Birthday:

I look around me and my old world,
The one I grew up in,
And was formed by,
Is becoming jaded,
Or, indeed, has disappeared.

My heroes are old, some now pathetic,
Or they are dead, and often times
Their memorial is people trying to sully their name,
Or belittle their achievements.
Sir Winston Churchill is one such.
He was, and remains, a giant.

The world is now, I believe, a better place, however,
Than the one in which I flowered,
(Or turned into a weed!)
But I regret the loss of many things,
Becoming nostalgic for much which I took for granted,
Which yes, includes a whole different way of life
Which would be unrecognisable to most.

I can, too, look back on certain decisions,
And needs must make an effort not to get caught
In some useless trap of regrets, maybes and if onlys.
I am obliged, also, to wonder at what I have achieved.
It is not always that comfortable.
I have achieved a fair amount of good
In my efforts to be of service, I am told,
But I could have done so very much more.

I also feel a touch of guilt concerning
Just how much I loved my work.
I do not know that it is right that I was so lucky.
Mondays were my favourite days,
And I was able to make a difference.
But my free time was also rich and joyous.
It doesn’t see quite fair.

I am guilty, too, for loving too much.
I have adored and been loved by
Some extraordinary women.
I did not deserve their love,
For always, until now,
When my good fortune knows no bounds,
I eventually left them,
And caused so much pain
It appals me to think about it.

And now, in fifty days,
I can no longer run and hide from the fact
That I am an old man.
I have always either not been interested,
Or positively enjoyed birthdays.
This was especially so when I was sixty five.
I have burned the candle at both ends and in the middle
When I have not been working,
With doctors and Ali having said whilst doing that too,
And reaching sixty five, an age which through the
History of humanity has been denied to most,
Was truly a wonderful privilege which I didn’t deserve.

And when I consider people I have loved
Who didn’t make it, I feel wretchedly guilty as well,
Especially for poor, dear and lovely Barbara Magee.

Sixty six had a sort of symmetry which
Seemed somehow rather jolly,
But in fifty days I am sixty seven, if I’m lucky,
And the age, my creaking body,
Pain which has become an old friend
And the mirror tell me that which I
Cannot run from. I am old.

Understand me, though I worry about the method
Of my death – preferably in my sleep after doing
Serious damage to a bottle or three of
Remy Martin VSOP,
With family and friends,
And not like poor Magee –
I am extraordinarily curious to know
More about the next phase after this,
Where I’m confident some of my questions
Will be answered, though not all.
For all answers I will need many
More cycles of life; maybe eternally,
And I hope I can make them useful,
And rich in learning, mine and others,
And find some way to be of service.

No, I’m worried about timing.
You see, I’m not ready.
There is so much more I want and need to say.
As Keats said, considering mortality,
(And no, in no other way am I comparing myself
To the incomparable genius Keats)
‘When I have fears that I may cease to be;
Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,
Before high piled books, in charact'ry,
Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain’ etc.

And my body is a bit of a wreck
Which is partly my fault,
So time is becoming a bit less likely to be in
Anything other than short supply.
Thus I set my alarm and rise at 7.00 each morning,
Do my best to carpe the hell out of the diem,
And feel most melancholy if I do not write
A reasonable amount each day – I am becoming
Somewhat driven since retirement has allowed
Me time to explore more fully the world and
The inside of my quantum computing mind,
With it's entangled and tunnelling particles,
And to study things other than education.

I also know I need to make an effort to be published,
Or else I am writing for the very few
Or, no doubt, often times for myself.
(As, ironically, could be the case with this!)
Do you know how many people have had
Their first serious works published when they
Were my age? No, nor do I, quite possibly because
They are few and far between, or possibly non-existent.
And in my case there’s lots of it!

Going back though, to the nostalgia which also
Confirms that I am an old man,
I miss good manners. I don’t mind swearing – indeed it is
Often a colourful addition to speech - but I mind the lack
Of please and thankyou and good morning, and smiles,
And don’t like not feeling right about holding doors
For ladies or offering my seat. I miss little bows,
And people ignoring the telephone whilst they are
In the middle of talking to somebody else.

