Coming of Age
May 4 2014

To be angry, and young
is what's expected.

At the old men
who run world.
At the parents
who circumscribe yours.
At authority, in general,
because you grew up on heroes

who refused to bend.

Just wait, they said
you'll see how it works,
we all settle, accept
lose our edge.
And now, looking back
you were hardly a rebel,
while the world never noticed
you were here.

You're not even angry at death,

just fearful, curious, annoyed.
Thinking back
to the self-righteous boy
who thought himself invincible.
Who thought he would rage, rage
at the end,
not fade away, invisible,
weighed down
by frailty, regret
betrayal.

It was love, not anger
you wish to proclaim,
but the young are too busy
to listen.

This poem began with a piece by Sarah Hampson in my daily paper, a writer whose work I usually enjoy and admire. I thought I'd share it with her, and emailed it along with this short letter:

Your piece about Marina Keegan in the Globe (May 2) inspired this poem.

You wrote about watching her perform her poetry on YouTube and being reminded of her English Professor Anne Fadiman's introductory quote: "a nimbus of angry energy". Your brief retelling of her life evokes exactly that: the anger, idealism, and confidence of youth. I couldn't help but think how much anger belongs to the young – self-righteous, eyes blazing.

You don't speak for all of us boomers when you lament the blunting of creativity and activism in middle age, but the generalization rings true. Perhaps there is a convergence in old age, when the idealism turns to disillusion, but is leavened with wisdom and understanding. I think the old man in this poem admires his younger self, but regrets his youthful impatience.