Two Poems of Old Age
By Moristotle
The first poem below more or less wrote itself one morning, in the moments after I experienced the internal argument whether or not to flip that light switch. In the days that followed, my ruminations grew to include the ideas of the second poem, and I thought at first that I could work those ideas into the first poem. But I soon learned that I couldn’t – or it would be better not to. For better or worse: “Practicing to Die” and “Rehearsing to Live.”
Practicing to Die
Don’t do it!
Do it!
No, don’t do it!
I yell at myself in the silence of my mind.
I remind myself I’m carrying a tray,
better safe than sorry.
I used to lift a finger to flip off the kitchen light
as I passed toward the dining table.
I have done it many times.
My whole life I’ve reveled in doing
many things at once, even since
I started imagining dropping the tray,
myself dropping,
and the tray dropping
after me.
But now I’m warning myself not to,
not to lift a finger to flip that switch,
arguing whether or not to lift it,
arguing whether it’s time to stop
trying to prove I’m still young,
still adroit, still steady on my feet,
still capable of doing
many things at once,
even though I know
I’m no longer young,
and I’m much less capable.
And time has shortened,
less and less of it left to rehearse.
Do the condemned on Death Row rehearse?
Their date is set, and they know it.
Is mine set too but I don’t know?
It can’t be far away, though:
I’m tireder today than I was yesterday,
I have more aches and pains –
my body has them, my mind no longer
thinking it’s separate, its life assured
beyond the body.
Assenting now for years
that my mind, too, will cease: I will cease.
But today my mind and body still live.
I’m still alive,
but now telling myself poems like this,
and still at least thinking many things at once.
Rehearsing to Live
Black-and-white, still-life memories
flood my mind of late,
their past times lost and gone,
as though they never existed
and cannot be recaptured or recollected,
or dramatized and streamed in color
like those dramas that light my evening hours
and fold me in their embrace.
But might my dead and done life
be dramatized as well?
Resurrected, brought to life like those
stories from Netflix, MHz, Hulu, Prime?
Might my gone life, too,
be made bright for the screen, re-enacted,
that black-and-white image of the little boy
with an eczema patch beside his mouth
colored and inserted into a scene
of his proud parents with him when
the school photograph was taken?
Oh Mama, oh Papa, how do I look?
I begin to see it, begin to feel it,
my dead past living still.
Living in my own memory and imagination,
and in the memories and imaginations
of others still living who knew me.
And, if any future persons should care,
in their imaginations, too.
I yell at myself in the silence of my mind.
I remind myself I’m carrying a tray,
better safe than sorry.
I used to lift a finger to flip off the kitchen light
as I passed toward the dining table.
I have done it many times.
My whole life I’ve reveled in doing
many things at once, even since
I started imagining dropping the tray,
myself dropping,
and the tray dropping
after me.
But now I’m warning myself not to,
not to lift a finger to flip that switch,
arguing whether or not to lift it,
arguing whether it’s time to stop
trying to prove I’m still young,
still adroit, still steady on my feet,
still capable of doing
many things at once,
even though I know
I’m no longer young,
and I’m much less capable.
And time has shortened,
less and less of it left to rehearse.
Do the condemned on Death Row rehearse?
Their date is set, and they know it.
Is mine set too but I don’t know?
It can’t be far away, though:
I’m tireder today than I was yesterday,
I have more aches and pains –
my body has them, my mind no longer
thinking it’s separate, its life assured
beyond the body.
Assenting now for years
that my mind, too, will cease: I will cease.
But today my mind and body still live.
I’m still alive,
but now telling myself poems like this,
and still at least thinking many things at once.
Rehearsing to Live
Black-and-white, still-life memories
flood my mind of late,
their past times lost and gone,
as though they never existed
and cannot be recaptured or recollected,
or dramatized and streamed in color
like those dramas that light my evening hours
and fold me in their embrace.
But might my dead and done life
be dramatized as well?
Resurrected, brought to life like those
stories from Netflix, MHz, Hulu, Prime?
Might my gone life, too,
be made bright for the screen, re-enacted,
that black-and-white image of the little boy
with an eczema patch beside his mouth
colored and inserted into a scene
of his proud parents with him when
the school photograph was taken?
Oh Mama, oh Papa, how do I look?
I begin to see it, begin to feel it,
my dead past living still.
