Andrew Motion's poem about old people

I have. Will go to PC in a minute and find them.

Love it granlt thank you for the link

Here are my offerings: the first, which I have posted before, is one Iwrote for myself. The second, I wrote to accompany it as an anithesis, and to prove to my Y13 group that poets did use structure to reflect content! So it was an academic exercise...
SEPTEMBER SONG

I feel September coming, subtle, slow;
The promise of the summer now is mine.
I wonder,though, if ever Autumn’s glow
Can equal the clear brightness of Springtime?
I think not; but the difference is all;
Both gold and green are beautiful to see,
And all the russet leaves that gently fall
Were young and green, gave life upon their tree.
Falling, they give a glory to the air;
Their last life,fallen, to new life they give,
And there can be no reason for despair
If fallen things help other leaves to live.
Fall lightly then, and see the summer go;
Let the old leaves fall; let new ones grow.

PLEASE?

Dear God, I do not want to grow old
And lonely and fat and grey.
I do not want my neck to crease
In folds,
Or my skin to wither and wrinkle.
Dear God, i am frightened of ageing,
And of not being anted at all.
I do not want to be all alone
At night.
Dear God, suppose the time arrives,
When no-one likes me any more
Because I’m old, and boring
And unattractive.
Dear God, I see change and decay all around
Me, and in me as well. I can see
The beginning of the end
Of me.
Dear God, stop these wrinkles appearing,
Stop the sag and the droop and the fear,
Help me.
Dear god, who else can I turn to now?
People don’t look at me as often as before,
And soon I shall have nothing to do and nowhere to go
And I will hate myself and probably kill myself

Xxxx

Thanks for the link granIT and for your poems Ariadne.

This is my mum's poem:

My life and death

Every morning I wake up
A new day and I’m here to live it
What a happy surprise.

I’m not waiting for death you understand
But sort of expect it to sneak up on me when I’m not looking.
My mother, father, brother and sister all died a long time ago
Leaving – just me.
Not really just me of course,
I have children.
My children want me to live for ever
And if I mention my death they are wounded.
I tell them that death will have me one day
And they say “shut up mum”.

I live in my own home
On the same estate I moved to when I was four.
It was new then and still being built
And when I went to school my mother brought me cocoa every day in winter,
She waited for me at the school fence and handed it over.
I wore brown paper under my clothes
My mum was afraid I would get pneumonia.
When I was thirty six my mum was still buttoning my coat for me
Putting a headscarf over my hair
Telling me not to talk to strangers and go straight home.
My teenaged daughter watched and listened with horror.
Now she understands
If you have a child you are always a mother
Even when your child is thirty six and a mother of seven herself.

I have lived a life – much like any other
Men – couldn’t live happily with one,
Children – five daughters and three sons,
Work – cooking, washing, cleaning, taking in sewing, waitressing,
Travel – all over the world; Australia, America, Singapore, Fiji, Africa............
I have been to Buckingham Palace and seen the Queen
And chatted to David Attenburgh.
I’ve met high born and low born and discovered we are all just people.
Now I’m a nana and great nana and great great nana.
Every day I am visited by my children and their children
I am still a mum and my children have all done well
They have good relationships, satisfying careers, money in the bank.
I want death to visit me before he comes to my loved ones,
But for now……..

Every morning I wake up
A new day and I’m here to live it
What a happy surprise.

Love the "Every morning" theme. I will remember that in my heart - lovely way to live life. Thank you! X

I love it too - that's the way for all of us to feel. Thank you for sharing it.

Love the poems!

I did a poetry writing course once. We were given the following poem by Elizabeth Jennings and then had to write one in response. Here they both are:

Old man

His age drawn out behind him to be watched:
It is his shadow you may say. That dark
He paints upon the wall is his past self,
A mark he only leaves when he is still
And he is still now always,
At ease and watching all his life assemble.

And he intends nothing but watching. What
His life has made of him his shadow shows –
Fine graces gone but dignity remaining,
While all he shuffled after is composed
Into a curve of dark, of silences:
An old man tranquil in his silences.

And we move round him, are his own world turning,
Spinning it seems to him, leaving no shadow
To blaze our trail. We are our actions only:
He is himself, abundant and assured,
All action thrown away,
And time is slowing where his shadow stands.

Elizabeth Jennings

My response (based on my father)

What do you see?

