Presented by:
Robert E.
Yahnke
Professor
University of Minnesota
This section of Poetry of Aging is devoted to poems students wrote based on an assignment in either the course Humanities, Aging, & Family Living, or to a freshman seminar, The Experience of Aging in Literature.
The sweet smell of my grandpa's pipe tobacco
Filled the room.
My mom used to get mad when he smoked in front of me,
But I didn't care.
I sat in his lap and purposely inhaled the sweet fumes.
I would love to follow my grandpa around,
Breathing in his trail of smoke.
His pipe hanging out the side of his mouth
And his tobacco pouch and matches in his hand.
He made cleaning out his pipe
An art form.
Tap, tap, tap…
The pipe would tap in the ashtray as he told me stories.
Jars of pipe tobacco used to line his kitchen counter.
Short fat jars and tall skinny jars.
I used to sit on the counter and open jars to smell
The scent of my grandpa.
The sweet smell of my grandpa's pipe tobacco
Fills the room.
I walk into a tobacco shop
And breathe a sigh of happiness.
When the man behind the counter asks if I need help
I tell him . . . no,
I'm just reminiscing.
This poem is about positive memories of my grandpa from when I was young. My grandpa is still alive and well, living happily with his third wife. He acts very young for his age and, quite honestly, he thinks he is very "hip and happening." For his age, he probably is. I guess the reason this poem centers so much on the past is because my fond memories of my grandpa are all in the past. Ever since the death of his wife, my grandma, we have not had the bond that we once had. I remember when my brother and I would stay overnight at their house. When it was time for bed, my grandpa would tell us "Fluffy the Squirrel" stories. Come morning the smell of peanut butter toast would mix with the smell of his pipe, and my brother I knew it was time to get up. Although he still smokes his pipe and I still enjoy the smell of the tobacco when I'm around him, our relationship has faded. I am left with the memories of my grandpa a when he felt like a "real" grandpa, and those memories are intensified by the smell of pipe tobacco.
Depends. Ensure. Geritol.
False teeth and hearing aids.
Bed pans, catheters and railings surrounding my bed.
I can't wait to get old.
Walking with a shuffle.
My back not wanting to be straight.
Joints talking to each other.
I can't wait to get old.
Have to stop doing this.
Stop smoking that.
Start eating things that make me "pooh."
I can't wait to get old.
Chop, blend, beat, and add water
Then slurp it down.
Walk in circles at the mall.
I can't wait to get old.
I can't work even if I want to.
I don't do un-old things.
I don't try new things. I watch TV.
I can't wait to get old.
Live in home with other old farts.
Play shuffleboard and Scrabble.
"If I could only remember that seven-letter word!"
Now I'm old.
This poem is a satirical look at getting older. The poem could also represent the voice of any age. I could envision a teenager writing about getting old and seeing only negative things happening. I could also envision an older person saying this and realizing at the end he or she is really old. The poem doesn't idealize getting older. The way this person is dealing with these changes may not be the most positive. I think this person resents getting older and being told what to do by other people. The inspiration for this poem is the negative viewpoints toward aging that are prevalent in American culture.
It's muggy and hot
or so my shirt says
with that damply clinging voice
as we enter the park
fringed with new metal rails
and brightly-kept gardens
yet full of age as if mists
of time echoed calls from far away
Now there's movement and
several casually dressed men and women
here and there wearing vivid and drab
doing their own thing and
paying attention to their own thoughts
It's a little like intruding on
someone's family meeting
but faces of young and old
seem friendly enough while
others just ignore us
I can't help being curious
as we get close enough
to see groups and individuals
practicing ancient movements
with flowing hands or
colorful props like swords or fans
Here a group of elders imitate a
young man dressed as if on the
Peking stage with soft shoes and a
colorful sash turning and twisting
and flashing with a large blade
doing an inner battle
that doesn't at all remind of war
while nearby the radio blares
with cha-cha
propelling a large circle of
older men and women
prancing step by step
and waving bright fans in
a loudly vigorous and boisterous
dance full of smiles and laughter
So we wander the park for hours
looking at old monuments but
mostly observing the morning
routines of the elderly at exercise
concentrating on figures and air
standing or shaking or sliding
or balancing or even lying down
until the very atmosphere
matches the keenness of their
thoughts and bodies
so that the cool breeze
seems to gently wish me good-bye
as we leave.
