jiggled scope collide / to form more sacred windows." The ugliness of aging, of hospitals and CAT scans and bedside visits is transformed by the rhythms of Updike's verse and the keenness of his observations. He made even dying sound stylish.
The other sections of the book include charming but basically slight meditations and sonnets on such mundane subjects as television, plane travel, baseball, and, er, a bathroom act that my father still refers to using a basketball metaphor. These are fun, in limited doses.
On a scale of difficulty, with 1 being your average limerick and 10 being "The Faerie Queen," these poems check in at a friendly 5. Updike's strong suit as a writer was always the precision of his observations; a line describing the tentative light of early spring as "just trying brightness out" or a "fabled velvet death-black sky / salted with stars" sticks bracingly in the mind.
Some minor objections remain. "Endpoint" has a cleaning-out-the-drawer feel to it, with the sublime side by side with the silly. The shorter pieces, as amusing as they are, carry a whiff of the self-satisfied cleverness that detractors of The New Yorker magazine claim is the house style. Traces of Updike's flaws linger underneath the keen intelligence and virtuoso wordplay. He was a bit of a male chauvinist, to be sure, and his basic stance on life and society was fundamentally reactionary. His attitudes were molded by the 1950s - a decade vividly recalled here in light-handed elegies for Frankie Laine and Doris Day. And while his curiosity never abated, an elderly fussiness peeps around the edges of some of the poems.
All that aside, " Endpoint" serves as a worthy if faintly anticlimactic coda to a towering career in American literature. As an epigraph to one of the poems, Updike has taken a line from a letter that his editor William Maxwell wrote to him: "Please go on being yourself." That he did, right up until the end. We readers are the richer for it.
From the CLEVELAND PLAIN DEALER, April 19, 2009
Despite seven previous collections of verse, dating back to 1958, he was perhaps least known for his poetry. "Endpoint and Other Poems" may change that. The slender volume, rushed to publication by Updike's longtime publisher, Knopf, is an accomplished if slightly schizophrenic affair. The title sequence, a series of linked poems written in the months leading up to his January death from cancer, is as measured and poignant as any verse in recent memory.
The language is beautifully cadenced, displaying the same feel for the music of words that made his prose so distinctive and memorable. Death is "a pin-sized prick of light winked out," while the poet's memories "in their jiggled scope collide / to form more sacred windows." The ugliness of aging, of hospitals and CAT scans and bedside visits is transformed by the rhythms of Updike's verse and the keenness of his observations. He made even dying sound stylish.
The other sections of the book include charming but basically slight meditations and sonnets on such mundane subjects as television, plane travel, baseball, and, er, a bathroom act that my father still refers to using a basketball metaphor. These are fun, in limited doses.
On a scale of difficulty, with 1 being your average limerick and 10 being "The Faerie Queen," these poems check in at a friendly 5. Updike's strong suit as a writer was always the precision of his observations; a line describing the tentative light of early spring as "just trying brightness out" or a "fabled velvet death-black sky / salted with stars" sticks bracingly in the mind.
Some minor objections remain. "Endpoint" has a cleaning-out-the-drawer feel to it, with the sublime side by side with the silly. The shorter pieces, as amusing as they are, carry a whiff of the self-satisfied cleverness that detractors of The New Yorker magazine claim is the house style. Traces of Updike's flaws linger underneath the keen intelligence and virtuoso wordplay. He was a bit of a male chauvinist, to be sure, and his basic stance on life and society was fundamentally reactionary. His attitudes were molded by the 1950s - a decade vividly recalled here in light-handed elegies for Frankie Laine and Doris Day. And while his curiosity never abated, an elderly fussiness peeps around the edges of some of the poems.
All that aside, " Endpoint" serves as a worthy if faintly anticlimactic coda to a towering career in American literature. As an epigraph to one of the poems, Updike has taken a line from a letter that his editor William Maxwell wrote to him: "Please go on being yourself." That he did, right up until the end. We readers are the richer for it.
From the CLEVELAND PLAIN DEALER, April 19, 2009
February 18, 2016
John Updike is justly remembered as one of the great American novelists. He also published eight volumes of poetry. I picked this up from the library because I have appreciated a couple of his poems I've read (like the one about resurrection). The title of this collection comes from the first section, a poem (or series of poems?) about Updike's last several birthdays and his final illness. There is also a section of 'other poems' that have poems of Updike's remembrances of friends, reflections on old age, arthritis and colonoscopies, stolen paintings, nature, life and pop culture. There is also a section with Updike's sonnets, and 'lighter and personal poems.
