Aging

Rage, Rage 24

Rage, Rage
24

Breakfast time –
butter-fingers:
slippery tableware
totters and falls

A delicate cup
hovers
over the table cloth,
a flying saucer
poised in flight.

It crashes down
and its broken body
rests in pieces
on table and floor.

Bottle tops
screwed up too tight,
or cold from the fridge,
refuse to undo.

Plastic wrappings,
defy all efforts
of inarticulate,
arthritic fingers

So many slips, now,
between cup, fingertip,
and trembling lip.

Comment:

Moo is sulking. He decided that he had no paintings with grubby little insensitive fingers in. Go find another friend, he told me, if you’ve got one, and we’ll see what that one can do to help. So I checked and found this lovely pair of gloves, photograph by Geoff Slater, himself an established artist – which is more than I can say for Moo. Now, now. Cool down. No point in opening hostilities. Especially at your age. Okay, okay. Sorry, Moo. But I do love Geoff’s photo. It is an example of what my hands feel like when I am in arthritis mode. Or should that be arthwrongus? Those cups and saucers are very unstable. Well, don’t shake the table, and keep your relationship stable. Or you’ll be coughing and stamping like a hoarse.

Puns are the lowest form of wit. So – is arthwrongus a pun? If so, it strikes me as the highest form of neologism-style wit. And yes, arthwrongus certainly is what I feel when I knock things around, spill drinks, and generally make a mess of the table cloth. There doesn’t seem to be anything right about that.

And it’s getting worse. Yesterday, I spilled the ink when I was refilling my fountain pen. The day before, I had a cheap bottle of wine – it lasted three days – but on the third day, I knocked the penultimate glass all over the new table cloth. That was a disaster, for the table cloth, a blessing for me. Good riddance, I said. I threw away the last of that bottle and opened a new one to celebrate. And this time I chose a decent wine.

And I guess that’s the secret of growing old. Turning our disasters into opportunities. I like that idea. Maybe I’ll tell you about some more disasters another. But first, I’ll apologize to Moo and see if I can get him painting again. He doesn’t work well with a sulky paintbrush!

Rage, Rage 22 & 23

Rage, Rage,
22

I trace dark contours,
scarred desiccated lines
blurred on the back
of my wrinkled hands.

Blood maps, they are,
unremembered encounters
with immovable objects,
wounds that bleed freely,
deep below the surface,
subcutaneous.

23

When I dream,
I imagine the sky
to be a crystal ball,
twinkling with stars
that tell the time
and my fate.

With silent steps
they creep and steal
hours, days, weeks, years,
whittling my life away,
splintering it
a little bit more
every day.

Time, like golden sand,
trickles through
night’s fingers.

I hold in my hands
an hourglass
through which my life,
secretly, silently,
slides down
and trickles away.

Comment:

“Unremembered encounters with immovable objects,” – oh dear. Anti-coagulants, blood-thinners for short. Moo’s skin is dry anyway. Now that he’s on anti-coagulants, he bruises every time he bumps into something. And Moo bumps into things. He’s one of those people who fall out of bed and go bump in the night. How do I know? He stole my teddy bear and my teddy bear told me. Anyway, his cardiologist calls it collateral damage. A sort of side dish that arrives when ever he stumbles into anything. That’s Moo, not the cardiologist.

As for me, I miss the old myths. I love the idea of the platonic, terra-centric universe. The planets move back wards and forwards around the earth in a slow dance. In order to dance, you need music. So the Platonic creator is a master musician who pays the harp. The stars dance to his music. Fray Luis de León uses this Neo-Platonism in his poetry. For him the sky is ‘un gran transunto donde vive mejorado todo lo que es, lo que será, y lo que ha pasado’. – a large space where, much improved, dwells everything that is, that will be, and that ever was. A lovely thought. Nothing is lost. Everything is saved – but in a state of betterment, all mistakes erased.

Moo would like that. His collateral damage all turned back into perfect skin. Oh dear. He wouldn’t be happy. He’d have nothing to paint. I am sure he paints his bruises when he runs out of inspiration.

Cribbage

Cribbage

Red and white markers
chase each other
along the S bends,
past the skunk lines
to the final straight
where a single space
awaits the winner.

I don’t remember
who won, nor do I care.

We shuffle the cards
and deal again
as we wait for sleep
to descend and bless us.

We fast, tonight:
no food, no water.

When midnight strikes,
we put away the deck
and pegging board,
and bid each other
goodnight.

Sleep well if you can,
my friend:
morning will bring
a much more serious game
that neither you nor I
can afford to lose.

Comment:

A Golden Oldie from 2015. We were both receiving treatment for cancer, in Moncton, at the Georges Dumont Hospital. We both had sessions the next day, he had opted for surgery, while I was undergoing radiation treatment. We could not sleep, and so we sat up and played cards. It helped reax both of us and we talked while we played. I do not remember the conversation – nor the cards – just the immense peace and brotherhood that wrapped itself around us as we waited together.

