Many people say they have fear of old age, not death or dying. But my role model is the woman who wasn't afraid of open heart surgery—or loneliness—or lazy brain. This poem has danced off the page and has its own chorus and a subterranean tune.

Scottish super-poet reads "Gravity" and talks about poems, people, and his future old age. Recorded November 2019 and still as fresh as a purple thistle head.

About Michael Pedersen: The Scottish Poetry Library

Neu! Reekie!

Kim Hill interviews Michael Pedersen

A young poet reads a poem to an old poet. An old poet learns about eating green apples with chili, and a new snack is invented. You can read the original poem on my blog.

In a storm of regrets or negative thoughts, when you feel broken or haunted, a poem can help you to mend. That's informal poetic therapy. Today Kintsugi by Janis Freegard and When Befriending Ghosts by Siobhan Harvey are poetic therapy for me. Which poems do you turn to? I'm Rachel McAlpine, 81, a New Zealand poet.

Kintsugi by Janis Freegard

You will break and break and keep breaking until you’re on the floor

Wondering whether you can ever rise. (You can.)

You’ll break until you feel you may never be whole again.

(You will be.)

But you’ll be altered. Now is the time for kintsugi,

the Japanese art of repairing with gold, mending the cracks

in smashed ceramics to make something more beautiful.

You’ll reassemble yourself and use gold to seal the fissures.

You’ll be better than before. Don’t stay damaged —

That’s no use to anyone. Don’t give yourself more pity than you need.

As soon as you’re ready, heal. (On second thoughts,

You may never be ready. Do it anyway.)

Trust me when I say: it’s going to be better. Trust me when I say:

This isn’t your fault. This shouldn’t have happened.

But it has and you couldn’t have stopped it. Make sure

whatever happens next is good. Really good.

Prepare your lacquer pot,

Mix in the gold.

Janis Freegard's Weblog

If Befriending Ghosts Siobhan Harvey

If they are the legacy left in lost code

If they are the beginning of broken soul

If they are the bitter end of love

If they are the sour taste of rejection

If they are the other side of the story

If they are the curses cast into oblivion

If they are the chemical rendering of light

If they are the sky at the point of breaking

If they are a house troubled by occupants

If they are a dwelling upon difficult territory

If they are my crying out of pain

If they are my tearing open old wounds

If they are my looking deep inside

If they are my viscera, blood and bile

I will give them oxygen and time

I will give them fuel and flame

I will raise them to ruin, to wreck

I will raise them as lovers, as pets

I will wear them up like a leash

I will wear them down to a dust

I will be their armour, their second skin

I will be their padded cell, their asylum

Siobhan Harvey

Today I'm reading a few poems that I wrote for particular friends or relatives—not love poems, just a message of delight or affection. Have you ever written a poem like that—and given it to them? That's pretty special for both the poet and the receiver.

Wonder what children think about hell, careers and catastrophes? Sit back and listen to three poems with some insights into their private worries.

Theology of hell

I was worried. I was seven

and Daddy (as we called him then)

was tucking me into bed.

I was worried about hell.

I wasn’t sure how bad you had to be.

So I asked him, “When I die

will I go to heaven or

to hell?” Not a chatterbox

he thought before he answered.

We always could see him thinking

with his eyeballs and his mouth.

He said, “I don’t believe in hell

for God is a loving God.

But if there is a hell, I’m sure

that only a very very few

would go to hell, and only after doing

something very very bad.”

“Like what?” I pushed.

Again he pondered. Then he said,

“Like killing a person on purpose

and never feeling sorry.”

He was a vicar, and he knew.

He kissed me goodnight

and left me healed.

I knew for sure and certain

I would never kill

a person, not on purpose

and if I did, I would be sorry—

so I wouldn’t go to hell.

Vocational Guidance

You have to say something when they ask

and they always ask.

But I haven’t decided yet.

I might be an anthropologist

or I might be a lady with a nail polish shop

or I might be both, and in my spare time

I might be a ballerina.

When I get tired of being a ballerina

I will have a baby called Hannah

and she will be my friend.

But I can’t have two friends called Hannah

so I will give my baby Hannah

to my other friend, Layla.

Actually I won’t get tired

of being a ballerina.

Elsie's Scale of Terribleness

Having no one to play with is four out of ten

if it’s only a single day.

A sunburn on your bones is an eight.

Dropping your lunch in the dirt is a five.

A zombie attack is about a nine

A ten would be if my dog died

(that would make me very sad)

or if all the humans of the world

got destructed by the God of Mud

but Granny dying would only be

a five, because she’s old.

All poems are from How To Be Old, for sale at any New Zealand book store (if not, they'll order it) or buy direct from The Cuba Press.

After 2020, we may need help to achieve a happy new year. Sit back and listen to 3 poems about happiness that might help you to find it or notice it squatting in your life.

It's not easy making new friends but when old friends move or die or cut contact with you. Two poems with some ideas that might help at those times.

A poem about my mother's elaborate plan to end her life at 70 by throwing herself down a crevasse in the Franz Josef Glacier or Fox Glacier. I can't remember which. End of life choice is complicated and personal. Her own choice was purely imaginary when she was young.

Take a few minutes off and let me read to you. Today, I’ll read some tiny little poems that I call fortune cookies. They are feather light. Maybe one of them is about your own life. You’ll know it when you hear it. The poems are from How To Be Old published by The Cuba Press.