One of my favorite poets, T.S. Eliot, was talented but a very depressed man. His seminal poem, “Love Song Of J. Alfred Prufrock”, is filled with metaphorical doom and his fascination (obsession?) with drowning. Some of my favorite images: “I grow old. I grow old. I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled. Do I dare disturb the universe?” He brilliantly juxtaposes the angst of old age, with the boring clueless meanderings of the leisure class: “In the room the women come and go, talking of Michelangelo”. I prefer the full throated voice of action, such as that of Dylan Thomas, speaking of his father’s death: “Rage, Rage against the dying of the light. Do not go gentle into that good night.”
When I am old,
I will bark at the stars in heaven.
with sleek lines,
and race between the cinder blocks
lining the street in front of the house.
When I am old,
I will miss the grasping youth,
who held her with a passion,
and kissed soft lips
and rounded hips,
and never knew
what he had.
When I am old,
I will rise from the chair carefully,
so as not to break a bone,
nor strain a muscle,
that once was strong and firm.
When I am old,
I will think about the lost days,
spent worrying about things
that never came to pass;
and about the time I wasted
wanting to change the past.
When I am old,
I will spend more time
putting on my socks,
and taking my medications,
and crying over lost love.
I will wonder how many more days
I have until I won’t be old anymore.
When I am old,
I will write poems
about love and loss.
I will remember when they were
living memories,
and not dying thoughts.
When I am old,
I will wish that I had stayed young forever.
