Not so
long ago, I spent an evening with a couple about my own age (68) who are so
obsessed with looks that they have resorted to cosmetic surgery on more than one
occasion. Ironically, the results are none too flattering. Besides, its's personality that counts more than looks, and don't let anyone tell you different.
Respect comes into it to, doesn't it? Personally, I have more respect for the person who lets nature take its course and stays young in at heart than for the man or woman who prefers to kid themselves they have discovered the secret of eternal youth. The body may be a slave to time, but that doesn't have to be true of the spirit. The mind may well be vulnerable, but a strong dose of positive thinking and avoiding daytime TV has to be a good start. Couch potatoes do not age well in my experience.
Now, I ask
you. Gay or straight, let;s stay young at heart by all means, but what’s wrong with growing old naturally?
Surely,
it's enough that so many celebrities love to make fools of themselves by trying
to turn back nature's clock without we ordinary men and women playing the same
silly game?
On my
opinion, cosmetic surgery is only ever justifiable in cases when people may
have some kind of visible disfigurement that causes them distress. [It would
probably cause them less distress if other people were less obsessed with
outward appearances and more concerned with the person behind them.]
This poem
is a kenning.
KEEPING
UP APPEARANCES
I’ll
make a hunchback of you,
both
feet arguing with waistline,
whitened
teeth making tongue
abort
any truer word in the offing
as
if you have no real affinity
with
the fix you’re in, only dimly
aware
of any discomfort, unable
(or
unwilling) to follow it through,
and
carrying on regardless
I’ll
make a fine fool of you,
object
of scorn (though tempered
with
compassion among family,
friends
who may well stay silent,
fearing
you confuse concern
with
interference, pity, jealousy,
for
preferring home truths
stay
backward in coming forward
in
case anyone notices
I’ll
make a poor loser of you,
unless
you choose to take me on;
recognize
the enemy within
for
what I am or else go as a lamb
to
slaughter at the altar of vanity,
always
seeking shelter from life’s
worst
storms in love’s harbours,
but
as a guest, no sense of belonging,
only
a hungry yearning
I
am foolish pride, oblivious to the fact
that
my folly is perceived a poor act
Copyright,
R. N. Taber 2007; 2019
[Note: An
earlier version of this poem appears under the title Obsession in Accomplices
To Illusion by R. N. Taber,
Assembly Books, 2007; this rev. version, 2019.]
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