I feel sheepish only giving this three stars. Updike is a very good poet and there are some standout poems; however I found the poems less consistent the further I read. Endpoint is great, so are many "other poems." The sonnets weren't earth shattering and the light, personal poems merely clever. If this book is like an LP. The front side is loaded with hits, the b side has character but no singles.
I feel sheepish only giving this three stars. Updike is a very good poet and there are some standout poems; however I found the poems less consistent the further I read. Endpoint is great, so are many "other poems." The sonnets weren't earth shattering and the light, personal poems merely clever. If this book is like an LP. The front side is loaded with hits, the b side has character but no singles.
March 7, 2026
My first time reading John Updike, I loved his poetry, his use of words and form is very clever and does not get in the way of the message. Very accessible, he reminded me of Billy Collins and Ted Kooser, understandable and flowing.
September 12, 2020
Sonnets: 4 stars
Everything else: 2 stars
Everything else: 2 stars
August 30, 2014
This being my first John Updike book, I didn't really know what to expect; I was, however, pretty impressed. He was able to make the most mundane things into the most fascinating, simply by his phrasing. I can honestly say that I enjoyed this book of poems. My only side note, and I do not mean this in a negative way, is to not read this when you are feeling a little sad. I say this because the whole novel revolves around Updike's impending death, and this can become a little depressing, especially read when already feeling down, or even when read at night. Overall, I would recommend to anyone who likes fairly straightforward poetry with undertones of regret and sorrow.
Here are some of my favorite pieces:
"Signals beyond their ken transported us--Jack Benny's stately pauses, Errol Flynn's half-smile, the songs we learned to smoke to, ads in magazines called slicks, the comic strips, realer than real, a Paradise that if we held our breaths, we could ascend to, free" (17). ~From "Endpoint"
"How many starved hours of struggle resumed in fits of life's irritation did it take to seal and sew shut the berry-bright eyes and untie the tiny wild knot of a heart? I cannot know, discovering this wad of junco-fluff, weightless and wordless in its corner of netting deer cannot chew through nor gravity-defying bird bones break"(53). ~From "Bird Caught In My Deer Netting"
"Yes, the body is a hideous thing, the feet and the genitals especially, the human face not far behind"(72). ~From "Lucian Freud"
"It came to me the other day: Were I to die, no one would say, 'Oh, what a shame! So young, so full Of promise--depths unplumbable!' Instead, a shrug and tearless eyes Will greet my overdue demise; The wide response will be, I know, 'I thought he died a while ago.' For life's a shabby subterfuge, And death is real, and dark, and huge. The shock of it will register Nowhere but where it will occur"(93). ~From "Requiem"
Here are some of my favorite pieces:
"Signals beyond their ken transported us--Jack Benny's stately pauses, Errol Flynn's half-smile, the songs we learned to smoke to, ads in magazines called slicks, the comic strips, realer than real, a Paradise that if we held our breaths, we could ascend to, free" (17). ~From "Endpoint"
"How many starved hours of struggle resumed in fits of life's irritation did it take to seal and sew shut the berry-bright eyes and untie the tiny wild knot of a heart? I cannot know, discovering this wad of junco-fluff, weightless and wordless in its corner of netting deer cannot chew through nor gravity-defying bird bones break"(53). ~From "Bird Caught In My Deer Netting"
"Yes, the body is a hideous thing, the feet and the genitals especially, the human face not far behind"(72). ~From "Lucian Freud"
"It came to me the other day: Were I to die, no one would say, 'Oh, what a shame! So young, so full Of promise--depths unplumbable!' Instead, a shrug and tearless eyes Will greet my overdue demise; The wide response will be, I know, 'I thought he died a while ago.' For life's a shabby subterfuge, And death is real, and dark, and huge. The shock of it will register Nowhere but where it will occur"(93). ~From "Requiem"
January 9, 2023
Citaat : In het begin bekoort ons de Cultuur/ maar de Natuur die achterhaalt haar wel/ Mijn huid, merk ik nu op mijn 75ste/ hangt los in rimpels als duinen op Mars/ die ons zeggen dat er ooit leven was.
