And now this: it is what is most feared.
No No Man’s Land, no barbed wire and no mud
Between what is, and what now cannot be withstood,
Not Falstaffed, Hamletted or King Leared,
Now this: the question of how long
In brain grown white will stay the song
In memory, in mind, in stirring blood,
How long the blest, the curst, the good,
And all the rainbow hues of right and wrong;
How long, since vision first appeared
To the last swift solemn setting down
Of mask and doublet, sword and wig and crown,
The play now done, the curtain call too brief,
The march of too few friends through autumn leaf
And rain, and jokes twice told, to where
No thought survives, no cloud in air
Looks down on what, no longer there,
Was once a lustful, struggling man, or beast,
No longer influential in the least.
At seventy, of course, the question comes:
At night, in bed, ere sleep, we do the sums,
We count the days, regrets and worst mistakes,
We do the numbers, till the morning breaks.
Name:
Tis better far to have been great,
Than never to have struck in spate;
Ellis at seventy, it seems to me,
Might not now be what once was he.
Idiots we have, and detractors aplenty;
But men of style, men of courage, twenty
Perhaps there are now in life.
Fight on, Ellis, there’s still much strife.
Age is but a figment of the mind,
The body’s frailties merely unkind.
We who hang upon your words so sage
Salute you, and demand you maintain your rage.
Bob, I wish you at least another twenty more years…
Keep up your walks, and drink in moderation only…
Lovely.
Now I (almost) feel bad for picking on you. I will ban myself for three months, returning only to collect my $10,000.
Bonne anniversaire. Dormez bien, mon capitaine.
Fuck off.
Bob, I bought you breakfast at Centro, Eastwood, the morning Maxine was throwing out the rodent, you owe me 10 bucks but since you have just turned 70 and life now begins I’ll not chase up the debt, consider it a birthday present. I loved your poem by the way, things ‘ll improve, you’ll see!
Many Thanks.
Gee that’s bleak.
When Old Age is mentioned, my granddad starts up awailing “Oh it’s a long, long while, from May to September, But the days grow short..”, the dreariest song ever? – a hundred times and we still laugh.
Some bad nights, he’d like to leave the lamp on; but keeping the ‘light bill’ low wins out.
I’m not 70 – I wouldn’t know – but I might be wary of inviting cliche simplicity, or worse – advice.
Uplifting 80Poem might be down the track.
Now, a quick search for the Thank You Column, for all who posted birthday wishes.
Some people are Too Important to say thank you, Aint Misbehavin.
[Look out! - "Crush! Kill! DELETE!"]
Thank you, thank you, thank you, will you please fuck off.
A very belated Happy Birthday to you, Bob! May there be many more birthdays, and oh-so-typically erudite essays from your good self. You are a treasure to Australian writing, comparable to the true greats such as Gore Vidal and Christopher Hitchens.