Compared to the number of bones
supporting lithe tissues and flesh,
the number of atoms in a half-empty
glass of water might as well be infinite.
So why should it shame me if mine isn't full?
Subtracting an almost infinity from two
still leaves me with more than I need,
just as the full glass would: for a man
whose response to the cosmos is ah! one
minim of rain on his tongue is enough.
--Thomas Dorsett
first appeared in bluestem, April 2018
Commentary
Philip Roth said old age is not a battle, old age is a massacre. There is some truth to this, but only some. I think I got a better perspective on aging from my septuagenarian friend, Cris: when I asked him whether he feared growing old(er), "No," he replied, "life is a sacred journey, every part of it." This reminded me of a Spanish adage which states that when you are born you cry while everyone else smiles; when you die, however, you should be smiling while everyone else cries.
This poem indicates why many of us who are old, despite our decreasing vision and mobility, are surprisingly happier: we are wiser. Less egotistical, more empathetic.
The poem's imagery of the invisible world of innumerable individual atoms suggests a consciousness that is aware of more than what can be visualized, that is, a cosmic consciousness, aware of the connectivity of all things. Such awareness tends to increase with age, and when it does, it invariably delights.
In the last stanza, "Subtracting an almost infinity from two" refers to the almost infinity (from a human perspective) of atoms in a half-full glass of water compared to the almost infinity in a full glass.
"What is a good day now that you're old?" a young child asked my aged stepfather, long ago. "When you wake up and joyfully discover that you're still breathing!" Little things mean a lot to those who age well, while a lot of things mean little to those who don't.
One evening, an even longer time ago, an old poet, albeit younger then than I am today, told me that he had become satisfied with just a few drops of syrup on his pancake--yes, one minim of rain on the tongue is enough!
supporting lithe tissues and flesh,
the number of atoms in a half-empty
glass of water might as well be infinite.
So why should it shame me if mine isn't full?
Subtracting an almost infinity from two
still leaves me with more than I need,
just as the full glass would: for a man
whose response to the cosmos is ah! one
minim of rain on his tongue is enough.
--Thomas Dorsett
first appeared in bluestem, April 2018
Commentary
Philip Roth said old age is not a battle, old age is a massacre. There is some truth to this, but only some. I think I got a better perspective on aging from my septuagenarian friend, Cris: when I asked him whether he feared growing old(er), "No," he replied, "life is a sacred journey, every part of it." This reminded me of a Spanish adage which states that when you are born you cry while everyone else smiles; when you die, however, you should be smiling while everyone else cries.
This poem indicates why many of us who are old, despite our decreasing vision and mobility, are surprisingly happier: we are wiser. Less egotistical, more empathetic.
The poem's imagery of the invisible world of innumerable individual atoms suggests a consciousness that is aware of more than what can be visualized, that is, a cosmic consciousness, aware of the connectivity of all things. Such awareness tends to increase with age, and when it does, it invariably delights.
In the last stanza, "Subtracting an almost infinity from two" refers to the almost infinity (from a human perspective) of atoms in a half-full glass of water compared to the almost infinity in a full glass.
"What is a good day now that you're old?" a young child asked my aged stepfather, long ago. "When you wake up and joyfully discover that you're still breathing!" Little things mean a lot to those who age well, while a lot of things mean little to those who don't.
One evening, an even longer time ago, an old poet, albeit younger then than I am today, told me that he had become satisfied with just a few drops of syrup on his pancake--yes, one minim of rain on the tongue is enough!
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