Poem – On the Death of Dada (By Robert Beveridge)

On the Death of Dada


Face your fate, old friend.

The Cabaret Voltaire’s been closed.

The movement’s at its end,

but I suppose

That those of us who live

In the snakepit’s writhing dance

Have learned, through you, to give

Our poetry a second chance.

Shall we dance?

I know you died before

My birth; it was a quarter

Of a century ago. Alôrs!

Poetry makes the time shorter

From then to now. I see

That in your darkest rhymes

Lies a kind of symmetry

That has no place in time—

Timeless—yes, the word I’m looking

For. And I’m sure, for you, somewhere

Voltaire’s chef is cooking

Up for us some roast beef, rare.

Shall we dance?

I wish I could have met

You, sometimes, as I lie

Out on the roof, and yet

I still think, why

Couldn’t I meet you? We

Poets have our afterlife, too

And so, these verses from me,

Tristan, I write to you.

Shall we dance?


Author Bio:

Robert Beveridge makes noise ( and writes poetry just outside Cleveland, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Wildflower Muse, Noble/Gas Qtrly, and The Ibis Head Review, among others.