Review : De Amerikaanse schrijver John Updike (1932-2009) was natuurlijk in de eerste plaats de auteur van grote romans als de Rabbit-cyclus, waarin hij een portret schilderde van de Amerikaanse burgerman, of het in zijn tijd provocerende Paren (1968), waarin hij het oversekste en overspelige moderne leven in de Amerikaanse buitenwijken neerzette. Daarnaast blonk hij uit als verhalenverteller en auteur van kleinere beschouwelijke stukjes, columns en essays. Dat hij ook dichter was, wist ik pas toen ik deze bundel in handen kreeg. Toch begon zijn carrière zelfs met poëzie, en hij eindigde ook ermee.
Zijn laatste boek, toepasselijk Endpoint geheten en postuum verschenen, bestaat uit gedichten waarin hij zijn eigen laatste jaren beschrijft, verjaardagen, signalen van zijn ouderdom, de definitieve aftakeling tot aan zijn laatste ziekbed toe. De gedichten in Endpoint/Eindpunt zijn onmiskenbaar autobiografisch, ze roepen de wederwaardigheden en ervaringen van John Updike op.
John Updike is zijn hele leven geprezen om zijn stijl, meer dan om zijn overigens ook niet geringe vertelkunst of gevoel voor plots: hij schrijft meeslepend, met een jaloersmakend zintuig voor detail en met een prachtig evenwicht tussen afstandelijkheid en betrokkenheid. Toch viel in de gedichten vooral een andere eigenschap op, te weten zijn liefde voor mensen, voor de wereld, voor dat hele vanzelfsprekende universum waarvan hij zelf ook deel uitmaakte en waaraan hij zo bijzonder gehecht was.
De cyclus Eindpunt zou je een afscheid kunnen noemen, een memento mori. Updike beschrijft de ouderdom en ziet zijn ziekte en naderende dood onder ogen. Updike wordt daarbij niet somber en klagerig, maar houdt de mild-ironische toets die ook zijn proza altijd heeft gestempeld. De mooie vertaling van Rob Schouten biedt een eerste aanzet om de Engelse gedichten van Updike (die in deze tweetalige editie zijn opgenomen) zelf te gaan lezen.
Review : De Amerikaanse schrijver John Updike (1932-2009) was natuurlijk in de eerste plaats de auteur van grote romans als de Rabbit-cyclus, waarin hij een portret schilderde van de Amerikaanse burgerman, of het in zijn tijd provocerende Paren (1968), waarin hij het oversekste en overspelige moderne leven in de Amerikaanse buitenwijken neerzette. Daarnaast blonk hij uit als verhalenverteller en auteur van kleinere beschouwelijke stukjes, columns en essays. Dat hij ook dichter was, wist ik pas toen ik deze bundel in handen kreeg. Toch begon zijn carrière zelfs met poëzie, en hij eindigde ook ermee.
Zijn laatste boek, toepasselijk Endpoint geheten en postuum verschenen, bestaat uit gedichten waarin hij zijn eigen laatste jaren beschrijft, verjaardagen, signalen van zijn ouderdom, de definitieve aftakeling tot aan zijn laatste ziekbed toe. De gedichten in Endpoint/Eindpunt zijn onmiskenbaar autobiografisch, ze roepen de wederwaardigheden en ervaringen van John Updike op.
John Updike is zijn hele leven geprezen om zijn stijl, meer dan om zijn overigens ook niet geringe vertelkunst of gevoel voor plots: hij schrijft meeslepend, met een jaloersmakend zintuig voor detail en met een prachtig evenwicht tussen afstandelijkheid en betrokkenheid. Toch viel in de gedichten vooral een andere eigenschap op, te weten zijn liefde voor mensen, voor de wereld, voor dat hele vanzelfsprekende universum waarvan hij zelf ook deel uitmaakte en waaraan hij zo bijzonder gehecht was.
De cyclus Eindpunt zou je een afscheid kunnen noemen, een memento mori. Updike beschrijft de ouderdom en ziet zijn ziekte en naderende dood onder ogen. Updike wordt daarbij niet somber en klagerig, maar houdt de mild-ironische toets die ook zijn proza altijd heeft gestempeld. De mooie vertaling van Rob Schouten biedt een eerste aanzet om de Engelse gedichten van Updike (die in deze tweetalige editie zijn opgenomen) zelf te gaan lezen.
January 10, 2026
John Updike is a phenomenal poet and I found this collection to be incredibly beautiful, not just because of the words on the pages but because of his tenacity to continue working despite his health troubles attempting to get in the way of his work. I admire the way he was able to so accurately color his world in only a couple verses and the way he characterized and brought to life such basic day to day thoughts and views.
