Forgetting

 

Forgetting

Old age plays several nasty pranks,

Purloining strength and youth,

Seizing sight and sound and taste,

And modifying truth;

But worst of all the memory flees -

The day before is lost.

Though sixty years ago is clear,

Current events are tossed

Like rubbish in a refuse truck;

Confusion reigns supreme.

‘I never did, I don’t know how,

Don’t make me cry, I’ll scream.’

 

Forgetting is letting

The memories go,

Sensing identity

Fading, and so,

Child once more,

Your needs are

Met each day,

Every way,

Until

The end

Of

Time.

Mag 133 Recall

Thanks go to Tess Kincaid who organises and hosts this meme. To read more Magpies please click here.

Summer Night, 1913, by Albert Bloch

Recall

It was there, just beyond reach. If only he could recall . . . Perhaps if he sat quietly for a while as the woman had suggested it might come back to him but that was something he couldn’t do. He paced. He looked about him. There were others in the house but he didn’t know them though some looked familiar. Why was he here? It wasn’t his home. He wanted to go home. Someone could take him - he had money. Then he could live on his own again. He didn’t like it here. He didn’t like the people. They stared at him and made him angry. He couldn’t understand what they were saying and they wouldn’t go away. He threw a cup at the woman nearest him. What was in the cup?

At meal-times he sat among strangers and ate food he hadn’t ordered though the woman told him he had. She had lied to him. Afterwards he paced again. Where were his parents? His sister had come to visit. She was older than him – fifty-six. He asked her about his parents. She told him they were dead. Why hadn’t anyone told him? He told her his things had been stolen. She found them in a drawer and showed them to him but they weren’t his. She was lying. Everyone was lying. No-one understood, no-one believed him. The fog in his head grew thicker and the words wouldn’t come.

His sister went to talk to the woman. He listened. The woman said, ‘Your father’s not too bad today, a little aggressive, but manageable.’

What did she mean? Her words were a blur. She was lying again.

‘He was trying to tell me about his boyhood home but he couldn’t remember the name. He got very agitated – his vocabulary is so limited now but he’s in remarkably good health for a man of his age. Ninety-eight next week, isn’t he?’

The man wrung his hands. He hated it here. He would escape and go home to . . . the name was there, just beyond reach.

His sister came back. What was she called?

 ‘Goodbye, Dad. See you in a few days.’

Poetry Jam Forgetting

The subject for Poetry Jam this week is 'Forgetting'. Click here to read more contributions.


Forgetting

Old age plays several nasty pranks, 

Purloining strength and youth,         

Seizing sight and sound and taste   

And modifying truth;

For worst of all the memory flees -      

The day before is lost,

While fifty years ago is clear,

Current events are tossed

Like garbage in a refuse truck.

Confusion reigns supreme -

‘I never did, I don’t know how,

Don’t make me cry, I’ll scream.’

Forgetting is letting

The memories go,

Sensing identity

Fading, and so,

Child once more,

Your needs are

Met each day

Every way

Until

The end

Of

Time. 

In the Red

Have you ever been overdrawn? Have you agreed an overdraft with your bank which legitimises being in the red? If or when you overreach that limit does your bank charge you?

It's not a pleasant feeling, knowing that you are incurring the displeasure of your bank manager. Actually it's more likely to be a computer that clocks the fact that you've overspent again and then a human is alerted and sends you a standard letter.

Well, imagine how Gordon Brown must be feeling. That huge piggy bank called the Treasury is empty; more than that it is overdrawn to the tune of around £17.5 billion. That's £17.5 billion. Time to pull in the horns, tighten the belt, hold on to the purse strings, count every penny, make £1 do the work of two and all those other useless and overdue bits of folk wisdom.

As Chancellor of the Exchequer GB was doing a grand job, or so we were told repeatedly by Tony Blair. Perhaps he knew the mess canny Gordon was getting into and maliciously allowed him to continue knowing that he'd get his just rewards once he became the unelected successor to the Prime Minister. Maybe he didn't know. Possibly he didn't care.

Whatever the circumstances of the downslide the net result is that Great Britain Limited is severely strapped. Don't worry though, GB – that's the man, not the country – will pull something out of the hat just as he has before, but it will undoubtedly be a short-term remedy to try and drag his government out of the mire and spray them with rosewater before the General Election.

Meanwhile the Civil Service has been guaranteed huge pensions that are on average six times the size of pensions of people in industry. Unlike industry pensions which are already funded by employees paying into their funds, Civil Service pensions are not already financed but are funded later on through tax revenues. Add to the equation the fact that Civil Servants can retire early, even at the age of fifty, on full pension. This creates an enormous problem for the country in years to come.

Gordon Brown has made matters worse by raiding funds in the private sector; he has taxed pension accounts leaving a problem for industry which faces reduced pensions. In not too many years from now there will be a very large aged poor population and how will they be supported?