Old man sitting silent
Tranquil in his years
Buddha-like wise
Passionless, motionless
(abundant and assured you say)
Watching the shadow of his past
Which you call dark
Cast on the wall by his stillness

Going gentle

I do not act
But I did not throw action away
Time stole it.
My body
Aches and trembles,
Refuses like an ageing horse
At a high gate.
My interest in the world
Has never dimmed

It’s true I say little
In my old man’s voice
Which still surprises me with its rusty wobble
Dry as tinder
No longer commanding the ears
Of those around me.
What they hear is filtered through
What they see
Into something not worth
Taking seriously
My wisdom cuts no ice

And yes I watch
The memory of my past
(Loving it with eyes
That also mourn)
Not dark, not dark to me
Instead a many-coloured thing
Like youthful Joseph’s coat
Spun on the loom of life

For my childhood fire-engine red
Egg yellow, washing-day blue.
Vibrant greens for my youth.
For my wife, rose shades and gold
Moon lemon for love
Sea shades for my daughter
Earth colours for my son
Bitter plum purple for the lost child
Shot through with satin white
For her short-lived beauty.
I could go on!


Yes, in later years
The colours of my life
Handed out at birth
Fade through age
The loom staggers as
It goes about its business
Fabric wears thin
Like a long worn soul-coat
Nearing the end
Of useful life

What you see is
What you wish to see.
Those hidden Russian dolls,
My previous selves,
Live on.
Remembering passion
I find myself aroused
By the curve of your breast

The old lose power to define
Even themselves
You tell me what you see
But I say
Truth is mine

I do not go gentle

When an old man died in the geriatric ward of a nursing home in an Australian country town, it was believed that he had nothing left of any value.
Later, when the nurses were going through his meagre possessions, They found this poem. Its quality and content so impressed the staff that copies were made and distributed to every nurse in the hospital.

One nurse took her copy to Melbourne. The old man's sole bequest to posterity has since appeared in the Christmas editions of magazines around the country and appearing in mags for Mental Health. A slide presentation has also been made based on his simple, but eloquent, poem.

And this old man, with nothing left to give to the world, is now the author of this 'anonymous' poem winging across the Internet.

Cranky Old Man

What do you see nurses? . . .. . .What do you see?
What are you thinking .. . when you're looking at me?
A cranky old man, . . . . . .not very wise,
Uncertain of habit .. . . . . . . .. with faraway eyes?
Who dribbles his food .. . ... . . and makes no reply.
When you say in a loud voice . .'I do wish you'd try!'
Who seems not to notice . . .the things that you do.
And forever is losing . . . . . .. . . A sock or shoe?
Who, resisting or not . . . ... lets you do as you will,
With bathing and feeding . . . .The long day to fill?
Is that what you're thinking?. .Is that what you see?
Then open your eyes, nurse .you're not looking at me.
I'll tell you who I am . . . . .. As I sit here so still,
As I do at your bidding, .. . . . as I eat at your will.
I'm a small child of Ten . .with a father and mother,
Brothers and sisters .. . . .. . who love one another
A young boy of Sixteen . . . .. with wings on his feet
Dreaming that soon now . . .. . . a lover he'll meet.
A groom soon at Twenty . . . ..my heart gives a leap.
Remembering, the vows .. .. .that I promised to keep.
At Twenty-Five, now . . . . .I have young of my own.
Who need me to guide . . . And a secure happy home.
A man of Thirty . .. . . . . My young now grown fast,
Bound to each other . . .. With ties that should last.
At Forty, my young sons .. .have grown and are gone,
But my woman is beside me . . to see I don't mourn.
At Fifty, once more, .. ...Babies play 'round my knee,
Again, we know children . . . . My loved one and me.
Dark days are upon me . . . . My wife is now dead.
I look at the future ... . . . . I shudder with dread.
For my young are all rearing .. . . young of their own.
And I think of the years . . . And the love that I've known.
I'm now an old man . . . . . . .. and nature is cruel.
It's jest to make old age . . . . . . . look like a fool.
The body, it crumbles .. .. . grace and vigour, depart.
There is now a stone . . . where I once had a heart.
But inside this old carcass . A young man still dwells,
And now and again . . . . . my battered heart swells
I remember the joys . . . . .. . I remember the pain.
And I'm loving and living . . . . . . . life over again.
I think of the years, all too few . . .. gone too fast.
And accept the stark fact . . . that nothing can last.
So open your eyes, people .. . . . .. . . open and see.
Not a cranky old man .
Look closer . . . . see .. .. . .. .... . ME!!

Remember this poem when you next meet an older person who you might brush aside without looking at the young soul within. We will all, one day, be there, too!

PLEASE SHARE THIS POEM!
The best and most beautiful things of this world can't be seen or touched. They must be felt by the heart!

Oh Annika That made me cry, and think about my lovely dad.

Phew! There is a God.

Link didn't work.

I had the thread the wrong way up.

But you get my drift.