Although the collection was great I figure I'd focus on Endpoint as its the forefront of the book. I really can't recall another author who has so aptly made me feel the sense of foreboding that John made me feel while simultaneously teaching me how to appreciate what I do have, and the memories I've made throughout my life so far. The emotions in the piece felt so tumultuous for me, ranging from bleak and sad to reflective and bitter sweet. He was clearly scared but gripped tight to his wife, and his family, and the experiences that led him to the man he was. This is my first time truly reading a poetry collection all the way through and he truly has inspired me to pursue more poets in the future, I feel so thankful to him for teaching me about how beautiful and how emotionally complicated poetry can be whilst utilizing such a small amount of paper.
Overall if someone is new to poetry I'd recommend giving John Updike a try, I think many of the poems in this book are quite excellent and it could be an entry point for those looking to get into writing themselves. I didn't find his verses too intimidating to parse as a novice and his wordplay was truly enjoyable to get to experience.
Although the collection was great I figure I'd focus on Endpoint as its the forefront of the book. I really can't recall another author who has so aptly made me feel the sense of foreboding that John made me feel while simultaneously teaching me how to appreciate what I do have, and the memories I've made throughout my life so far. The emotions in the piece felt so tumultuous for me, ranging from bleak and sad to reflective and bitter sweet. He was clearly scared but gripped tight to his wife, and his family, and the experiences that led him to the man he was. This is my first time truly reading a poetry collection all the way through and he truly has inspired me to pursue more poets in the future, I feel so thankful to him for teaching me about how beautiful and how emotionally complicated poetry can be whilst utilizing such a small amount of paper.
Overall if someone is new to poetry I'd recommend giving John Updike a try, I think many of the poems in this book are quite excellent and it could be an entry point for those looking to get into writing themselves. I didn't find his verses too intimidating to parse as a novice and his wordplay was truly enjoyable to get to experience.
November 28, 2016
Updike's last collection of poetry (he died in 2009) was written during the last seven years of his life, and the poems range from contemplations of mortality, reflections on the people and places of his youth, and a series of sonnets inspired by places both distant from and close to home. Updike's language is wry, pointed and sometimes wistful, but never in a cloying way. My favorite lines are found in "Endpoint," the first section, in a poem titled "Spirit of '76:" "Be with me, words, a little longer; you / have given me my quitclaim in the sun, / sealed shut my adolescent wounds, made light / of grownup troubles, turned to my advantage / what in most lives would be pure deficit, / and formed, of those I loved, more solid ghosts." Luckily for us, words stayed with him until the very end.
August 6, 2024
Deeply conflicted. Endpoint itself is incredible. As a sworn Updike hater, it made me believe I had been too quick to write him off. That being said the quality falls off steadily as the collection goes on. By the time I was done i no longer felt like I needed to give his prose-work a good faith effort. I wish this collection stopped at page 30.
February 9, 2026
I've never read Updike before but I did enjoy this short collection of poetry. I decided to read it because he is one of those major literary authors I've never explored but felt somewhat essential to be familiar with to someone with a lit degree (got quite a few of those). I'll probably check out more of his work in time, but I didn't find it particularly riveting.
Read
September 17, 2021A poet who has mastered the music of poetry, those lilting hops between words and sentences, even if the content of this particular collection often devolved into frowns and oddities. “Endpoint,” the first series of poems, is stunning.
May 3, 2022
This is the first time I've read Updike, having randomly pulled it out of the poetry section at the library. Solid wordsmith. A few standout poems marred by numerous poems that feel like caricature of a depressingly stereotypical old man.
April 26, 2026
Não chega às 5 estrelas, pois o carácter excessivamente prosaico da poesia de Updike não o permite.
Louise Glück também é prosaico, mas faz de frases simples poesia de imensa densidade. Updike é sobretudo um contista e um romancista. Na poesia não está tão à vontade.
Louise Glück também é prosaico, mas faz de frases simples poesia de imensa densidade. Updike é sobretudo um contista e um romancista. Na poesia não está tão à vontade.
July 15, 2017
A few poems I enjoyed, but it wasn't great for me.
April 7, 2023
The second half of the poetry are pedestrian. He writes about common everyday things. I loved the poems in the first section of this book
December 26, 2023
I enjoyed Endpoint, but some of the poems were not it. I will be coming back again to Updike’s short stories.
