People who respect art, artists, and the creative process. People who respect the law and other people's property. People who don't lie, steal and cheat. People who don't think that objections to lying, stealing, and cheating are "silly complaints" or "feuding".
A few days ago, this same "Denny" posted another poem here which I thought I sortof recognized, but he said it was his own work when asked. The string was called "For the 'oldsters' here...", from 1/16. Now I double checked and guess what?
"Denny" called his poem "Life's Adventure". The wonderful Joyce Maxtone Graham, AKA "Jan Struther", published a poem called "The Last Adventure" in 1940. She died young. She also wrote the wartime novel "Mrs. Miniver", which was made into a movie with Greer Garson, who won the Best Actress Oscar.
From "Denny's" Adventure---
You the supple and young of limb, you think yourselves
the great adventurers of life, and we
who have known the scourge of years gone by
Now in the winter of our days, with the last leaves
Falling from our branches as the sap runs more slowly.
But I will tell you, you do not know the adventures of age.
You, who wonder at each new encounter,
And marvel at that which to you is fresh
Skimming wildly above the surface of life
Cannot comprehend our quickened perception,
As we drink deeply, perhaps one last time
Of all the now familiar beauties of life.
You are lusty in love, yet you have never held a woman
More closely than we hold onto life, its slender thread
Seeking always to escape our grasp, tugging
Trying to raise us off the ground and carry us away
And we, bound to hold on with all our might
To hold her close and keep her near.
From Jan Struther's "The Last Adventure"---
You think yourselves the adventurous ones, you young ones,
And us becalmed, torpid, our days uneventful,
Our blood stagnant, our minds' antennae blunted:
But I, who was young but now am old, can tell you
There is no adventure like the adventure of age.
No zest of pioneer in a new country,
No quiver and shock of beauty first-time-tasted
Can match our sharpened zest, our quickened perception,
Who, at each day's encounter with familiar beauty,
Ask ourselves, "Is this for the last time?"
You are lusty in love, but you never held woman dearer
Than we hold life, our slim one, our slender darling,
Our sweet, fleet, fickle and false tormentor,
Who stands always on tiptoe, poised to leave us,
Bound to us only by the strength of our will to keep her.
Shame on you, "Denny", and shame on you, Mary Anne, for asking "Who cares?".
