A Cynical Old Man Acknowledges His Birthday Very Grudgingly

Uncut Poetry

I try hard not to be cynical. But I think that’s my terrible gift to myself. Life had a hand to play (of course!), bringing me people and platitudes in equal measure, to leave me nicely acidic for a lifetime. Not that I don’t fight against my worst instincts, read tomes to learn how to return to a crystal-clear state of trust and welcome, a kind of knowing innocence, measured but complete in itself. But it’s easier said than done. As the entirety of my being screams “Alert!” whenever I see a good deed being done. ‘What’s in it for him?’ is the instinctive response. It’s almost as if I’m done with believing there is anything which is simply selfless, guileless, truly giving. And then I stop myself and think - how can I be chained to a thinking where nothing is lost and nothing is gained, but oh I pay such a cost! Go to hell with Sophocles who said “Trust dies but mistrust blossoms “. I want, again and again, to be the fool who gets fooled daily, hurt hourly, and the injured soul who has to be picked up drunk from the narrow alley every night. But be the one who doesn’t lose hope in humanity even as friends lie, colleagues use, relatives conspire and outsiders ingratiate. It’s better to die innocent with one’s heart full of the sky then bitterly, much before the universe closes in. If you liked this poem, consider listening to these other poems on the travails of growing old:

• Memory Keeper
• Ruins Have Permanent Flames
• The Ageing of Love

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