On Being Ninety
On Being Ninety

The clown is quieter now,
but somewhere in the back of my closet
is a large red nose.

I try to keep on the move,
but at times I find my feet
on separate paths.

I like to think that my heart
is as big as ever–
even when it doesn’t keep time.

If I had a chance to do all of it
over again,
who would I be?

So what if I’m not quite ninety.
Don’t they say it’s a virtue
to look to the future?

Perhaps the first ninety years
will turn out to be
only a good beginning.

– –

“On Being Ninety” is from The Life That I Have, which appeared last year.  As the poem implies, I actually wrote it when I was still 89.

Knute Skinner

KNUTE SKINNER lives in Killaspuglonane, County Clare, his home for the past fifty-five years. His poetry has appeared widely in Ireland, Britain, Australia and North America. He is the author of sixteen books of verse including a collected edition, Fifty Years: Poems 1957-2007, which appeared from Salmon. A memoir, Help Me to a Getaway, was published by Salmon in 2010.

Ouevre

The Window Seat

Poetry by Knute Skinner

I found Edna stretched out there, absorbing the sun. “You look just like a cat,” I announced and put down my armload of books. “Do you also purr?” “I purr...
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The Cow

Poetry by Knute Skinner

There’s a white cow standing upon the hill, surely the whitest cow I shall ever see. As usual with cows she is eating grass. Nothing strange about that, except that...
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What Trudy Knows

Poetry by Knute Skinner

I find myself mourning but not for anyone we have buried and not for the old neighbourhood or my lost youth or any of that crap. To make no bones...
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Anthology

There is a time

Poetry by Bettina

There is a time to hang on and a time to let go. Now is the letting go time, the ending time, leaving the shore time, handing over my will...
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Slowly we drift into shadows

Poetry by Pariksith Singh

Slowly we drift into shadows As twilight grows dun Selves of gray Disappear in the dark Our bodies buried Under their own Subliminal weight Slide into the murk In the...
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Sky-Bird

Poetry by Pariksith Singh

To fly Is to be The infinite space To rise Into openness The vast opens as I My love of transparence Fills me now To flesh and marrow The journey...
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