Sunday, July 18, 2010
18 July 2010
Seven from sixty-three:
Demi lune hangs in the sky,
sweating moonbeams.
The night’s breath is heavy
with the scent of coming rain,
and settles on my skin – warm,
moist and caressing – like
a half-remembered lover’s touch.
When I was fifteen,
And still a virgin of the world,
Sixty-three seemed forever away.
Now it is fifteen that seems
The myth. At fifteen on this date,
My life had barely begun.
At twenty, no longer a virgin,
I knew I’d be dead by thirty-three:
My Christ-complex years.
I wanted to walk across Europe
All the way to China, starting
At Stonehenge and ending
At the Great Wall.
I didn’t want to grow old.
Seven away from sixty-three:
Now I hope I do.
(C)2010 Martha McLemore
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
12 comments:
Only 40 but know where this song is coming from...
But are you growing old? Or are you, like me, the same - oh, let's say, thirty-two-year-old - encaged in a body you/I tend to ignore.
Probably the most dangerous part of the journey you mention would be crossing the road to get to Stonehenge although I do believe they now have a tunnel.
I like "a virgin of the world" - there's a poetic contradiction which pleases me (ie, a knowing virgin). It needs a title: why not the unemotional "Arithmetic"?
Seconding the other comments! Still, Happy Birthday! Better than the alternative, eh?
(yes, BB, there's a tunnel under the road to Stonehenge)
Everyone: Thank you for visiting.
I was awaiting the rain, which didn't arrive for several hours after I wrote this, and my mind wandered to the date - not my birthday yet. A memory from when I was on the front steps of our apartment in New Orleans, another sultry night like last night, anticipating my upcoming 15th birthday.
I started thinking about my mother, who had turned 47 just a few weeks before, and trying to imagine what she (and I) would be like when I was her age. I clearly remember thinking how ancient (!) she would be at 79, and thinking I would probably have to be taking care of her when that time came. She died when she was 56.
Then I remembered when I had convinced myself (have no idea why) that I would die by the time I was 33 - what a ninny! I joined the Navy before I was 21 and promptly forgot about that.
Yes, Marja-Leena, this is very much better than the alternative!
celebrating the crone is an act of sheer audacity and spunk-- and you have those in spades!
my dad keeps reminding me that
" your mind is not your best friend" .... it seems his mind keeps telling his 80 year old body that he is 25.... and boy, does he get pissed off when his body gives him the wake up call.
of course, my mom is no help at all... at age 77 she wonders who her physician is talking about when he refers to " the elderly woman " who is his patient.
I hope I am as strange and wonderful as my parents when I am there...
Harlequin: I read somewhere - years ago! - that crow and crone have a common beginning. Older women, after a certain age, were supposed to dress in black, to symbolize the passing of their fertility. Frequently, their clothing became tattered, especially when there was no husband/man in their homes to provide new material for them, so that they/she started to resemble the crows and ravens that lived around their villages. The women began to be called the same names as the corvids, which then evolved into crone.
Don't know if that is accurate, but I like the story. I've been practicing for my crone years all my life - I'm ready, baby!
Three away from 80 and still hoping.
I'm sorry, Crow, please read TS SPIVETS!
There is so much more to the book then if anyone gets killed or not.
If you haven't bought the book yet, I'll send you my copy when my friend finishes reading it.
Just let me know!
Joanie
I like this;
here at one-away-from-fifty (actually, 7-mos.-away), I've been thinking somewhat along these lines myself.
Plutarch: I think old is 102, so we have a long way to go yet - and I hope we both make it!
Joanie: I was teasing Rise with that comment. I think the book is going to be fabulous, if the website is any indication. Thank you for the offer to lend me your copy. If I don't get it next week for my b'day, I'll be in touch.
Fresca: you young whippersnapper, you!
(The 18th is seven days away from my 63rd, btw - guess I could have made that a bit clearer, hunh?)
Post a Comment