December 17, 2023
Empty Words
I'm always confusing John Updike and John Irving; I've read far more of the latter than the former. I've not (yet) read much of Updike at all, except for the robotically prescient Toward the End of Time, which I very much enjoyed. I intend to read more of him, though not because of this particular book.
Endpoint is divided into four sections: the eponymously titled first section is a longish (pp 3-29) poem focused on various birthdays and other events in the seven years leading up to the author's death. Despite the gravitas of the subject matter, it felt a bit hollow and sterile to me. I did not feel the rich language or craftsmanship (despite the loose blank verse) that marks good poetry.
The second section, "Other Poems", is a collection of poems on random topics. Consider "DOO-WOP":
Does anyone but me ever wonder
where these old doo-wop stars you see
in purple tuxedos with mauve lapels
on public-television marathons
have been between the distant time when they
recorded their hit (usually only one,...
Before ending with "how did they do it, do it still, still doo?" (p36). If that's an attempt at humor, it is just as lost as the location of the doo-wop stars about which Updike wonders. Or consider "COLONOSCOPY":
Talk about intimacy! I'd almost rather not.
The day before...
OK, John, you're right--stop there. Let's move on.
With the title of the third section, "Sonnets", I was expecting more craftsmanship. But these are so-called "American" sonnets: that is to say, their "sonnetness" is blurred. Several examples are similar to the Petrarchan type in that they are comprised of an 8-line octave followed by a 6-line sextet; but they lack any rhyme scheme, utilizing instead a loosely defined blank verse. Others are sonnet-like only in their 14-line form, without an explicit grouping of the subcomponents (either Petrarchan or Shakespearean).
My favorite section was actually the fourth, oddly titled "Light and Personal." The only thing "lighter" about this group is that they employ a more formal structure and rhyme pattern (the "Personal" bar was already set very high with "COLONOSCOPY" in section 2). The best poem in the book, "ELEGY", is in this section:
.
Atthol, Mass. -- Eastern equine encephalitis killed two emus in town, state health officials said yesterday. --Boston Globe
Let every Easter egg end-product grieve;
If emus die, egrets and eagles too
Can catch an evil equine bug, and leave
Our eager green Earth to the lark and gnu.
Each Eve in Eden finds a friendly snake.
No bird alive outflies the final flu.
Death steals upon the duckling, duck, and drake;
The end of Athol emus tolls for you.
"ELEGY" is a better representation of the pathos that Updike was aiming to achieve with the title poem. This poem is "light" only in the sense that a good cabernet is an iron fist in a silken glove: its breezy concision carries with it an air of profundity and sneaky depth, and the sixth line ("No bird alive outflies the final flu") is the best line of the entire book both in terms of the mellifluousness of its language and the insouciant humor applied to such a grave evocation. And the iambic pentameter and phrasing of this line, and the one immediately preceding it ("Each Eve in Eden finds a friendly snake.") is worthy of Shakespeare. I would have liked to have read more of those lines.
October 13, 2010
Endpoint and Other Poems
John Updike
Random House, 2009
-Past, Present, and an Imminent Future
When reading this book of poetry, it becomes painfully obvious that Updike was worried about his rapidly approaching death when he wrote it. Although, perhaps he was more curious than worried. Published in 2009, the year he died, this book is constantly referencing the poet’s mortality, but in a way that feels almost lighthearted. The title poem, which opens the book, is broken into seventeen sections, most of which are dated, and each section is likewise broken up into a series of sonnets. Although the number of sonnets in each section varies, the fact that the author chose to format his poem consistently into sonnets reflects both the order and the chaos of the passing time within the poem.
In “Endpoint”, as well as many of the other poems, Updike frequently uses the past as a way to contextualize the present. He begins by referencing his childhood, recalling a moment where he lies on his “sickbed,” and then jumps quickly into the present where he reflects on his imminent death. Such comparisons continue throughout the poem’s timeline which, as the dates connote, starts in 2002 and ends on Dec. 12, 2008. As the poem progresses, the dates become closer, suggesting Updike’s rapid descent towards death. However, the poem still remains lighthearted throughout, recalling childhood fun, briefly discussing pop culture, and even concluding with a surprisingly hopeful quotation. In this way, the poem becomes a melancholy reverie on a life completed but well-spent.
