A Birthday Poem

I wrote this poem yesterday. Today I am seventy. It is never too late.

The inspiration came from a poetry workshop at Manchester Maggies on Thursday. Our usual leader, Clare Stuart had arranged for Reshma Ruia to deliver the session. She is an accomplished poet who is based in Manchester. I was there on ZOOM but had to leave early for another meeting, TEAMS this time. Covid has changed our world in unforeseen ways.

It was Covid that first introduced me to Reshma Ruia. Clare had led a lockdown session on ZOOM with Reshma’s poem, “When This Is Over,” and invited us to write our own Covid poems. This time most people were back in the room. I managed to stay long enough to get a flavour of Reshma’s life and one thing she said really stayed with me.

“Poetry: Don’t ever let it leave you.”

I thought back to the time that I had abandoned poetry and how eventually I had returned, and poetry was still there, waiting and welcoming. This is my thank you.

IT IS NEVER TOO LATE
 
There was a boy who liked to sing and dance
and draw and write and dream about a world
where danger lurked but rarely was a threat.
And there was mystery and magic still.
 
He was too young for wisdom - but he’d grow -
until a broken voice and stumbling feet forewarned
a fate were duty countermanded dreams
and growing up meant also growing small.
 
Now hopes and fears meant work to pay for all,
He put aside his childish, wildish dreams.
He’d changed, and he would have to change the world,
To banish nightmares, make it safe to dream again.
 
Like Lenin who stopped listening
To Beethoven, the soundtrack of his dreams,
To concentrate on ends and means,
He lost himself in useless usefulness.
 
The magic, in the end, it left him when
he felt defeat and dread of danger all around.
No more a pilgrim on a golden road
instead he fled, a refugee from hope.
 
He carried on in anger and despair
But then, remembering that boy who sang,
And meeting others who were singing still,
Defying death, disease – they even danced! -
 
He embarked on new beginnings
And so, at last I learned that wisdom is
Preserved in poetry
Don’t ever let it leave you.

Mike Stanton: written on the eve of my seventieth birthday and revised on my 73rd birthday. It is never too late.