Friday, April 21, 2017

Five Poems for Mid-Life

Source

 
A Year of Being Here
 Kerrie Hardie

I used to wait for the flowers,
my pleasure reposed on them.
Now I like plants before they get to the blossom.
Leafy ones—foxgloves, comfrey, delphiniums—
fleshy tiers of strong leaves pushing up
into air grown daily lighter and more sheened
with bright dust like the eyeshadow
that tall young woman in the bookshop wears,
its shimmer and crumble on her white lids.

The washing sways on the line, the sparrows pull
at the heaps of drying weeds that I’ve left around.
Perhaps this is middle age. Untidy, unfinished,
knowing there’ll never be time now to finish,
liking the plants—their strong lives—
not caring about flowers, sitting in weeds
to write things down, look at things,
watching the sway of shirts on the line,
the cloth filtering light.

I know more or less
how to live through my life now.
But I want to know how to live what’s left
with my eyes open and my hands open;
I want to stand at the door in the rain
listening, sniffing, gaping.
Fearful and joyous,
like an idiot before God.




Salt and Pepper
Samuel Menashe
  Here and there
White hairs appear
On my chest—
Age seasons me
Gives me zest—
I am a sage
In the making
Sprinkled, shaking


An Old Woman
 Arun Kolaktar

She wants a fifty paise coin.
She says she will take you
to the horseshoe shrine.

You've seen it already.
She hobbles along anyway
and tightens her grip on your shirt.

She won't let you go.
You know how old women are.
They stick to you like a burr.

You turn around and face her
with an air of finality.
You want to end the farce.

When you hear her say,
‘What else can an old woman do
on hills as wretched as these?'

You look right at the sky.
Clear through the bullet holes
she has for her eyes.

And as you look on
the cracks that begin around her eyes
spread beyond her skin.

And the hills crack.
And the temples crack.
And the sky falls

with a plateglass clatter
around the shatter proof crone
who stands alone.

And you are reduced
to so much small change
in her hand. 



Carpe  Diem
Stewart Conn

From my study window
        I see you
below in the garden, a hand
        here pruning
or leaning across to snip
        a wayward shoot;

a daub of powder-blue in a
        profusion of green,
then next moment, you are
        no longer there – 
only to reappear, this time
        perfectly framed

in dappling sunlight, with
        an armful of ivy
you've trimmed, topped by 
        hyacinth blooms,
fragrant survivors of last
        night's frost.

And my heart misses a beat
        at love for you,
knowing a time will come
        when you are
no longer there, nor I here
        to watch you

on a day of such simplicity.
        Meantime let us
make sure we clasp each
        shared moment
in cupped hands, like water
        we dare not spill.



 Mid-Life
Suzy Kopliku

Mid- life is a place of transition, it's liminal, a halfway -
House where all that seemed coherent is broken down, remade 
And cleared away to make space
For something more. Or less. Well defined lines are retraced
Erased to plumes of dust like leaves in the fall.

Layers peel, masks flake like plaster casts, 
Hard edges erode, become soft as loam.
All is worn down to the jewel inside the stone.
New ideas stir like seeds under the earth, bare bones, 
Whitened like driftwood weathered, wind blown, 

Sea-washed and a little more brittle but still dancing
Our own dance now
Hearing the music with a keener ear
Like an owl moving through darkness, silent and clear
Now part of the music, part of the darkness.   


No comments:

Post a Comment