This poem describes a stroll a friend and I took this past summer. We got up early and decided to get to know the neighborhood around the hotel on foot. In particular, we were looking for a park and hoping to see Chinese people doing morning exercises such as Tai Chi. Most, if not all, the parks in the city were also historical landmarks with portions reaching back centuries. Unlike parks in this country, these parks are not easily visible from the street because they're walled all around. There were not too many people there, but some groups were doing traditional and some not-so-traditional exercises. By the end of the morning, we saw some individuals who just stood in one place and swung their arms and a couple of people who were exercising by lying down on the sidewalk. The poem tries to present an upbeat picture of people--both young and old--enjoying the park. We enjoyed seeing the serenity of several practitioners which seemed to brings some peace that stayed with us as we left the park.
One night, I lay in bed, wondering.
Wondering what will become of me.
Will I be remembered--
that is, for who I was,
or who I had become?
Will they remember my long dark hair?
Will they remember the cherished holiday dinners?
or will it be that all they can remember
is my frail body and whispy gray hair,
and the nursing home where now I lay?
I wonder why this troubles me so.
Is it because I cannot remember yesterday,
and all I have is today?
What has become of me?
I AM NOT ME.
The poem was written with my grandma in mind. She was diagnosed with Alzheimer's about three years ago. Since then she has changed very much. I can remember what she was like, but the picture of the way she is now is difficult to get out of my mind. I find myself wondering how Alzheimer's affects her thoughts about herself, and what other people think. When she was told she had Alzheimer's what went through her mind? People always say how difficult this disease is on the family, but how dificult must it be to know that someday you are going to basically lose your mind.
I was trying to imagine what thoughts my grandma might be having. Did she, or does she worry about how people will remember her? I can not answer that question yes or no, but I imagine she must think about it. This poem can represent other pictures to people as well. For example, many people worry about aging, and try to picture what they will be like. Will they like the person they look at in the mirror, or will it seem as though someone else is looking back at them? I think this is a fear that many of us have.
Life is a circle . . .
At birth we are cared for.
We are wrapped in warm fuzzy blankets.
we are watched with a cautious eye.
We are told what to do.
In the blink of an eye. . .
The roles are changed.
Now we are caring for those who cared for us.
We wrap them in warm fuzzy blankets.
We watch them with a cautious eye.
We tell them what to do.
If we are lucky life will always be a circle.
This poem represnts how caregiving should be with regard to the elderly. I believe that we cherish our children when they are born. We try to give them everything we can so that they will be able to survive in this world today. I don't believe we should change this attitude. I believe that these actions and feelings also should hold true when caring for the elderly. It should not be a burden to care for them, for we have to remember at some point they cared for us. Also, at some time we will be them, and we will hope someone will be there to help us.
She used to sit
And sit . . .
For hours on end.
She sat in her rickety-old rocking chair,
But without moving.
Her frail hands . . .
Covered with loose wrinkled skin,
Held a patchwork blanket tightly in her lap.
Her hands would tremble as though she were cold,
But she made no effort to cover them.
Her tearful eyes. . .
In a distant stare, glazed over, as though in a trance.
She appeared to be looking out the window,
Skimming the water of the lake outside
A brightly colored sailboat would pass by,
But her eyes did not follow.
She used to sit
And sit . . .
As though she were waiting . . .
Patiently.
My poetry comes from grandparents and great grandparents--family I hold most dear to me. Unfortunately, upon pondering the concept of aging I continually found myself overcome with the idea of death. I suppose the death of close grandparents is a vivid part of my memory. The poems I have chosen to write speak mostly about death and sadness. However, I would like to explain more about my relationships with the characters in these poems so that it becomes clear that the pain and sadness are not all I remember about these individuals.
