Late Flowering Lust
We often think of youthful virility and passion. British poet John Betjeman invites his readers to consider that although facing diminishing powers and approaching death the prominence of lust can still caress the minds of of the elderly.
My head is bald, my breath is bad,
Unshaven is my chin,
I have not now the joys I had
When I was young in sin.
I run my fingers down your dress
With brandy-certain aim
And you respond to my caress
And maybe feel the same.
But I’ve a picture of my own
On this reunion night,
Wherein two skeletons are shewn
To hold each other tight;
Dark sockets look on emptiness
Which once was loving-eyed,
The mouth that opens for a kiss
Has got no tongue inside.
I cling to you inflamed with fear
As now you cling to me,
I feel how frail you are my dear
And wonder what will be–
A week? or twenty years remain?
And then–what kind of death?
A losing fight with frightful pain
Or a gasping fight for breath?
Too long we let our bodies cling,
We cannot hide disgust
At all the thoughts that in us spring
From this late-flowering lust.
John Betjeman
According to Poems and Prose, the poet, John Betjeman was asked on television “Do you have any regrets?”
The aged man replied: “Yes. I wish I’d had more sex.”
Do you agree with him?
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