The rest of the book is separated into three sections titled “Other Poems,” “Sonnets,” and “Light and Personal” respectively. In “Other Poems,” as in “Endpoint,” Updike avoids the use of meter and rhyme and instead relies more on the subtle use of sound devices to create rhythm. Nonetheless, the entire section resonates with a sense of order. This is because he tends to keep the number of lines in his stanzas and their length consistent within the confines of each poem as well as within the entire section. The effect is an ordered chaos similar to that of “Endpoint,” especially since the poems deal with similar a similar subject: the relation between the past, the present, and death.
“Sonnets,” as the title so appropriately suggests, is comprised of 18 sonnet poems. As with “Endpoint,” this leaves the poet little room for structure variation, but it does give him plenty of room for reflection. This tends to be the theme of the section, with special emphasis on cities that Updike has visited. In stark contrast with this and the rest of the book, “Light and Personal” consists mostly of poems with both rhyme and meter. The use of rhyme and meter gives the poems, which are mostly about silly or innocuous topics, an airy quality which is largely absent from the rest of the book.
The fact that the poet ends his book with this section is not surprising. Despite his reliance on melancholy themes, he consistently peppers his poems with humor and wit, probably as a way to distract from the imminence of his own death. Who can blame him? No one wants to think about death, especially when they’re dying. This final section seems to be the poet’s reminder to his readers that they should take it easy before they can’t take anything anymore.
John Updike
Random House, 2009
-Past, Present, and an Imminent Future
When reading this book of poetry, it becomes painfully obvious that Updike was worried about his rapidly approaching death when he wrote it. Although, perhaps he was more curious than worried. Published in 2009, the year he died, this book is constantly referencing the poet’s mortality, but in a way that feels almost lighthearted. The title poem, which opens the book, is broken into seventeen sections, most of which are dated, and each section is likewise broken up into a series of sonnets. Although the number of sonnets in each section varies, the fact that the author chose to format his poem consistently into sonnets reflects both the order and the chaos of the passing time within the poem.
In “Endpoint”, as well as many of the other poems, Updike frequently uses the past as a way to contextualize the present. He begins by referencing his childhood, recalling a moment where he lies on his “sickbed,” and then jumps quickly into the present where he reflects on his imminent death. Such comparisons continue throughout the poem’s timeline which, as the dates connote, starts in 2002 and ends on Dec. 12, 2008. As the poem progresses, the dates become closer, suggesting Updike’s rapid descent towards death. However, the poem still remains lighthearted throughout, recalling childhood fun, briefly discussing pop culture, and even concluding with a surprisingly hopeful quotation. In this way, the poem becomes a melancholy reverie on a life completed but well-spent.
The rest of the book is separated into three sections titled “Other Poems,” “Sonnets,” and “Light and Personal” respectively. In “Other Poems,” as in “Endpoint,” Updike avoids the use of meter and rhyme and instead relies more on the subtle use of sound devices to create rhythm. Nonetheless, the entire section resonates with a sense of order. This is because he tends to keep the number of lines in his stanzas and their length consistent within the confines of each poem as well as within the entire section. The effect is an ordered chaos similar to that of “Endpoint,” especially since the poems deal with similar a similar subject: the relation between the past, the present, and death.
“Sonnets,” as the title so appropriately suggests, is comprised of 18 sonnet poems. As with “Endpoint,” this leaves the poet little room for structure variation, but it does give him plenty of room for reflection. This tends to be the theme of the section, with special emphasis on cities that Updike has visited. In stark contrast with this and the rest of the book, “Light and Personal” consists mostly of poems with both rhyme and meter. The use of rhyme and meter gives the poems, which are mostly about silly or innocuous topics, an airy quality which is largely absent from the rest of the book.
The fact that the poet ends his book with this section is not surprising. Despite his reliance on melancholy themes, he consistently peppers his poems with humor and wit, probably as a way to distract from the imminence of his own death. Who can blame him? No one wants to think about death, especially when they’re dying. This final section seems to be the poet’s reminder to his readers that they should take it easy before they can’t take anything anymore.
July 13, 2011
John Updike, Endpoint (Knopf, 2009)
The first John Updike book I read was Midpoint, his 1969 collection of poetry, published when he was thirty-seven. I was going to try and make some sort of inane comparison with Endpoint, Updike's final book, published posthumously, but I figure that fact that Midpoint actually ended up almost being an exact midpoint makes any point I was going to make there far more elegantly than I would have. And while Updike's poetry has gotten a great deal more conservative over the years (I know a magazine editor or two who use the sonnets in Midpoint as examples of how avant-garde formal poetry can be they'll accept for publication), Updike to the end never lost an ounce of his sense of the wonders inherent in the English language, and how to shape those wonders into something ineffable (Campbell McGrath, at a posthumous reading of the book, said Updike's use of language is comparable to sound effects in a film; indeed):
“Today, the author hits three score thirteen,
an age his father, woken in the night
by pressure on his heart, fell short of. Still,
I scribble on. My right hand occupies
the center of my vision, faithful old
five-fingered beast of burden, dappled with
some psoriatic spots I used to hate...”