A little later, we both left the hospital and we never met again. I remember how he played cards, his pegging skills, his ability to read the hands. But I can’t remember his face, or his name. Yet here he is, a ship that passed me, nameless now, in the night, and still, I hope sails on.

Looking back on those days – I remember such closeness in the Auberge, such camaraderie. Those who had been there longest sharing the secrets of survival skills with the newest arrivals. One of the greatest joys for me, was to meet with so many wonderful Acadians – male and female – who shared their language, their knowledge, and their culture. I remember the quilting sessions, the gossip around the table – and I was the only man in the group. The ladies wanted to know where I had learned to sew so well, but I fudged the answers and wouldn’t tell them. I still keep that knowledge to myself. I remember, too, the painting sessions. And the musical evenings with dance and song. So much encouragement, so much fun – and all in the face of disaster, for not everyone survived their treatment. As for me, I was one of the lucky ones. And I recall those days as blessed, in spite of the fear and sometimes the pain.

Ice Storm

Ice Storm

This month and my life
are nearly done.

Sun strengthens in the sky
but birds ice up
in spite of feathers,
fluffed like eider downs.

Man alone,
within warm walls,
can bravely laugh
at winter’s squalls.

But oh, if the power fails,
if wires are tumbled
by winter’s gusting gales,
man’s heart no longer
fills with ease.

He sits at home
in the cold and dark
while all around him,
ice covers the land
and even fire dogs
freeze.

Rage, Rage 18

Rage, Rage
18


I nod off again and dream
of a summer beach,
burning sand, tide way out,
sparkling waves, clouds moving,
inaudible, as they drift by.

I dream of my beginning
and find a forlorn formlessness
that sought the solace of sound
only to discover waves and wind
as I drifted on an amniotic sea.

The wind of change has blown.
I awake and pick up my book.

Voltaire –
“Si jeunesse savait,
si vieillesse pouvait.”

“If youth knew,
if age were able to.”

Comment:

The wind of change has blown and, by all accounts, it is still blowing. A Nor’ Easter here, swinging down from the Arctic and bringing us cold weather, ice, and more snow. Driving isn’t too bad, for the roads are cleared regularly, especially when schools are in. Most enterprises have cleaned, salted, and sanded their premises. Some haven’t. Yesterday, it took two people to move my shopping cart from the shop to the car, a matter of about thirty yards. The wind was so strong. It tussled and tugged, drove me where I didn’t want to go, and two people stepped in to help me. Then I discovered an undug doorway. I parked my car at a sharp upward angle, on the snow. A man offered me his arm. I said no, but he stood beside me, hands held out to help, just in case. Leaving that same shop, I was accompanied by a young lady who insisted on carrying my bags, taking my arm, and leading me to my car. The dangers of falling on down hill ice were even greater than going uphill.

I dream of my beginning, more and more often nowadays and now-a-nights. I know, spell check underlined that word. A neologism, not a proper word. But I like it, for though I dream by day, nodding suddenly into a shallow sleep, it is by night that I really do my dreaming.

At night, I find I can roam a world that has become hostile in the light of day. I can, and do, dream of my childhood on the Gower Peninsula. The fields are still there. My grandmother walks among the bluebells, and together we tell the time by the old dandelion clock. The larks still rise on Bishopston Common and Bluebells, Cowslips, and Primroses still hide beneath the trees. The sands at Brandy Cove are still clean. There is no pollution in my dreams and no oilers clear their tanks in the pristine waters of the Severn Estuary. There is no industrial haze and, on a clear day, I can still see, from the steps of the bungalow, Ilfracombe, across the bay.

And the people – my family and friends are still there. My uncles and aunts, my cousins, all young still, my parents and my grandparents … and all my dogs return, one by one, from their canine adventures. At night the cows can be heard crunching grass, and wheezing in my dreams. I met one, once, on a night trip to the outhouse – we had no indoor plumbing. And, on one memorable night, I stepped into a wet, warm cow patty, left like an anti-personal landmine, just outside the back door. I still shiver as I think of that warmth creeping up between my toes. No amount of wiping has ever really removed it. It haunts like the ghosts of summers past that drift at midnight round my room. waiting to be plucked from the air.

Rage, Rage 16 & 17

Rage, Rage
16

I doze in my chair.
The book I am reading
tumbles to the floor.

I fumble with my claw
and its metal hand
pincers the book,
then raises it.

The cat needs feeding.
I pick up her bowl
with my claw
but scatter her kibble
on the floor.

I can’t remember
where I put
the garden kneeler –
I just leave the kibble
where it lies.

Icing on the cake,
I pop my pills and now
I’ll feel less pain
for an hour or two.