The poem "Patience" is a poem about my great grandmother. She was a wonderful, kind, caring woman. My fondest memory of her was when I was very young. She used to bake molasses cookies for me when I would come to visit. This memory would have made another wonderful poem, but I chose to write about another vivid memory I have of my great grandma. I was in junior high when sher health started declining. Moving out of her chair became a strenuous and lengthy process. She lived with my great aunt and uncle who provided her with excellent love and care. They did not feel comfortable leaving my grandmother alone and so when they needed to leave the house, I became a "grandma-sitter." I would go over to their house and sit with my grandma, keeping her company while they were away. During these times I began to notice my great grandma's nded for solitude. My aunt and uncle lived on a lake, and my grandma's rocking chair sat in front of a big bay window overlooking the water. Over time, the more her health deteriorated the more she stared out at the lake. I could feel the pain and sadness in her eyes, a feeling I will never forget.
The Bruise
I realized I was older
when I was no longer at home.
It is not the same after you are gone.
For a while it becomes a slow pain.
This pain is like a bruise.
You don’t know the pain is there
until it slowly appears
as a little spot,
turning blue
with a touch of purple and
it eventually becomes brown.
IT’S A BRUISE
This pain may not hit you until you are gone.
It may be caused by a fear of Independence
or of being alone
It can be because of new experiences,
new faces,
new places.
It may be a pain for the future
or possibly the present
This pain brings excitement
it brings enlightenment
As a result
we change.
Some for the better
or some for worse
This pain is the process of growing up.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . It’s age.
In this poem I was able to express my feelings toward leaving home and experiencing a new lifestyle at college. It was hard to leave my family, and especially my friends, which were my comfort zone. During my high school years I was involved with band, which was like a second family to me. This made leaving my band program as well as my band friends that are still in high school very difficult. I chose the metaphor of a bruise to show that over time, growing older, especially in relation to a huge change such as college and independence can create a certain longing or sadness. A few weeks into college, I realized that I missed the connection I had with my friends back home, and I longed for that sense of comfort. I indented each line bit by bit, to show the slow process of this bruise. I capitalized the word bruise in order to provide an easy transition into the description of what causes this type of pain or bruise. At first college and its changes was a lot to deal with, but it became a lot better, and is another great adventure of life. This poem was to describe the life changing process that everyone experiences. Therefore, I ended my poem with the idea of age, because this it was description of age and the processes it entails.
Grandma
Cunning Mother Nature is no longer young.
Her towering trees are majestic. Imposing.
Her mountains. Distinguished.
When the day grows tired, she rests only to bring new life in the morning.
Dawn is her sweet child.
Her sparkling perspiration glazes the grass as the fog lifts
and the sparrows welcome with charming melodies.
The water, the islands are illuminated by her son.
Grace.
She has done this thousands of times.
We rise early and witness the miracle as we drop our lines into the water.
Immersed in her beauty, my grandma and I wait.
And wait.
The silence is broken by the startling hum of her reel.
In one seemingly instinctive motion her rod is forcefully raised to set the hook.
It curves toward the surface like a lion tamer’s whip.
She settles into a natural undulating rhythm of pulling and releasing.
Grace.
She has done this hundreds of times.
This poem describes a morning I spent with my grandma last summer fishing on Lake of the Woods in Canada. The idea for the poem came from my memories of my grandma always catching the first fish—she’s a wonderful fisherwoman. I wanted to show the strength and beauty in an old woman. My grandma grew up during the Great Depression and her father was a banker who naturally lost everything when the stock market crashed. She persevered and attended university, raised a family, and has spent her recent years traveling the world. I compared my grandma to Mother Nature because Mother Nature is the ultimate “strong woman” and that is because of her vast knowledge and old age. Beauty and grace come from experience and I wanted to show that an old woman is strong. In the first half about Mother Nature I tried to set an ethereal tone and I wanted to separate that from reality which is why I chose the structure that I did.
Grandparents
Reflections on Old Age
Reflections on Loss & Old Age
Poems on Course Materials
Collaborative Class Poems
The Poets of Aging: A Selected Bibliography