Seven Ages of Andy (full crown)

 

William Mulready. image credit: V&A Museum London

1.       Infancy

 

expectant, trepidatious, on we go:

a blooded, squalling babe, a bag of needs.

a home, a crib, a blanket, frequent feeds;

a family to shield us as we grow –

to clean our shit and teach us all they know;

applauding each new victory, and deeds

of escalating wonder; joy that breeds

a freedom bearing out Jean-Jacques Rousseau.

 

this isn’t my own recollection here –

but parenthood has given me mementoes,

and watching my own infants grow is fuel

to re-evaluate my early years:

a curious, stumbling journey which crescendoes

with smiles and hopeful airs, first day of school.

 

2.       Schoolboy

 

With smiles and hopeful airs, first day of school:

crisp uniform and unfamiliar tie;

new disciplines, a timetable, and rules

of social commerce; cliques to codify.

Will tests in Maths and Science be your fuel?

Athletics, French, or Music get you by?

Perhaps – like me – you’ll reach the peak of ‘cool’?

(and – decades later – know that that’s a lie.)

This skinny, gobby tryhard spent his terms

deflecting – with his gags – the fists of churls;

and, quoting Shakespeare, and the Diet of Worms,

theatrically failed to dazzle girls.

Pubescent verse, hubristic faith alone:

a portrait of a man not fully grown.

 

3.       Lover

 

A portrait of a man not fully grown –

discovered in a loft and brought to light:

a leather jacket, Yankee hat, and bright

eyes, nonchalant to facing the unknown.

He wants to love, yet still needs to be shown

that common solipsistic oversight –

the plague of every amorous neophyte –

to have a care for hearts that aren’t his own.

 

At that age, breaking hearts was just a game

more fun than football (I played better, too).

The fug of booze and time obscures the names,

remorseful verse rewrites the billets-doux;

Quiescent will exists to make amends,

the hope on which society depends.

 

4.       Soldier

 

The hope on which society depends:

that still the arc of History will tend

towards a cultured, genteel evolution.

“Too slow!” cry new recruits with resolution –

some take up arms to hasten their solution,

and some write poems that call for revolution.

(And to this day, both cohorts still contend

at which approach will pay more dividends.)

 

So yeah, I wrote some angry stuff back then:

like “Burn the System! Capital Aflame!”

 “Drown All the Priests in Slurry Made From Tories!”

But Westminster still stood, despite my pen!

And I discovered – focusing my aim –

my muse, my comrade, wreathed in loving glory.

 

5.       Judge

 

My Muse! My Comrade! Wreathed in loving glory,

words fail to scale the height of my esteem!

A bildungsroman now is this, my story:

from callow youth to half a winning team.

 

It’s thanks to you – in every case before me –

my judgement’s more considered, less extreme;

romantic poets might murmur “I adore thee!” –

but sometimes rhymes run deeper than they seem.

 

This ain’t no corny Keatsian teenage yearning,

to seem profound (and get you into bed) –

more recognition that this guy’s still learning

to be the man he promised when we wed:

 

a partner for your honour, sure together;

a ward ‘gainst civil strife and chilly weather.

 

 

6.       Old Age

 

A ward ‘gainst civil strife and chilly weather –

lock all your doors, and wear a fluffy snood;

mistrust the ‘foreigners’ (but eat their food),

bemoan the lack of feeling in your nethers.

Recite the Telegraph and think you’re clever:

“Minorities lack moral rectitude!”

Divide, deprive, harass, oppress, exclude –

defend the white man’s privilege forever.

 

I hope to god I don’t become my Dad.

I have no taste for droning, whining, cold –

inert as my compassion ossifies.

I’ll try to stay this shop-soiled Galahad:

still seeking truth and beauty when I’m old –

and knowing I know nothing, therefore wise.

 

 

7.       Second Childhood

 

I know that I know nothing – therefore wise

it is that I should hold my foolish tongue?

Well, bugger that: embarrassing the young

shall be this poet’s joy before he dies.

With knackered knees and cataracted eyes,

besotted liver, reefer-blackened lung,

I plan to leave no single song unsung –

no random thought that I won’t verbalise.

So as I bimble through my final years,

I guess I’ll try to savour every breath:

intending laughter, steering clear of tears;

and as to the unmapped that’s after death –

it’s surely half the fun that we don’t know:

expectant, trepidatious, on we go…

 

AWB