Yesterday was my partner's birthday and so I thought I'd have a look around at some birthday themed poems. We all know the song but I wonder if there are any non-generic, great pieces of art out there. Something touching...
Here is my favoured selection after a bit of internet rummaging:
Crossroads (Joyce Sutphen)
The second half of my life will be black
to the white rind of the old and fading moon.
The second half of my life will be water
over the cracked floor of these desert years.
I will land on my feet this time,
knowing at least two languages and who
my friends are. I will dress for the
occasion, and my hair shall be
whatever color I please.
Everyone will go on celebrating the old
birthday, counting the years as usual,
but I will count myself new from this
inception, this imprint of my own desire.
The second half of my life will be swift,
past leaning fenceposts, a gravel shoulder,
asphalt tickets, the beckon of open road.
The second half of my life will be wide-eyed,
fingers shifting through fine sands,
arms loose at my sides, wandering feet.
There will be new dreams every night,
and the drapes will never be closed.
I will toss my string of keys into a deep
well and old letters into the grate.
The second half of my life will be ice
breaking up on the river, rain
soaking the fields, a hand
held out, a fire,
and smoke going
upward, always up.
Quick comment: I really liked this poem with regards to our theme for the ironic reason that it does not entirely fit it. If the title were not 'A Happy Birthday', one would never guess that this poem were about such a matter. But that is the most interesting thing about this poem; to the narrator, the best way to celebrate the passing of time in your own life is to read a book about the lives of others, whilst letting the darkness come, as it will metaphorically as you age.
Finally, I'd like to wish anyone who reads this a very Happy Birthday this year, whenever it is. I hope you celebrate it in the way that best pleases you.
Here is my favoured selection after a bit of internet rummaging:
Crossroads (Joyce Sutphen)
The second half of my life will be black
to the white rind of the old and fading moon.
The second half of my life will be water
over the cracked floor of these desert years.
I will land on my feet this time,
knowing at least two languages and who
my friends are. I will dress for the
occasion, and my hair shall be
whatever color I please.
Everyone will go on celebrating the old
birthday, counting the years as usual,
but I will count myself new from this
inception, this imprint of my own desire.
The second half of my life will be swift,
past leaning fenceposts, a gravel shoulder,
asphalt tickets, the beckon of open road.
The second half of my life will be wide-eyed,
fingers shifting through fine sands,
arms loose at my sides, wandering feet.
There will be new dreams every night,
and the drapes will never be closed.
I will toss my string of keys into a deep
well and old letters into the grate.
The second half of my life will be ice
breaking up on the river, rain
soaking the fields, a hand
held out, a fire,
and smoke going
upward, always up.
Quick comment: I liked how this poem was not addressed to someone and thus was rather more reflective. And it wasn't all doom and gloom either; 'dreams' are still alive even in the 'second half' of life, and the narrator ends the poem positively, looking 'always up'. Johnathon Swift's birthday poem, by contrast, talks of a woman's 'decay' through her years. Thanks Swifty. I know this poem begins solemnly on 'black' notes but I feel the narrator has come to a greater realisation of that 'carpe diem' attitude. by the poem's conclusion.
Nineteenth Birthday (R.S. Thomas)
You go up the long track
That will take a car, but is best walked
On slow foot, noting the lichen
That writes history on the page
Of the grey rock. Trees are about you
At first, but yield to the green bracken,
The nightjars house: you can hear it spin
On warm evenings; it is still now
In the noonday heat, only the lesser
Voices sound, blue-fly and gnat
And the stream's whisper. As the road climbs,
You will pause for breath and the far sea's
Signal will flash, till you turn again
To the steep track, buttressed with cloud.
And there at the top that old woman,
Born almost a century back
In that stone farm, awaits your coming;
Waits for the news of the lost village
She thinks she knows, a place that exists
In her memory only.
You bring her greeting
And praise for having lasted so long
With time's knife shaving the bone.
Yet no bridge joins her own
World with yours, all you can do
Is lean kindly across the abyss
To hear words that were once wise.
That will take a car, but is best walked
On slow foot, noting the lichen
That writes history on the page
Of the grey rock. Trees are about you
At first, but yield to the green bracken,
The nightjars house: you can hear it spin
On warm evenings; it is still now
In the noonday heat, only the lesser
Voices sound, blue-fly and gnat
And the stream's whisper. As the road climbs,
You will pause for breath and the far sea's
Signal will flash, till you turn again
To the steep track, buttressed with cloud.
And there at the top that old woman,
Born almost a century back
In that stone farm, awaits your coming;
Waits for the news of the lost village
She thinks she knows, a place that exists
In her memory only.
You bring her greeting
And praise for having lasted so long
With time's knife shaving the bone.
Yet no bridge joins her own
World with yours, all you can do
Is lean kindly across the abyss
To hear words that were once wise.
Quick comment: this poem is more advisory, but not in the patronising style that I have often read. The journey motif is utilised to convey the idea that the young and the old coexist and will both experience the same things in life, and yet the young will never fully understand the old in the moment they are informed about something the old have experienced, and the old might not remember the way that it once felt to be young correctly, and so cannot be fully empathetic either.
A Happy Birthday (Ted Kooser)
This evening, I sat by an open window
and read till the light was gone and the book
was no more than a part of the darkness.
I could easily have switched on a lamp,
but I wanted to ride this day down into night,
to sit alone and smooth the unreadable page
with the pale gray ghost of my hand.
and read till the light was gone and the book
was no more than a part of the darkness.
I could easily have switched on a lamp,
but I wanted to ride this day down into night,
to sit alone and smooth the unreadable page
with the pale gray ghost of my hand.
Quick comment: I really liked this poem with regards to our theme for the ironic reason that it does not entirely fit it. If the title were not 'A Happy Birthday', one would never guess that this poem were about such a matter. But that is the most interesting thing about this poem; to the narrator, the best way to celebrate the passing of time in your own life is to read a book about the lives of others, whilst letting the darkness come, as it will metaphorically as you age.
Finally, I'd like to wish anyone who reads this a very Happy Birthday this year, whenever it is. I hope you celebrate it in the way that best pleases you.
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