The Old woman on the hill

She

dances cheek to perfumed cheek

with the echoes and ghosts

of dapper gents and soldiers

long gone

a musical memory moment

caught in dust mote

dancing eye

and the timbre and tremor

of piano and violin

drip from the Blitzkrieg 

ballroom walls

She

dances by candle light

at the mean time of night

with the lost and the brave

and the free and the dead

geriatric bones

made fluid in flame

and shadow silk lace

and unknown watchers 

chanting her name

She

sits in the corner with arthritic hands

but still the old typewriter goes 

                                       clackety clack

                                       clickety click

                                       cloppety clop

she

 tries to remember

what she will soon forget

in memory of the forgotten and fallen

and the musical memory moment

caught in the wink

of a knowing blind eye

Reviews

[Eilis]

When I first realized I couldn’t hold claim on my youth forever, no matter how hard I worked at it, something shifted in my thinking. Coming face to face with mortality is a humbling thing. So much of youth is about power and a sense of infinitude. The feeling that the person we are is eternal and invincible. I suppose that’s necessary if we are to take necessary risks, but it can also lead to different paths.

Anyway, that’s a bit of a tangent to get to the idea that I feel like the beginning of our own sense of aging lends a softer, more respectful view of the dignity of age itself. There’s the ability to look past physical beauty as a primary holder of importance and see the inner beauty that actually shapes time and experience. The inner beauty that devoted its life to honoring and preserving the memory of those who have already gone on.

That was what I thought of when I read this for the first time. Your old woman on the hill reminds me of those statues I’ve read about that face the sea and wait for an arrival that everyone knows is not coming. The endless vigil kept with a sort of somber joy. She is aged now, but her beauty still blooms in the action and sacrifice as she honors the men who went to war and never returned.

So many of those men and boys were the embodiment of that youthful idea of eternal life and invincibility. Willing to go to battle as Odysseus and face the known and unknown monsters. Having no idea yet of the brutality and futility they would face, or how war itself would turn even their own men against them.

So, I love the way this woman has (it seems to me) given over her life to the memory. And how the poem portrays her as a kind of timeless figure—aging but always a kind of life-force that needs to be honored in its own right. And I love the dignity of the portrait. The small beauties of personhood that sing through the words. I could go on, but I’ll just admire the work instead.

A touching poem, Gram. I very much enjoyed it.

[gram linski]

wow, thanks Eilis, this is in the top 5 longest reviews I've ever had, and the other 4 are from you, lol, your review was the concept in ma heed when I started writing, I don't think I caught the exact nuance but you sure did, thanks for reading, Eilis, and understanding more than I did,

[R.E. Ray]

Gram, it’s impossible to follow any review from Eilis. I’d echo much of what she said. As I read this I thought of an elderly woman who lives close to me. She’s now in a nursing home, and no longer the storyteller she once was. She was born in Germany and married an American soldier shortly after WWII. I understand she was a beauty and had many gents and soldiers pursue her. I could see her in this poem. It’s sad but pays tribute to the dignity of such good women (and men) of that generation. One of your best, I say.

[gram linski]

thanks man, that means a lot, aye it is a hard shift coming after Eilis, what the f**k can I say that she hasn't already, lol, I bet that old lady told some mad stories that you didn't believe, haha, thanks again for reading and enjoying R.E.