Perspectives by Sandra Horn

A while ago, I submitted two poems for an anthology on Age.

I am Of A Certain Age myself, and was under the (mistaken, as it turned out) impression that it would be celebrating agedness. I was delighted when one poem was accepted. Then, when the proofs came, it was only too evident that the focus was on loss, dementia, incontinence, death...very good poems, I must say, but not exactly joyful. I went to the launch with some trepidation and discovered two things: the guest editor had been working with people with dementia, and I was, by a stretch, the oldest poet there.  It made me remember that when one is surrounded by the less happy aspects of life, perspectives, inevitably, become skewed. No-one there had met my sparky mother, dignified, in control, and sharp as a tack until she closed her eyes for the last time at age 93. Or my friend Alice, who lived to 105 and was equally ‘with-it’ to the end. They didn’t know about the woman who has just passed grade 6 ballet at the age of 71. They were looking at old age from the perspectives of its sadder aspects. I wouldn’t want to deny that there are aspects of old age that are often challenging, tragic, but that is so very far from the whole story. It partly depends on where you’re standing – too close to the sad parts of ageing for the editor, or too far distant from the lived experience of being older for the younger poets.

I wrote the poem – the ‘in my head’ bit before editing, re-editing, etc. - on the ferry between Hurst Castle and Keyhaven. It’s a great walk along the Spit to the castle, and a short-and-sweet ride back on the little ferry. Two things enchanted me on the way back: one was a row of beautiful identical white boats, tethered to mooring buoys and making that lovely tinkle-clank noise in the breeze. They were called, Skugga, Sylphe, Seren Wen and  Sea Eagle. Seren Wen is Welsh for evening star and Skugga is Faroese for cloud, I discovered later. The second thing was a kite surfer; a gorgeous muscular young man, who came alongside and then soared up and over the ferry. A nice piece of showing-off that brought a smile to my face. My spirits were lifted along with the kite and I was reminded strongly of a friend, who, well into her eighties and physically frail, said, one day, out of the blue, ‘Inside this old woman is young girl dancing.’ Here’s the poem in its original form:

On the ferry

The ferry chugs unhurried through the bay.

To our left, the shingle bank;

To the right, a row of tethered boats,

Skugga, Sylphe, Sea Eagle, Seren Wen,

Tug at their moorings in the salty wind.

Kite surfer skims the shallow sea,

Comes alongside, keeps pace with us,

Then makes a half-turn, lifts –

And flies. Over the ferry,

Over Sea Eagle, Skugga, Sylphe and Seren Wen.

Oh, I am nudging threescore years and ten,

Slack-fleshed, stiff-jointed,

Needing to feel my feet flat on the ground;

But now I’m up there with the surfer – past him –

Riding the wind on strong and tireless arms.

The ferry chugs below.

Skugga and Sylphe, Sea Eagle, Seren Wen

Clatter and tug and fret;

Sea-bound. Earth-bound, while I surf the sky.

I am the woman on the chugging ferry.

I am a freed Sea Eagle, sky-bound Skugga, floating Sylphe, a shining Seren Wen.

 When it was published, in The Emma Press Anthology of Age, it didn’t have the final two lines as   the editor thought they didn’t add anything. I’ve put them back, here, not to argue with the editorial advice, but to underline my feelings and thoughts on that day, in that moment. It is simply a hymn of thankfulness for undimmed youthful oomph in an ageing body, which is pretty common amongst my venerable acquaintances. The anthology had a stonking review in Cadaverine (yes, really) Magazine. The reviewer picked my poem out as her favourite. Joy! Amazed delightedness! Cor, blimey! She saw intimations of mortality in it that I hadn’t seen or meant, though. I don’t know who she is but I’m willing to bet that she is young. Young in body, I mean. She won’t yet know about the dancer inside – the unageing dancer. 

My own very particular favourite in the anthology is by Joan Lennon. It is written from yet another perspective on oldness – a much, much longer view.  I find it profoundly joyful. Here it is, with Joan’s permission.

Later

Warm wool of moor

wraps the hills –

   black feathered trees

   a touch of frippery

to soften old shoulders –

the long day

   paled to pink

though flame remembered

still,

   in touches

   in shadows,

umber, amber, ochre

aged together

to a comfortable communion –

   this old earth

   that old sun.

Wow! Joan – and thank you!