17

On my own.
Outwitting old age,
accepting its growing limitations
 with as much grace and humor
as I can and must.
Trying to feel no bitterness.

That aspirin this morning,
falling into my shirt,
then appearing on the floor
a moment before
I sat on the loo.

A blue-eyed, mini-aspirin
winking at me quite happily.

I reached for my claw,
picked the pill up
and swallowed it,
washing it down with a smile,
and a draught of laughter.

Comments:

I doze in my chair. Just about sums it up. I remember playing darts in the Red Lion, Knowle, Bristol. When I threw an occasional good dart, the locals would whisper “Dozy, dozy.” To them it meant “lucky, lucky.” After a bit, I began to play better. One of the professionals made me my own darts set. Hand made. Adjusted to how I throw. I got better and better. One night, playing 301, double in, double out, I needed 131 to finish. I made it in a three dart finish – 57 (treble 19) – 42 (treble 14) – 32 (double 16). This was the only three dart finish, over 100, that I ever made!

I left the darts there. “Weed the board,” they shouted – meaning – clear the board of wasted darts so the next player could throw. “Check!” I countered, meaning I wanted them to check that I had won the game. “Dozy, dozy,” they cried. And, if I went back there, more than sixty years later, those who survived, and remembered, would still call me Dozy.

So, I sit here and doze about my life. The good days, the bad days, the in-between days. Faces drift in and out – [that’s why Moo painted me the picture] – and sometimes I can put names to them and sometimes not. And that’s life. A collection of personal memories – very vivid – and a selection of faces that we can no longer name and names to whom we can no longer fit a face.

My life – A blue-eyed, mini-aspirin winking at me quite happily.



Rage, Rage 10

Rage, Rage
10

My body’s house
has many rooms
and you, my love,
are present in them all.

I glimpse your shadow
in the mirror, and your breath
brushes my cheek
when I open the door.
Where have you gone?

I walk from room to room,
but when I seek,
I no longer find
and nothing opens
when I knock.

Afraid, sometimes,
to enter a room,
I am sure
you are in there.

I hear your footsteps.
Sometimes your voice
breaks the silence
when you whisper my name
in the same old way.

Comment:

Rage, Rage – and still I rage against the dying of the light and, like Dylan Thomas, ask the ageing of this world not to go gentle into that dark night. Yet, as my beloved and I age, we watch day’s shadows growing longer, and night stealing steadily along. What can we do?

Well, since the winter solstice, we can start counting the minutes as each day adds a minute or two and gifts some more light and strength to the sun. Sunrise today – 8:03 AM. Sunset today – 5:09 PM. That means 9 hours and 6 minutes of sunlight. Well, it would, if it weren’t cloudy, with a cold wind, and a dropping temperature. My guess is that it will get dark much before it ought to. And that’s not nice – no respect!

Of course, my beloved is a sun bunny and a Leo, and she perishes in these shortened days. I was born in them and they don’t affect me as badly as they do her. But I can still Rage, Rage, because there is so much to rage about – icy streets, the usual potholes, roads that hide ice beneath a thin covering of snow, some strange drivers who don’t seem to have bought winter tires. Oh yes, I love them. One came twisting and turning down the same side of the road as me only this morning. Luckily he hit the snow bank before he hit me. But, I ask you, what was he thinking?

So there’s Rage, and Rage Rage, and also Road Rage. Way to go! I think we should call a national rage day and all stay home for 24 hours, just to cool us all down for a bit. Oh dear, that might lead to cabin fever – and that would be an out–Rage.

Two Poems

1
The Day Before
My Birthday

Warm air.
Cold snow.
Grey ghosts of memory
drift beneath the trees.

If it were fall …
… if the sun were to shine …
rainbows would grace
the spun webs of spiders
clinging to the trees.

If, if, if …

A warm winter day,
or so they say,
snow diminishing,
a wind from the south,
up from Florida,
rain on its way.

My birthday tomorrow.
The temperature to fall
way below the date.

-16C on January 16.

My fate
to be a winter baby,
to never know
what the weather
will be like
on that date.

2
My Birthday

I won’t sit here
with head in hands
fearing the future
or brooding on the past.

Every day I survive
is a bonus now,
each sunrise
a celestial celebration.

I welcome daylight
with open arms and now,
on my birthday,
I will accept
all gifts with joy.

Sunshine floods through me.
It fills me with hope.
Its beacon beams .
A full tide of love
overflows in my heart.

Comment:

Bilbo Baggins gave away presents on his birthday. Today it is my birthday and I have joined with Moo to give away two poems, the first written yesterday, and the second today. Moo painted the picture, as always, and presented it to me for my birthday. A nice gift. Thank you, Moo.