What’s with that, by the way? You’re chatting
With somebody, or are maybe earnestly deep in
Conversation and nearly always, even if they don’t know
Who it is, when the phone rings, people answer it,
Which says what, exactly? It says they’d rather talk
To somebody they don’t even know rather than continue
To talk to you; and when I’m talking with somebody
And the phone rings and I ignore it, they ask me if
I’m not going to answer it? Does this mean they’d
Rather I talked with somebody – anybody! –
Else and not then be talking with them?

And no, I don’t want to wear something
Pink to a funeral. I want to wear a suit and black tie
Because I won’t be feeling ‘pink’, I’ll be feeling crap,
And the old rituals are there for a purpose,
To deal with some of the difficulties in life
Through the use of different kinds of ceremony.

While I’m on a roll, what’s happened to some sort
Of loyalty to the meaning of words for communication?
Example: ‘We’re getting engaged next August’?
When two people agree that they intend to marry,
Doesn’t that mean they’re actually engaged then, at that time,
You know, engaged to marry? You can then only get engaged
Next August if you’ve been unengaged
And then spontaneously
Decide next August you’re going to marry ...
Or you get engaged to somebody else.

Leaving all that aside, in my now admitted old age,
I am delighted by the reduction of violence, worldwide.
Over the period of the battle of the Somme it was almost
Deemed acceptable that 60,000 Tommies died. Now a
Whole town turns out to show their respect when even
A single body bag returns from a theatre of war.

Many people feel that because one person can inflict
Huge violence now, say by flying an aeroplane
Into a building as opposed to somebody a few
Centuries ago who could stab a few people,
That the world is more violent. It isn’t.
If you don’t believe me, read Steven Pinker,
‘The Better Angels Of Our Nature’ or similar.

People older than me – those few left! – and the previous
Generation used to say there was no vandalism and
Mugging during the war. They’re wrong, and anyway, the
The ultimate vandalism was 60 million dead,
Gas chambers, run, incidentally, by a Christian nation,
And the fact that it was okay to bomb cities
Killing civilians. Isn’t that the ultimate terrorism?

If folk do it now they’re dragged in front of the
Court of Human Rights or wherever.
Crimes against Humanity.
Isn’t that what all modern warfare is?

Anyway, all that aside as well, one of the many positives
As I have developed a longer perspective on life
Is just how delightful it is that the younger generation,
Which most certainly include my 3 sons and their partners,
Are infinitely kinder, more thoughtful and caring,
Innovative and generally enjoyable to be with,
Civilised people who are so much less boring, conventional, 
Racist, bigoted, homophobic, self-righteously judgemental,
And so much more aware of their responsibilities to their planet
And their fellow creatures than mine, and allow one to
Have real optimism for humanity in the future just so long
As the present generation of (mainly) old men don’t
Destroy the whole kit and caboodle!

So, there you have it, for now, at least, and
I’m wasting time on this self-indulgence
When I have several poems, sagas, the third book
In a trilogy and another two in my head and
One that needs a rewrite to finish, so I’ll stop the tirade.

Don’t wish my Happy Birthday this time please.
Accepting I’m an old man doesn’t benefit
By people stirring my confusion.

Oh, and by the way, no I don’t wish I was younger again.
There’s the irony; the very idea appals me.

When you’re young, somehow you think it’s
Rather clever of you, and you pity the elderly.
The clever thing is actually to get old,
And not to pity, or indeed envy, the young,
But to wish them their joy of life,
Just as you have yours,
And be humble enough to count your blessings;
They’re not guaranteed, for instance,
Sixty six and nearly a year so far,
Whereas you have been, or similar.

I enjoy being me, the age I am,
I just don’t like some of the baggage that goes with it.
Everything comes with a price, eh.
It’s really, really, really worth it though!
Peace, love and happiness to you all.