(--”The Author Observes His Birthday, 2005”)
You can take it as a whole and probably miss some stuff, but if you want to isolate something, just read through that slowly, emphasizing the s sounds, and then pause and consider the landscape Updike has created in that short section. It's hilly, gently so, and windswept, and has a few tufts of dead grass here and there but is otherwise barren—and endlessly fascinating. I ended up liking this just as much as I did Midpoint, which was quite a pleasant surprise given the relentlessly autobiographical nature of much of the material here. Highly recommended. ****
The first John Updike book I read was Midpoint, his 1969 collection of poetry, published when he was thirty-seven. I was going to try and make some sort of inane comparison with Endpoint, Updike's final book, published posthumously, but I figure that fact that Midpoint actually ended up almost being an exact midpoint makes any point I was going to make there far more elegantly than I would have. And while Updike's poetry has gotten a great deal more conservative over the years (I know a magazine editor or two who use the sonnets in Midpoint as examples of how avant-garde formal poetry can be they'll accept for publication), Updike to the end never lost an ounce of his sense of the wonders inherent in the English language, and how to shape those wonders into something ineffable (Campbell McGrath, at a posthumous reading of the book, said Updike's use of language is comparable to sound effects in a film; indeed):
“Today, the author hits three score thirteen,
an age his father, woken in the night
by pressure on his heart, fell short of. Still,
I scribble on. My right hand occupies
the center of my vision, faithful old
five-fingered beast of burden, dappled with
some psoriatic spots I used to hate...”
(--”The Author Observes His Birthday, 2005”)
You can take it as a whole and probably miss some stuff, but if you want to isolate something, just read through that slowly, emphasizing the s sounds, and then pause and consider the landscape Updike has created in that short section. It's hilly, gently so, and windswept, and has a few tufts of dead grass here and there but is otherwise barren—and endlessly fascinating. I ended up liking this just as much as I did Midpoint, which was quite a pleasant surprise given the relentlessly autobiographical nature of much of the material here. Highly recommended. ****
March 8, 2016
John Updike said that his writing career began in 1954 when the New Yorker accepted one of his poems. However, most of us think of Updike as a novelist. After all, he won the Pulitzer Prize for fiction twice- Rabbit is Rich (1981) and Rabbit at Rest (1991). He also won the National Book Critics Circle Award and the National Book Award for fiction. I didn't expect much from Endpoint: And Other Poems. However, I was curious how the iconic writer summarized his final days via this posthumous volume of poetry. The "Endpoint" poems were written during the last years of his life, they are sensitive and poignant. One of those poems is titled "Oblong Ghost 11/6/08." This poem stands out because it struck me as terribly sad and terribly true. It is a reminder that the world outside stops for no one.
Oblong Ghost 11/6/08
A wakeup call? It seems that death has found
the portals it will enter by: my lungs,
pathetic oblong ghosts, one paler than
the other on the doctor’s viewing screen.
Looking up “pneumonia,” I learn
it can, like an erratic dog, turn mean
and snap life short for someone under two
or “very old (over 75).”
Meanwhile, our President Obama waits
downstairs to be unwrapped and I, a child
transposed toward Christmas Day in Shillington—
air soft and bright, a touch of snow outside—
pause here, one hand upon the bannister,
and breathe the scent of fresh-cut evergreens.
The "Other" poems in this collection are a mix bag; but, still effective and introspective. I liked this book much more than I thought I would. Endpoint: And Other Poems opened me up to another side of Updike. This book motivated me to explore more of his fiction, essays and criticism. Updike was more than just a great novelist. It is ironic (or maybe by design) that his career began and ended with poetry.
Oblong Ghost 11/6/08
A wakeup call? It seems that death has found
the portals it will enter by: my lungs,
pathetic oblong ghosts, one paler than
the other on the doctor’s viewing screen.
Looking up “pneumonia,” I learn
it can, like an erratic dog, turn mean
and snap life short for someone under two
or “very old (over 75).”