I got some other nice gifts too. In the local superstore I discovered Polvorones. I have never seen them there before. It is a long time since I have seen them here in New Brunswick. So, what a lovey find that was. Tengo polvorones.

I don’t make New Year’s Resolutions. That’s why I never break them. That said, I do intend, and Moo agrees with me, to start posting regularly once more. So hang on to your hats – and let’s see how long that intention lasts.

Rage, Rage 8 & 9

Rage, Rage
8

A late summer storm
lays waste to the doggy daze
that clouds my mind.

Carnivorous canicular,
hydropic, it drains my soul,
desiccates my dreams,
gnaws me into nothingness.

Tonight, the old black hound
will dog me,
sending my head spinning.

It will force me
to chase my own tail,
round and round
in ever-decreasing circles.

It will devour my future,
leaving past failures
to ghost through my mind.

9

Where now are the hands
that raise me up,
that rescue me
from dark depression,
that haul me out
from life’s whirlpool,
that forestall
the jaws that bite,
that save me
from the claws
that snatch?

Where are the hands
that move the pieces
on the chess board
of my days and nights,
that prepare my breakfast,
that bake my birthday cake
and count the candles
that they place and light?

What will I do
without them
now they are gone?

Commentary:

Gnawed into nothingness – the umbra nihili of the medieval mystics, the shadow of nothingness that sometimes falls upon us, threatening our peace of mind. An AI search offers – Umbra Nihili (Latin for “Shadow of Nothingness”) refers to a concept of cosmic loneliness or existential void famously cited by Meister Eckhart. A great many of my friends have recently discovered this umbra nihili. I am not sure why. I guess it varies for each one of us. Mal de todos, consuelo de tontos / that everyone suffers consoles only fools, the Spaniards say. What can we do at such times? Reach out, help when we can, count only the happy hours, as the inscription on the Roman sundial tells us – horas non numero nisi serenas.

Many have walked this way before. But that should not be a consolation in itself. Rather, it should be an acknowledgement that there is an exit to the maze, a key to unlock misery’s door, a thread to lead us out of the labyrinth. We must just acknowledge that fact and search for the exit, the key, the thread, that will prove to be our personal salvation, and hopefully the salvation of other fellow sufferers as well.

Rage, Rage 7

Rage, Rage
7

Blood of my blood,
my daughter’s daughter,
time is not on our side.
 
I sometimes wonder
if I’ll survive,
if you and I
will ever meet again.

When we talk online
I see you trying
to understand, to hold
my image in your mind,
to figure out this shadow
that moves and talks
on the computer screen.

Words, born from old Welsh
melodies, bring poetry
to my heart, place music
on my lips.

But they fall short,
and fail to satisfy
my need to reach out
and hold you.

In spite of that I still survive
and live in hopes to see you
in our realities of flesh and blood.

Commentary:

When I first came to Canada, such a long time ago, I communicated with home by means of air mail letters written on special air mail paper that came in very thin, foldable envelopes. Very rarely I communicated by means of very expensive telephone calls of a limited three minute duration. How times have changed. Now via Skype (as was), Team (as is), Messenger, FaceTime, and other means, we can have unlimited face to face conversations, free of charge, with people on the other side of the world. And yet, face to face and screen to screen, there is still something missing. The cat senses it. She stares at the screen and sniffs – then she bristles and hisses. She fails to understand a known voice that has sound and movement but no smell.

And yet, what we now have is so much better than what we had before. Communication is so much easier. We have generated a generation that works in the audio-visual world, not in my preferred world of written verbalization. How we have changed. I can do so many things, in my head, that the younger generation cannot do, even with pen or pencil and paper. However, when my computer fails me, or my cell phone acts up, it is to that younger generation I go, because they dominate this new world in which we live.

I gave one of my academic articles to a friend the other week. “I can’t read this,” he said. “Tell me, what’s it all about?” I started to explain. “Hold on,” he said. He asked his AI program to read my article and generate, in words a 14 year old could understand, the main contents of my not-so-easy-to-read academic writing and thinking. About thirty seconds later, the analyzed contents appeared on the screen before him. I threw my mind back to when Coles Notes were forbidden. “Anybody caught using Coles Notes will be given an automatic F.” Then I looked at my own article, analyzed perfectly, and set out in the very way I had planned it, albeit with a simplified vocabulary – and the longer words explained in a sort of appendix. Quite simply, I was blown away.

Then my mind went back to my childhood in Wales. No running water, no electricity, no indoor toilets, no telephones, no television, a radio with limited stations and programming … imagine what we have come from – imagine where we are going. My only questions – will we control it or will it control us? And you know what it is. The clarion call goes out across the centuries. – Quis custodiet ipsos custodies? Who shall guard the guards? Who shall police the police? Who shall program the programmers? Each generation must find its own answers to those questions. And the sooner you do it, the better because it’s not going to be my problem for much longer!