Eighty

     When old age shall this generation waste,
     Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
     Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say’st,
     ‘Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all
     Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.’
               John Keats, from “Ode on a Grecian Urn”

     [This will be difficult if you don’t know Keats’s poem]

You know, I’ve never really liked that poem
(Unravished bride—my ass!)—and that greasy,
Weasel ending (pathetic fallacy!)
Spoken by an antique urn—poofy, prim!

Sententious, chiseled marble, for chrissake!
Tell me, pagan pot, what does it mean—truth
Is beauty, beauty truth? Long in the tooth
As I am, I’ll tell you “truth”—it’s tears, ache,

Withered testes, oblivious to both
Ravishing brides or painted, ornate pots.
Wasted by stark old age, consumed by rot,
I testify: the ravages I loathe
Birth real beauty, truth—all you need inveighed—
A book, firm bed, warm duvet, strong nsaid_­¹.
                       (2/13/10)

1 For the young and unafflicted, nsaid = nonsteroidal-anti-inflammation drug.