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Thursday
My good friend and neighbor, author Dudley Delffs, turned 60 last week and wrote a poem describing what it feels like. As his observations apply to anyone approaching the later years of life, I got his permission to share it here.
Dudley notes that life no longer feels as tempestuous as it did when he was young. “Turning sixty,” he observes, “isn’t the hurricane reaching landfall but angry waves out at sea kicking up.” While we may still encounter disasters, they take quieter and stealthier forms.
Maybe that‘s because we’re less likely to take adrenaline-pumping risks. Turning sixty means resisting “the urgent risk to accelerate on dead man’s curve.” Instead, we become “a steady hand turning the wheel.” Rather than hitting the brakes on black ice, we “slow down to enjoy the/ ruddy winter sunset beyond a foreground of neon signs and electric lines.”
I’m thinking that those neon signs and electric lines may the the sign of a fatal car crash. But because we too are moving toward death, we make a point to enjoy sunsets and other of life’s small pleasures as we inch forward.
The other images in the poem, some of them deliberate clichés and meant to be seen as such, express similar sentiments. I also hear echoes of Alfred Lord Tennyson’s “Ulyssses.” Where Dudley writes, “And there is loss—how could there not be over six decades?—but the wins have surprised you,” Tennyson’s speaker reflects, “Though much is taken, much abides.” And where Dudley writes, “The dimming day is undeniable, but twilight embers ambient gold all around you,” we have Tennyson’s “The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks: the long day wanes.”
It’s a lovely reflection to accompany one’s sixtieth birthday. Many happy returns, Dudley.
Sixty
By Dudley Delffs
Turning sixty isn’t the hurricane reaching landfall but angry waves out at sea kicking up.
Not the conflagration incinerating miles of forest but careless sparks catching dry tinder.
Not the loss of organs or limbs but unrelenting turn of letterpress embossing soft flesh.
Not the urgent risk to accelerate on dead man’s curve as much as a steady hand turning the
wheel. Turning sixty isn’t hitting the brakes on black ice as much as slowing down to enjoy the
ruddy winter sunset beyond a foreground of neon signs and electric lines. Turning sixty
isn’t the hard bridle of desire galloping into unspoiled wilderness again and again but a gentle
canter along a trail overgrown by weeds and untamed briers. Not the folly of going all in on
a pair of jacks but the wisdom to fold long before the bend in the river demands greater loss.
And there is loss—how could there not be over six decades?—but the wins have surprised you
just as much, never the lottery but an occasional scratch card to keep you going, a go-bag of
barely enough just in the nick of time. Moments when you kept your appointment with your
self and showed up early. Sixty years smother some dreams and kindle others, revealing what’s
worth killing and what’s worth living for. The dimming day is undeniable, but twilight embers
ambient gold all around you, a gilt frame glimmering, fading slant hope into the darkness.
©Dudley Delffs. Printed with permission of the author
