Golden (years) opportunities

For age is opportunity no less
Than youth itself, though in another dress,
And as the evening twilight fades away
The sky is filled with stars, invisible by day.

A few lines of Longfellow quoted in a New York Times essay about aging and the potential for freedom and happiness in old age. In a surprising example, the writer learned that those living in their later years, even with advanced old age, are not simply resigned to loneliness and sadness.

Pet poetry

Tails of the City, the San Francisco Chronicle pet blog, recently ran a pet haiku contest. Here are the results.

Here's one of the submissions that I particularly like:

Dogs wait patiently / With their origami ears / Folded precisely. -J. Fenton

Memories and metaphors after good-bye

In this reflection on Slate.com, Meghan O'Rourke tells of her metaphor for her mother immediately following her mother's death:

I went outside onto my parents' porch without putting my coat on. The limp winter sun sparkled off the frozen snow on the lawn. "Please take good care of my mother," I said to the air. I addressed the fir tree she loved and the wind moving in it. "Please keep her safe for me."

. . .

The truth is, I need to experience my mother's presence in the world around me and not just in my head. Every now and then, I see a tree shift in the wind and its bend has, to my eye, a distinctly maternal cast. For me, my metaphor is—as all good metaphors ought to be—a persuasive transformation. In these moments, I do not say to myself that my mother is like the wind; I think she is the wind. I feel her: there, and there.

In a similar vein, Alan Jones wrote a reflection upon his retirement as dean of Grace Episcopal Cathedral in San Francisco. He commented that writing one's own obituary is an interesting exercise to gain clarity of one's priorities and purpose in life. Here is a poem he wrote about his own obituary writing exercise:

Pescadero--on Writing My Obituary

The instructions read,
"Only two hundred words."
The music of the movie, Shadowlands
contradicts my old dislike of Lewis,
his moralisms always hitting where it hurt.
Now--writing of my death--
I think he's right.--
At least he saw
glory in the noche oscura.

The dying sun
here in Richard's house
softly lights the Buddha's way,
filling me with an unbuddhist ache
of contented longing,
in the cycle of attachment.

The Zen bells ring,
telling me that while no meeting
in my life was insignificant,
the past is past.

Alone in the nunc eternum
of this moment,
I am surrounded
by clouds of witness.
My obituary written,
I live, for this moment,
on the other side of death,
with Buddha and his consort
in this Japanese retreat.
Mary and her Son
still keep me company,
teaching me to hope--
loving all sentient beings,
and being loved in return,
I see karma and providence
marry in the light of the fading sun.

(Photo by annia316 ღ ; used by permission.)

Poetry to cope with one's mortality

In an essay that pays tribute to a friend who died of cancer, a writer in the New York Times magazine shared how her friend's poetry expressed the "clarity" cancer brought to his life.

She quotes her friend, Jason Shinder: "Cancer is a tremendous opportunity to have your face pressed right up against the glass of your mortality."

In a brief poem, he expressed his inner fear of his disease:

I've been avoiding my illness

because I'm afraid

I will die and when I do,

I'll end up alone again.

However, his journals of poems also express his philosophical belief in hope and something bigger than self:

"The hours are left for vanishing and also for joy and for blessing and gratitude."

(Photo by Deb; used by permission.)

Dirge Without Music by Edna St. Vincent Millay

I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.

So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:

Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned

With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.

Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.
Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.
A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,
A formula, a phrase remains,--but the best is lost.

The answers quick and keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love--
They are gone. They are gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled
Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not approve.
More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world.

Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind,
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.

(Photo by dbking; used by permission.)

Reluctance by Robert Frost

Out through the fields and the woods

And over the walls I have wended:

I have climbed the hills of view

And looked at the world, and descended;

I have come by the highway home,

And lo, it is ended.

The leaves are all dead on the ground,

Save those that the oak is keeping

To ravel them one by one

And let them go scraping and creeping

Out over the crusted snow,

When others are sleeping.

And the dead leaves lie huddled and still,

No longer blown hither and thither;

The last lone aster is gone;

The flowers of the witch hazel wither;

The heart is still aching to seek,

But the feet question, "Whither?"

Ah, when to the heart of man

Was it ever less than a treason

To go with the drift of things,

To yield with a grace to reason,

And bow and accept the end

Of a love or a season?