Why Should Not Old Men Be Mad?

The greatest gift I received from my education at the University of Buffalo was my introduction to the poetry and life of William Butler Yeats. Even Shakespeare pales by comparison. How often have I gone back to his poetry for solace, wisdom, meaning, and passion? Once I knew his work, my own work changed, not in perceptible ways, but in subtle, intrinsic ways. I changed. As I grow older (I'm already old), it only makes sense to return to him once again. I want to write again. Maybe Yeats will show me the way.

Eileen Eliot, my Maude Gonne (though, as she strides over the mountains of North Carolina, she probably has more in common with Cuchulain, her red hair flying in the breeze, as her feet cover the miles) has been trying to inspire me to write poetry again. I have tried the same for her as she is the most gifted poet I have ever met. I told her today I was on the verge of a poem. She said I should write at least four lines of it. It was going to be about someone I don't really know but have been observing from a far for a while, but she is not my inspiration. So, this is not for her.

The line above the title is from Yeats' poem, "The Lover Mourns For The Loss of Love." It's appropriate for more reasons than anyone could imagine.

“I had a beautiful friend”
Yeats

I Remember Your Hair

as life grows small
and shadows long
old men recall
echoes of a song

darkness closes
as ages pass
a memory of roses
lingers at the last