poems about aging

two poems by Freya Manfred

~ jama ~ 32 Comments
“Woman Writing” by Bly Pope.

I consider it a rare gift to discover a new-to-me poet, one whose work immediately resonates and whets my appetite for more.

Reading Freya Manfred’s poems for the first time was like taking a rejuvenating breath of fresh air, or drinking a tall glass of cool water on a warm day. She often writes about nature and human relationships; her plain-spoken words, generous spirit and clear-sighted wisdom shifted my perspective. Here are two poems I found especially moving.

“Breakfast” by Amy Werntz (oil on panel).
IMAGINE THIS 
by Freya Manfred

When you’re young, and in good health,
you can imagine living in New York City,
or Nepal, or in a tree beyond the moon,
and who knows who you’ll marry: a millionaire,
a monkey, a sea captain, a clown.

But the best imaginers are the old and wounded,
who swim through ever narrowing choices,
dedicating their hearts to peace, a stray cat,
a bowl of homemade vegetable soup,
or red Mountain Ash berries in the snow.

Imagine this: only one leg and lucky to have it,
a jig-jagged jaunt with a cane along the shore,
leaning on a walker to get from grocery to car,
smoothing down the sidewalk on a magic moving chair,
teaching every child you meet the true story

of this sad, sweet, tragic, Fourth of July world.

~ from Speak, Mother (Red Dragonfly Press, 2015).
“Old Man with Cane” by James Coates.
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to dye or not to dye?

~ jama ~ 27 Comments

“It is not by the gray of the hair that one knows the age of the heart.” ~ Edward G. Bulwer-Lytton

Here’s a little something to lighten the mood. 🙂

“Acropolis” by Mawra Tahreem.
GRECIAN TEMPLES
by George Bilgere

Because I'm getting pretty gray at the temples,
which negatively impacts my earning potential
and does not necessarily attract vibrant young women
with their perfumed bosoms to dally with me
on the green hillside,
I go out and buy some Grecian Hair Formula.

And after the whole process, which involves
rubber gloves, a tiny chemistry set,
and perfect timing, I look great.
I look very fresh and virile, full of earning potential.
But when I take my fifteen-year-old beagle
out for his evening walk, the contrast is unfortunate.
Next to me he doesn't look all that great,
with his graying snout, his sort of faded,
worn-out-dog look. It makes me feel old,
walking around with a dog like that.

It's not something a potential employer,
much less a vibrant young woman with a perfumed bosom
would necessarily go for. So I go out
and get some more Grecian Hair Formula—
Light Brown, my beagle's original color.
And after all the rigmarole he looks terrific.
I mean, he's not going to win any friskiness contests,
not at fifteen. But there's a definite visual improvement.
The two of us walk virilely around the block.

The next day a striking young woman at the bookstore
happens to ask me about my parents,
who are, in fact, long dead, due to the effects of age.
They were very old, which causes death.
But having dead old parents does not go
with my virile, intensely fresh new look.

So I say to the woman, my parents are fine.
They love their active lifestyle in San Diego.
You know, windsurfing, jai alai, a still-vibrant sex life.
And while this does not necessarily cause her
to come dally with me on the green hillside, I can tell
it doesn't hurt my chances.

I can see her imagining dinner
with my sparkly, young-seeming mom and dad
at some beachside restaurant
where we would announce our engagement.

Your son has great earning potential,
she'd say to dad, who would take
a gander at her perfumed bosom
and give me a wink, like he used to do
back when he was alive, and vibrant.

~ from The White Museum (Autumn House Press, 2010).
Vintage 1973 advertisement.

*

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