Song of a Rolling Stone
When I was five-and-thirty,
I thought that I was old,
My waist no longer sylph-like,
My hair no longer gold.
'Twas useless to console me.
Or offer me champagne,
For I was five-and-thirty,
And death was on my brain.
When I was five-and-forty,
My heart was full of fears.
When I was five-and-fifty,
I would not count the years.
But there’ve been subtle changes
In Nature’s paradigm—
Now I am five-and-sixty,
And I’ve got lots of time.
A Visit on All Saints Day
Hello. I've brought your favorite flowers again.
How is it going under there, my dead?
On this side, we're no better off than when
you walked beside us. (Yes, I know I said
the same last year.) The human race is not
improvable. Ask any saint you meet.
We've gone to war again without a thought.
Our leaders shuffle bribes, our heroes cheat.
Your children haven't turned out awfully well,
but who expected it? You're not to blame,
and anyway I don't believe in hell.
Good-bye for now. I'm always glad I came.
I make no promises about next year,
but one way or another, I'll be here.
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| Judith Taylor: No one seems to disagree with me when I say there's something compelling about these images. Maybe it's because we're so inundated by the media with narrative that is manipulated and inflated that these honest little private struggles to say something touch us at the core. The eye with which we see them now is not the eye of the young writer, and that distance is interesting, surprising. Maybe the connection between the adolescent girl and the adult woman, or the diary page and the studio wall, is closer than I think. |
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