The Machine Gun & She, to Him

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Steve Braunias writes in today’s Sunday paper that ‘old age is the price we pay for maturity.’ These two poems continue the dialogue I’ve had going on this topic over some recent blogs. The first was written in the full flush of erotic love when I started living with Anne. It encapsulates the intensity and involvement of a particular afrernoon. The second I stumbled across and liked very much the other day when I was reading Hardy’s poems.

THE MACHINE GUN

Your tits smile
through your blue
sweater as I accede
to Patrick’s request
to make a machine gun

less than an hour ago
we had our burst of action

I get involved
in the intricacy
of wood, saw, old towel
rail as barrel, and good
rimu tongue and groove

less than an hour ago
it was all tongue and groove

Harvey McQueen

SHE, To HIM

WHEN you shall see me lined by tool of Time,
My lauded beauties carried off from me,
My eyes no longer stars as in their prime,
My name forgot of Maiden Fair and Free;

When in your being heart concedes to mind,
And judgment, though you scarce its process know,
Recalls the excellencies I once enshrined,
And you are irked that they have withered so:

Remembering that with me lies not the blame,
That Sportsman Time but rears his brood to kill,
Knowing me in my soul the very same--
One who would die to spare you touch of ill!--
Will you not grant to old affection's claim
The hand of friendship down Life's sunless hill?

Thomas Hardy