Aug 25 2013
In the old folks' home
which everyone calls it,
even though old folks
are now all "seniors",
and the warm comfort of home
has become a halfway-house
In the old folks' home
which everyone calls it,
even though old folks
are now all "seniors",
and the warm comfort of home
has become a halfway-house
in a holding pattern.
Like planes, low on fuel
circling to land.
Perhaps a facility
with green institutional paint
the taint of neglect.
Or a community, manor, estate,
where elegant women
are still well-dressed,
the men outnumbered.
Where proud owners
escort their dogs,
calm ones, with glossy coats
and soft brown eyes.
And shaky hands
with parchment skin
stroke them slowly
hard,
the topographical faces
that chart their lives
beaming.
And a confused man
who won't let go,
as if at sea
clinging to a piece of the wreck,
circling to land.
Perhaps a facility
with green institutional paint
the taint of neglect.
Or a community, manor, estate,
where elegant women
are still well-dressed,
the men outnumbered.
Where proud owners
escort their dogs,
calm ones, with glossy coats
and soft brown eyes.
And shaky hands
with parchment skin
stroke them slowly
hard,
the topographical faces
that chart their lives
beaming.
And a confused man
who won't let go,
as if at sea
clinging to a piece of the wreck,
his vintage plane, ditched
short of the landing
strip.
Who may be happy there
regressing to boyhood,
Who may be happy there
regressing to boyhood,
cradling the neck
of his big dependable dog.
While wagging, licking, nuzzling for treats
the dogs do not see
age, or loss.
And so uncommonly gentle
with the frail.
We are most in love
when we feel needed,
so what else could this be?
The eager dogs,
who give themselves to strangers
While wagging, licking, nuzzling for treats
the dogs do not see
age, or loss.
And so uncommonly gentle
with the frail.
We are most in love
when we feel needed,
so what else could this be?
The eager dogs,
who give themselves to strangers
so completely,
accept each poke and prod
with stoic dignity.
The bed-bound, and dependent
who still have something of worth
to offer a beautiful creature,
hands extended
the coming together
of touch.
To be lifted up
like a lighter-than-air machine.
For a moment, at least
as inseparable
as the boy and his dog,
whose body remembers
though he may have forgot.
My elderly and increasingly confused father finds himself for the next 4 weeks largely bed-bound, in an assisted living home, awaiting an unfortunately long-delayed revision to his prosthetic hip.
When my mother began talking about some of the entertainments that make the place bearable, I began to think about therapy dogs visiting the elderly and institutionalized. I've always thought my own dog (Skookum, the wonder-dog!), who is uncommonly loving and gentle, would be perfect for this -- once she settles down. (She's a Lab, and apparently this takes years!) I was wondering if they ever had such visitors at the place. And I also suggested my mother start thinking about a small dog of her own. Because I know how valuable the companionship of a good dog can be; especially since she hasn't been on her own in over a half century.
In the first stanza, I couldn't resist poking fun at the euphemisms for "old". I know that when "senior citizen" was first used, it had a certain dignity: the idea of citizenship, after all, has the connotation of usefulness and involvement. And "senior" is more a term of respect than relegation. But now, it has an air of ridiculousness about it. Referring to "seniors" just sounds condescending to me. Anyway, I'm pretty sure my cohort -- the giant wave of baby boomers entering their advanced years -- will resist this expression, since it belongs to a different generation and so has lost its euphemistic power. (And if not my generation, then me!)
The rest of the poem needs no explanation -- the beaming faces; the unexpected strength of an old person's grip; the unconditional and unjudgmental dignity of the dogs; and the power of touch. (I originally had "desperate for touch". I chose "the coming together/ of touch" not only because it alludes to this power, but because it's more egalitarian, doesn't distinguish between recipient and giver.)
In the first version, the aviation metaphor touched down just a couple of times -- the holding pattern, ditching at sea. (There is nothing profoundly meaningful about this choice. When "halfway house" wasn't quit strong enough to convey that sense of waiting -- of anteroom or limbo -- "holding pattern" nailed it; so aviation it was.) I thought that abandoning the metaphor there was a weakness in the poem; which is when I added "to be lifted up/ like a lighter-than-air machine." The depiction of aged faces as topo-maps that chart their lives (something you might navigate by, looking down from a plane) was the final change. I'm quite pleased with this: "topographical faces" seems so much better than such tired alternatives as lined, wrinkled, shrivelled, etched. On the the other hand, I wonder if I've flogged the metaphor to death, and it's starting to interrupt the flow, sound shoe-horned in: that is, drawing attention to my cleverness, rather than enhancing the poem.
accept each poke and prod
with stoic dignity.
The bed-bound, and dependent
who still have something of worth
to offer a beautiful creature,
hands extended
the coming together
of touch.
To be lifted up
like a lighter-than-air machine.
For a moment, at least
as inseparable
as the boy and his dog,
whose body remembers
though he may have forgot.
My elderly and increasingly confused father finds himself for the next 4 weeks largely bed-bound, in an assisted living home, awaiting an unfortunately long-delayed revision to his prosthetic hip.
When my mother began talking about some of the entertainments that make the place bearable, I began to think about therapy dogs visiting the elderly and institutionalized. I've always thought my own dog (Skookum, the wonder-dog!), who is uncommonly loving and gentle, would be perfect for this -- once she settles down. (She's a Lab, and apparently this takes years!) I was wondering if they ever had such visitors at the place. And I also suggested my mother start thinking about a small dog of her own. Because I know how valuable the companionship of a good dog can be; especially since she hasn't been on her own in over a half century.
In the first stanza, I couldn't resist poking fun at the euphemisms for "old". I know that when "senior citizen" was first used, it had a certain dignity: the idea of citizenship, after all, has the connotation of usefulness and involvement. And "senior" is more a term of respect than relegation. But now, it has an air of ridiculousness about it. Referring to "seniors" just sounds condescending to me. Anyway, I'm pretty sure my cohort -- the giant wave of baby boomers entering their advanced years -- will resist this expression, since it belongs to a different generation and so has lost its euphemistic power. (And if not my generation, then me!)
The rest of the poem needs no explanation -- the beaming faces; the unexpected strength of an old person's grip; the unconditional and unjudgmental dignity of the dogs; and the power of touch. (I originally had "desperate for touch". I chose "the coming together/ of touch" not only because it alludes to this power, but because it's more egalitarian, doesn't distinguish between recipient and giver.)
In the first version, the aviation metaphor touched down just a couple of times -- the holding pattern, ditching at sea. (There is nothing profoundly meaningful about this choice. When "halfway house" wasn't quit strong enough to convey that sense of waiting -- of anteroom or limbo -- "holding pattern" nailed it; so aviation it was.) I thought that abandoning the metaphor there was a weakness in the poem; which is when I added "to be lifted up/ like a lighter-than-air machine." The depiction of aged faces as topo-maps that chart their lives (something you might navigate by, looking down from a plane) was the final change. I'm quite pleased with this: "topographical faces" seems so much better than such tired alternatives as lined, wrinkled, shrivelled, etched. On the the other hand, I wonder if I've flogged the metaphor to death, and it's starting to interrupt the flow, sound shoe-horned in: that is, drawing attention to my cleverness, rather than enhancing the poem.
"A boy and his dog" is almost archetypal. I'm late middle aged; but ever since I got my dog, I often feel as if I'm living a second childhood when we are out together: in the simplicity of our play; in the power of the bond. Here, at the end, the title becomes “the boy and his dog”, calling back to the fourth stanza’s confused man.
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