Living in my own memory and imagination,
and in the memories and imaginations
of others still living who knew me.
And, if any future persons should care,
in their imaginations, too.
| Copyright © 2021 by Moristotle |
Do the condemned on Death Row rehearse?
ReplyDeleteWhat an interesting statement. When I worked at Cook County Jail, Chicago, there were a few men who were going to be tried eventually and given the death sentence. Illinois got rid of it during my tenure, but it still was a gray cloud over these men who were not held with the general population because they were being held for trail and not sentenced yet, though they knew what the outcome would be. Did they rehearse? They did and then plea bargained.
If we knew when it was time for us to die, would we live our lives better? I am always hopeful, but then would we also live our lives as if we had no real cares, no worries, satisfying all of our wants, negative hedonism? Or would we work to make the world a better place unselfishly without care for credit, positive hedonism?
I just happened to be working on a song by Claude Debussy that has been transcribed for cello and piano. I had played the original version for singers many years ago, but I had forgotten the text. When I looked at the translation, it occurred to me that the theme related very much to your two poems. The song’s title is “Beau Soir.” It’s a little gem of a piece from Debussy’s early works, a short poem, and perhaps sounds sentimental at first, but I actually find it has much depth in its simplicity. The French phrase “beau soir” translates as “beautiful night,” and Debussy composed this little piece while still a student, based on a poem by his friend, Paul Bourget. Here’s a translation, courtesy of Wikipedia:
ReplyDeleteWhen streams turn pink in the setting sun,
And a slight shudder rushes through the wheat fields,
A plea for happiness seems to rise out of all things
And it climbs up towards the troubled heart.
A plea to relish the charm of life
While there is youth and the evening is fair,
For we pass away, as the wave passes:
The wave to the sea, we to the grave.
Profound poem, Morris.
ReplyDeleteSome less profound thoughts to add:
* When I was in my teens, I became enamored of 'Sixty Years On' an Elton John/Bernie Taupin song from the late 1960s/early 1970s. More specifically I became enamored of its refrain: "I've no wish to be living sixty years on."
* in my 20s, the rock group 'Blondie' caught my ear with 'Die Young, Stay Pretty' and the line "So live fast 'cause it won't last."
* somewhere along the way I apparently opted for "growing old beats the alternative" because I not only made it into my 60s, but made it in reasonably good health and with enough fitness to run many miles on many different beaches with my then three-year-old son.
* now, as I limp around struggling to recover from my sixth major injury in the past three years, and the days of running six-minute miles fade further into dimming memory, I'm beginning to wonder if maybe Elton John and Blondie had it right after all.
Plain to see how our thoughts converge on that one thing we share, our age. What's gone, what's come to take its place, what will come after that? What has been lost? What gained? Can one still be optimistic about THE future, even though perhaps not quite so sanguine about OUR future? Our personal future, as they say, on a long enough timeline, is always the same. Is reflection truly the exclusive estate of the old, the semi-old, the old in heart? Or is it just the mechanics of life, that we now have far more upon which TO reflect? To re-enjoy, or perhaps to further regret? Or, more distressing thought, to finally have the sense to regret properly? To reflect, to consider what we might have done differently, better, more kindly, more successfully? Of all the changes age has wrought in my way of thinking, I beleive it is my definition of "success" that has changed the most.
ReplyDeleteProfound comments, Roger. Your words here lay out the framework for an epic longer article.
ReplyDeleteIt is amazing how quickly that definition of "success" can change. A month ago, one of my definitions of success would have been a happy, hilly two-mile trail run with my son. One disastrous knee injury and three weeks later, one of my definitions of "success" (if one can call it that) is being able to walk around in the backyard for 30 minutes while my son runs laps around me and mocks my turtle-like pace.
When we are young the sands of the hourglass run so slowly we can count each grain. Sometime after twenty-one we stop watching and begin to think we have all the time in the world, One day we glance at the hourglass and are shocked to see how low the sand has become and how fast it is flowing. You can't stop it, you can't slow it down, and you can't add more sand---all you can do is watch and wait.
ReplyDeleteYour own wise old age has produced a very eloquent statement!
DeleteI love the juxtaposition of the two titles. I see the mind playing with mortality and working on the perfect finale. Having an overactive imagination myself, I have allowed myself to explore even messy endings. But let’s not be in such a rush. I just met all you guys and have a lot to learn from you before your final act.
ReplyDelete