The Shadow of Age (A Poem on Aging)

The Shadow of Age
(A poem on Aging)


Forgetfulness, drowsy
Are my days—?
(Not all, but many)
Heart, like a burning tower
Mind, a labyrinth of voices
I feel like I’m made of:
Rust and red-iron—.

It’s hard to sleep these
Nights—!
The dark comes on like
A funeral—.

I really don’t care to
Remember—
Dreams anymore,
Too many avenues
(Vast, unending dreams):
It’s all fantasy
In indelible mist—.

Forgetfulness, drowsy
Are my days—?
(Not all, but many)
It comes with age…!


#1550/ 11-27-06

Note: there is a verbal magic in poetry—when one uses rhyme; I, like James Joyce, am often haunted with childish jingles (I have two of his original books of poetry, and they are of this substance: verbal magic; but I also like, now that I’m next to 60, a more personal approach. Let me explain: in old age, we must turn the chimes a tinge though—turn them to a more personal touch of reality, and not hide—and not hide I say, to get the full effect of aging; thus, comes “The Shadow of Age.” A poet should be able to convey the same sort of impression, by much the same method, as the childish jingle presents to the ear of who wishes to hear such a clink; to the older reader the aging often times the click can be in a more personal approach—as I wish it to be here. In my book “Spell of he Andes,” I use this childish jingle to present the impression I want, likewise, in this new poem, the impression is equally dubbed. We grow old and we don’t often feel right about it; but it is right, and let no one think, it does not come with creaks in the back—they are earned, and there is wisdom in those creaks, wisdom that says, or may say: never again. That is the glory of age, not to float around in too much fantasy—and in most cases I’m happy to forget much of what I’ve heard throughout the day; it is a blessing.