Meanwhile, our President Obama waits
downstairs to be unwrapped and I, a child
transposed toward Christmas Day in Shillington—
air soft and bright, a touch of snow outside—
pause here, one hand upon the bannister,
and breathe the scent of fresh-cut evergreens.
The "Other" poems in this collection are a mix bag; but, still effective and introspective. I liked this book much more than I thought I would. Endpoint: And Other Poems opened me up to another side of Updike. This book motivated me to explore more of his fiction, essays and criticism. Updike was more than just a great novelist. It is ironic (or maybe by design) that his career began and ended with poetry.
July 21, 2009
Updike found mastery within the short story. His novels, though flawed, are nevertheless always good reading. His poetry, uber- witty and urbane, rarely (but sometimes) rises to the level of the clever, insightful, gifted vision of the schoolboy and scholar that always, from his strongest work sprung forth. This thin volume of poems, a follow-up to the more playful 'Midpoint' (1969), he wrote when he knew he was dying. The final poem to his wife, "For Martha, On Her Birthday After Her Cataract Operation," is at once sad and joyous, - as, with the gift of his prose, he often made this humble reader:
My blue-eyed beauty, now you see
Through plastic sharply, courtesy
Of Dr. Saintly Shingleton
And all his green-clad crew, who spun
Their miracle, ten minutes' worth,
In time to celebrate your birth
In fine detail; O Martha mine
Come count your candles: sixty nine
- No more, no less - alight upon
A cake of love from your own
John
My blue-eyed beauty, now you see
Through plastic sharply, courtesy
Of Dr. Saintly Shingleton
And all his green-clad crew, who spun
Their miracle, ten minutes' worth,
In time to celebrate your birth
In fine detail; O Martha mine
Come count your candles: sixty nine
- No more, no less - alight upon
A cake of love from your own
John
July 2, 2010
This collection of poems, written during the last seven years of Updike's life, allows the reader to share in the poet's sadness as he realizes he is reaching the end of his life. The poems are intimate and emotional. Updike writes, for example, about being hospitalized, and having a needle biopsy showing his cancer has metastasized. A sense of regret and resignation flows through his poems about spending his winters in Tucson to avoid the harsh New England winters. He reminisces about his younger days in Pennsylvania where he and his friends listened to Frankie Laine at the Stephens' Sweet Shop. Most of all, as you read, you seem to be seeing the world through Updike's eyes as the small events of everyday life become subjects for his poems of reflection. He begins Baseball with the words: "It looks easy from a distance,/ easy and lazy, even/ until you stand up to the plate. . ." He ends the poem with these words," . . . Baseball was/ invented in America, where beneath/ the good cheer and sly jazz the chance/ of failure is everybody's right,/ beginning with baseball."
December 27, 2012
Four stars only if you like Updike to begin with, and also only if you like reading poems. I usually like anthologies of poetry on an occasional basis, but Updike has always fascinated me, and this last collection of his, although it concentrates on his impending death, has enough of his wit and eye for detail to make up for its mostly single-minded focus on health issues.
Besides, who else would have poems about Doris Day, Payne Stewart and Monica Lewinsky? Not to mention one poem contemplating Helen of Troy's intestines.
I loved the Rabbit, Run series of novels, which he wrote only because he could not get rich writing poetry, which now, having read this collection, I think was our loss, not his.
Besides, who else would have poems about Doris Day, Payne Stewart and Monica Lewinsky? Not to mention one poem contemplating Helen of Troy's intestines.
I loved the Rabbit, Run series of novels, which he wrote only because he could not get rich writing poetry, which now, having read this collection, I think was our loss, not his.
October 27, 2016
Loved many of these poems, esp. the birthday poems at the beginning. Some of the later ones got a bit too involved with wordplay, seemed a bit overdone. (This is apparently Updike's biggest fault, but I still love his beautiful writing.) Overall feeling was that Updike was just waiting to die... and it was very illuminating to read these last poems, written from a point of life that not many people have written about (for instance, on IV in a hospital when your relatives are all visiting to say goodbye). Kind of reminded me of the description of being born that starts "The TIn Drum." The very ends of life.
November 9, 2011
Aside from the poignant ruminations on his own mortality, the subjects that Updike has chosen for his poems are rather banal. Tools? TV? Colonscopy? His left hand? One of the knocks on Updike has always been that he is more technician than artist and this final collection of poems will only buttress that particular criticism. There is a final collection of his non-fiction prose (Higher Gossip) that I am looking forward to.
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