The Old Man Poem by Malcolm Evison
The Old Man
They hang; a heavy weightlessness,
like long forgotten memories
seeking renewal. The man sits,
beside the window, looking
at the clouds. Remembering.
But nothing quite fits. If only
he could pass, at will, into
insanity. That would remove
the purgatory – desiring flames
to quench the smouldering remnants
of a life. He sits, beside the window,
watching the clouds. And waiting;
waiting for night-fall. Remembering.
Hey Malcolm, That's me. Your quest reveals a naked part of us all, old or not-old. This is the first I've read of you, and this one echos the beauty of a William Stafford poem. All yours, all the way, remembering, re-attaching what is true, what counts, Phillip
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/26/2024 2:46:35 AM # 1.0.0.1119
Very powerful and so worth the read.Love Duncan