(My second blog, Dear Me, really starts here, with all the tormented adolescent stuff. As I've progressed through my old journals, I have discovered that I was apparently a tormented adult too. Currently, I am a tormented middle-ager - n2n, 15/12/07).
The first "proper" poem I ever wrote. I was seventeen. What I remember about this poem, written in Bahrain one afternoon, is that it was quite involuntary and unexpected. The girl I was put the pen to paper and watched the words slip out. She had never heard or thought or planned them this way. Somewhere in her head, someone had already composed it. She just wrote it down. On Oscar Wilde's birthday.
Then and now
Then and now
Winter summer spring and fall -
They come, they play
They take a bow;
But man from youth turns slowly
Old
And over age he has no hold
Live the passionate days, and live the cold:
You have no curtain call.
(written on 16 October 1983)
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