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Before You're Sixty-Four

I'd like to take you to a bed-
and- breakfast place not far from town,
and sign us in as Smith or Jones:
no clues for partners, mum's the word.

We'd lock the door, swap compliments
about our looks, then gently
unbutton each other; shed
decades of separation.

The hours would fly, and when it's late
we'd share more tales about the boys,
our bodies spoons for Sailing By.

We'd be awake for breakfast:
you, fresh fruit with bran flakes, me
fried heart attack. Then kiss and go,
but not before I whispered you

were nearer and dearer to me
than breakers crashing on the shore.

Dear Andrew ~

I have no idea how I missed your posting this... I'm so glad I saw it. A lifetime of stories are included in these few lines... intrigueingly so. Erotic, tender, and loving... speaking to times gone by and a shared present without the constraints of expectation or commitment. Very touching words toward a revisiting of one's past and the deepest level of caring.

I love how G~d arranged for Nature to symbolize the realities of our lives. We only need see it and speak to it.

Love,
Elizabeth

Andrew McGeever wrote:
>I'd like to take you to a bed-and-breakfast place not far from town, and sign us in as Smith or Jones: no clues for partners, mum's the word.

lizzytysh responded:
>Erotic, tender, and loving . . . Very touching words . . .


I wonder if their 'partners' would agree.

we'd share more tales about the boys

Shared histories... and not for me to judge. An honest, truthful poem of desire for reconnection... and expression of continued, deep caring. Some loves will never die.

This must be something many people dream about.

Lizzy said:

Some loves will never die.

That is so true.

Thanks Andrew,

Diane

There may be other partners, but there may not be, either... at least according to the poem.

Once divorced, it may be that a name is no longer shared. If that's the case, in whose name does one check in? Why not a neutral ground... one that doesn't speak to the legalities of their previous connection. "Mum" on summoning those reminders... neutrality in that regard.

Perhaps, not the case at all. Still... a possibility. "No clues for partners" certainly seems to herald the present... though, with a stretch, could suggest "no clues for [us as being] partners".

When initially reading this poem, I entertained these ideas for awhile... still, the poem recalls what I agree with you on, Diane, fantasies of returning, in part, to one's past, just one more time... especially, since the poem title's inspiration "When I'm Sixty-Four" never came to fruition, their many lost dreams are suggested and the lasting love confirmed.

~ Lizzy

lizzytysh wrote:
>There may be other partners, but there may not be, either...


Well, perhaps I'm wrong, but it seems quite apparent to me that these two egoistic fornicators were deceiving their partners by booking into a hotel under assumed names solely to spend the night shagging. Filthy. In Iran they would be hung, because this type of unacceptable behaviour breaks down the pillars of society. People who do this type of thing catch all manner of sexually transmitted diseases and then go home and give it to their spouse. It's wicked.

Dear Geoffrey ~

Do you also condemn yourself this harshly and heavily for your fantasies of passion, borne out of shared love?

I've read/heard that fantasies are healthy, as well. This poem expresses a tender wish, of sweetness, love, and longing ~ not a tawdry happening. Even if it were to happen, it wouldn't necessarily be that.

~ Lizzy

lizzytysh wrote:
>Do you also condemn yourself this harshly and heavily for your fantasies of passion, borne out of shared love?
>
>I've read/heard that fantasies are healthy, as well. This poem expresses a tender wish, of sweetness, love, and longing ~ not a tawdry happening. Even if it were to happen, it wouldn't necessarily be that.


Lizzy, any harshness that I express is but a fragment compared to that which is inflicted by unfaithful partners. One thing is to become caught in a weak moment and succumb to spontaneous adultery, but booking into a hotel requires devious planning and cunning - and that is something else. Unscrupulous bed-hopping devils may thrive in immorality, but a conscientious person will struggle with heavy guilt that will eventually wear them down - and any young children involved are in danger of becoming permanently scarred from the domestic upheavel created by a parent's lack of control. That is harsh. Yes, of course fantasy is healthy, but if it depicts extra-marital affairs it should be seen as a sign that something is wrong in the marriage, and one should seek counselling. The poem does more than express a wish, it promotes illicit carnality as being joyous and thus encourages others to do likewise. People who wilfully engage in premeditated sexual encounters are themselves opening the door to a self-inflicted harshness that is far greater than my little admonition.

Hi Geoffrey ~

I don't advocate infidelity. In reality, the reverse. However, there can remain an undeniable bond between two people, once married, who bore children together. To consider that these facts and attendant feelings could be scalpeled out of one's energy fields of thought and feelings is unrealistic. To process this truth through a poem seems very healthy to me. A person cannot help who they're attracted to, or the feelings that they have. They are what they are. Feelings. What they can help is how they choose to act on them. In the case where fidelity [inside or outside of marriage] is an issue for either party, the best choice is to not act. Acknowledge the feelings [at least to oneself] and go on. However, what a powerful bond these two already share, with years of caring following. This poem expresses that well.

~ Lizzy

Geoffrey wrote: People who wilfully engage in premeditated sexual encounters are themselves opening the door to a self-inflicted harshness that is far greater than my little admonition.

I am looking for some mitigation for your crimes to the English language. Would you be kind enough to confirm that it is not your mother tongue but you have learnt it entirely from Christmas crackers and Chinese fortune cookies.

I also wonder whether it is sensible that you should, in a discussion about sexual intercourse, reveal that you have only a "little admonition". On one view it is a very brave confession , but it does leave you open to ridicule and mockery.

Michael, always here to help in my role as your Dear Friend and Mentor (failed).

mickey_one wrote:
>Would you be kind enough to confirm that [English] is not your mother tongue . . .


My mother was born in Merthyr Tydfil. I am Norwegian, but spent my childhood in Gloucestershire (near where Tim lives) - and later in Sussex. My English is deteriorating, I know. What did I write that was wrong?

Geoffrey wrote:mickey_one wrote:
>Would you be kind enough to confirm that [English] is not your mother tongue . . .


My mother was born in Merthyr Tydfil. I am Norwegian, but spent my childhood in Gloucestershire (near where Tim lives) - and later in Sussex. My English is deteriorating, I know. What did I write that was wrong?

Is your mum still alive, Geoffrey? You are blessed if she is as I think you are even older than me. Did she speak with a Welsh accent?

your English is, of course, excellent. I was only teasing.

mickey_one wrote:
>Is your mum still alive, Geoffrey? You are blessed if she is as I think you are even older than me. Did she speak with a Welsh accent?

She lives, according to an acquaintance who saw her coincidentally some months ago. She was born in February 1923, under a totally different name than the one she uses. She and I have no contact, and apart from some old pictures accompanying a couple of newspaper articles (Sunday Mirror, etc.) I do not know what she looks like. She spoke with various accents, if I remember correctly - it depended upon to who she was addressing. A lot of people do that - to a certain degree. I was born in 1950. Now it is your turn to disclose biographical intimacies, and afterwards pass the ball to a person of your choosing. Call it 'sorting the wheat from the chaff'.

Begin at the end; the best place to start. So many lines between the first and last, and some disturbing stuff in the middle. Yet I feel it works, despite "mum's the word", not understood by those who read a reference to mothers.
"Unbutton" is the key to unlock the poem, while Boris Pasternak permits me to speak about the coastlines of our lives.

Andrew.


"mum's the word" : complete silence or secrecy is demanded , or promised. (An inarticulate sound with closing of the lips: partly OFr "!momer", to mum.

Mummers were silent actors before Shakespeare found an audience.