I've outlived Keats, Shelley, and Byron by a considerable margin with not all that much to show for it.
The heat is on, then, to make the second half-century count. I embrace the challenge.
Lines: evidence of time passing, though not of any mere passive passage of time. Maps to the country of character, of mishap and what-have-you. A lack of sunscreen, certainly; plenty of squinting into the sun, commuting, driving across bridges, kayaking and diving out in the glare. Pool-time and sea-time too: dried skin from the chlorine and salt. And all that reading, of course, the concentration above all those pages . . . . And yet, and this is something I wear with pride: more smiles than anything, frankly. There's an aspiration, don't you think? Crease your face with good will and cheer, if you dare. (I'm smiling as I type that.)
There's a poem by Robert Graves that comes to mind, though he was older when he wrote it. I'll post it in a day or so.
This year I've written at least one poem worth keeping, and that's a fine judgment, a fine declaration. More would be better, but then that's homework to be dealt with in the next few months.
Just now, right now, I am toasting all of us with a bit of Bushmills. Carry on, and live as large as you can.
May the devil . . . oh, you know. And, here's to King Brian in the interim. I'm drinking Irish, after all.
