Fifty Nine Poems.

I screamed her name last night. So I'm told. I can't remember. I was asleep at the time. I do a lot of that these days. Because I'm old. I'll let you in on a little secret. What it feels like to be old; it's just being tired. All the time. Tired when you wake up, tired when you go to bed. Just tired. And sometimes you shout old lover's names in your sleep. I used to write her poems. Would you like to hear one?

There is no song sung sweeter than,
my name from my lover's lips.
The melody sweeps me up to heaven
and penetrates my soul.

I was inspired by Pablo Neruda to write a book of poems for her. I had fifty nine. Pablo had written one hundred for his wife. But I'm not that good. One more and I would have had sixty. But I ran out of inspiration. Then we parted. That's how it goes sometimes. So now I have fifty nine love poems and no one to give them to. I must confess that I gave some of them to new lovers. They never knew they were not for them. Reactions were mixed. Some cried. Some thought it was sweet and kissed me on the cheek. Most, however, never really understood them. Perhaps it's because those words were not meant for them?
There's a nice nurse that talks to me when it's quiet. I'd like to give my poems to her. I think she'll understand them. If I were fifty years younger I would have written them for her.
I certainly didn't think it would end like this. Me lying on a bed. I always imagined a more exciting exit. Like a car crash. Just living to sixty seemed fantastical. Then it happened all of a sudden. 'So, this is it.' I thought. I just felt the same, but more tired.
I've done many things in my life. But you don't want to sit and read about all that. You're too busy living your own life to care about mine. Some of you might want some 'life wisdom' from an old dying man. But there's nothing I can tell you that you don't already know. Sorry to disappoint you. There's no mystery to getting old. It just happens. In fact it's been happening all your life but you've probably never stopped to notice. Except at birthdays. Then you are full of self pity and regret about all those things you never did. Let those things fade into the past. No good comes from regret. Only sorrow. Here's another one.

There is no touch as tender as,
a kiss from my lover's lips.
A tingle washes through my heart
and stands my hair on end.

My doctor wants me to die. So he can have another bed. Beds are more important then people. I've learned that in the weeks I've been here. And that hospital food isn't all that bad. I've not eaten for a while though. No appetite. Too damn tired to eat to be honest. When it rains outside the staff huddle under a shelter near my window to smoke. I can hear them talking about the patients. About me. Appartently I'm not a bad old fellow as I don't soil myself in the middle of the night. I still had the capacity to alert staff of my toilet needs. When I had them. Nothing's gone in for a while so nothing's came out for a while. I like the smell of the rain. And the voices drifting through it. And the gentle blue/grey light that comes through the clouds.

There is no scent as perfumed as,
the breath from my lover's lips.
It tickles my cheek like a butterfly
and dances down my neck.

I can just about hear music. A radio in the distance. I'm not sure if it's real or not. It floats in on the breeze like a scent. Chord changes go round and round. A female voice weaves inbetween them. It's beautiful. A spider is carried in on an A minor. That's a very lucky chord to travel on, I say to her. It's happy and sad at the same time. She looks around for a new home. She walks decidedly towards me and then up the side of the window to the ceiling. I wrote a poem about a spider once. But I can't remember it. Something about its web being made of glass in the night. And how the moonlight sparkled on the dew suspended on the silken lines.

There is no joy as happy as,
a smile from my lover's lips.
Delightfully melting sorrow
as a sunrise dissolves the night.

There are no flowers here. Visiters are advised not to bring potted plants. If someone brings a bouquet it's removed during the night. As if it just grew legs and walked away. This is because flowers die. Which then remind us of death. And we get depressed. That's the theory anyway. In reality flowers are a lovely reminder of life. We have already accepted death so to deny us life is unfair. The spider is a harbinger of death. It's almost the perfect hunter. If you want to understand life I suggest you watch a spider for a few hours. Perhaps days. It's relentless in its deliverence of death. The slightest tremour sends it running. Fangs dripping with poison. Fearless.

There is no pain that stabs deeper than,
a cry from my lover's lips.
May the Earth crack and swallow me whole
if ever they know sadness.

I wrote a poem about a spider once. It had a crystaline web and moonlight sparkled in the suspended dew. It talked to a bird that flew overhead. The bird could not understand how the spider could lie waiting for hours on end. The bird had to fly. To be moving all the time. The bird did not have the patience of the spider. It turns out that waiting is pretty easy. I've been doing it all my life. Waiting to die. Don't be sad about that. Be sad that I never wrote one more poem to give to my lover many years ago. I don't know why I refused to give her fifty nine poems. Life is strange.