Past fifty

10693614_710815495680995_382670466_n

Well, it’s happening. Happened, I mean. Stuff I thought would last forever -film titles, the actors in them, scenes of novels and their plots, not to mention quotes or even who scored for England in their recent qualifier against, er, who?- is now vanishing.

I don’t mean vaguely receding, tip of my tongue, gosh, just give me a minute, wait, hang on a sec, erm, no, it’s gone, I mean actual vanishing. Like the polar ice caps. Or the Great Barrier Reef. Or the planet Pluto. Gone.

You go up the stairs, through the bedroom, into the office, pull open the file marked ‘Billy Collins: Poems of’, and you come up with air. Trust me. You don’t? I had to look this up:

It is as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbour

decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,

to a little fishing village where there are no phones. (‘Forgetfulness’)

Sometimes I don’t even remember why I went up the stairs in the first place.

What’s left?

I do remember being shouted at at school. ‘Pay attention, Wilson! Useless! What are you Wilson?’ ‘Useless, Sir.’ ‘Fifty times, Wilson, by break.’ And scoring a try, once. It was March. Amazing to still have that, locked away, but not the year that Chelsea won the double.

My students laugh at me: ‘Google it!’

‘You have no idea what it has already done to my brain,’ I tell them.

Or my father, one Sunday lunch, saying ‘Look at the light on the willow tree!’ Or my first Latin lesson (‘Caecilius est pater’), or the curl of the lip of my French teacher when he was cross. Or the smell of the basement in my grandparents’ house in La Chaux-de-Fonds, a mixture of damp and mothballs. Or the way my grandfather would yell at us ‘Attention, les gosses!’, as though we knew what he meant (somehow we worked it out). I remember that. I even remember having ‘remember’ rammed down my throat (‘Fifty times, Wilson…’).

Newcastle lost to Liverpool 3-0 in the 1974 Cup Final.  I played it out afterwards with my brothers (the score was reversed). How do I still know this? I can still see Stan Smith hurdling the net at Wimbledon to embrace the defeated Nastase in 1972. Oh, how I cried.

Certain meals. My honeymoon. The birth of my children. Seeing my grandmother for the last time. The Rothkos at the Tate. Yes. The faster the rest of it fades, the more these seem to grow stronger.

For this reason I have been thinking a lot this week about Robert Lowell’s lovely late poem to his son, ‘For Sheridan‘. It begins with lines you could puzzle over for a month: ‘We only live between/ before we are and what we were.’

He is speaking in the language of what he calls elsewhere ‘the photographer’s sacramental instant’. The child is a ‘lost negative’; three ages pass ‘in a flash/ the same child in the same picture,/ he, I, you’. The backward-looking note of resigned wisdom is transparent, verging on unbearable: ‘We could see clearly/ and all the same things/ before the glass was hurt.’

The poem manages to contain immense moral force while remaining firmly in the demotic of intimate address. Lowell had more cause than most to know the impact of human behaviour, public as well as private, on those who were closest to him. Few have bettered the whispered plea of forgiveness with which the poem closes:

Past fifty, we learn with surprise and a sense

of suicidal absolution

that what we intended and failed

could never have happened—

and must be done better.

15 comments

  1. jaynestanton

    Antony, if you can remember the file name by the time you’ve gone upstairs, that’s good going, in my book! Let’s hold fast to our long-term memory…

    Like

  2. jaynestanton

    Antony, if you can remember the file name by the time you’ve gone upstairs, that’s good going, in my book! Hold fast to those long-term memories.

    Like

  3. john foggin

    50! I remember 50.22 years ago. I feel younger now. Certainly fitter. And more long term memory. I’m assuming this is a birthday rather than 50 poems written this month, or a golden wedding, or…..Anyway. Have a lovely time, whatever the reason

    Like

  4. michael9murray

    The ‘Forgetfulness’ piece was wonderful.

    I often wonder about these things – are they lost, or has the connect/link (to use computer-speak) failed? The power of belief: if we believe we still have these things, then on good days….
    I have ME ( I was going through the hall to the kitchen one evening and suddenly stopped: I did not know this place, never mind where I was going) and losing memory stuff is constant. As I wrote, ‘on good days’ it is still there.
    I watched my mother going through dementia – you become aware of how things cease to work. Even she had lucid moments.

    I wonder also now: am I in my memories, or what I do? One can still make a difference even if the sense of old self is fading.

    Like

    • Anthony Wilson

      Hi Michael, thank you for taking the time to say these important things. I am so sorry to hear both about your mother and your ME.
      I don’t think the questions you ask ever really go away. Some of the things I mention in the post are more real to me than last week.
      And that is very strange.
      As ever with grateful good wishes
      Anthony

      Like

  5. Jazz Cookie

    Oh, Anthony, this is a wonderful post. Collins’ poem always hits hard and the Lowell lines add to that. The world may be too much with us at times but at other times, not nearly enough!
    Molly

    Like

  6. evelyneholingue

    So moving and yet funny, Anthony. I’ve always liked how you tie your personal life experiences to the poems that matter to you very much. In this post you are doing it in an exquisite way that will resonate with anyone already member of the selective memory club or… close to join.

    Like

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s