Ruins Have Permanent Flames

Art: Alireza Karimi Moghaddam

People who are ruins have stories

which are forever lit by a flame,

held close enough to be their own,

far enough for passersby to find their glow.

.

I have passed such men and women

on streets and known homes,

and I have stopped reverentially

as one does,            in front of a lighted church.

.

I seek permission from them

to rummage             for stories hidden inside,

in the penumbra there is always an alcove,

for magic treasured as tales.

.

And their craggy lines light up to know,

their lives did matter, after all,

that their dust-encrusted deeds were a lesson,

that their wisdom was not gained in vain. 

.

And I see the ruins build themselves

back to a trace of glory that they were -

as I sit beside them, holding their hands,

awash in the inner light they spill on me.

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Sculptor: Bruno Catalano

Old age is often a sadness, not so much for the slowing and breaking down of the body’s machinery, but because how it brings invisibility to the aged. Because if there is one section of people who are ignored, as if they don’t exist, it is often the aging. As the world swirls around them, with all it’s passion, conflict, confusion, interaction, conversation, they are there, in the middle of the whirlpools - they are seen - and then unseen.

Nobody seems to have time for the old.

There they sit, quietly, often in a corner, observing the drama, silent with their opinion (maybe they were once told roughly not to interfere?), thinking of how they had faced similar situations, knowing how things would turn out - but, alas,  never turned to, never asked for.

By being ignored, they are rendered static in the daily flow of life. They are bathed and alert, seated and waiting, looking tentatively into the busyness of their loved ones’ lives, asking softly what was up, what was the rush, if there was any help required - but are brushed off - gently, by a good soul; not so gently, by the one who thinks them to be a waste of time.

And they sit quietly, with their newspapers and memories, hushed tones and shaded looks, both proud and concerned. They see the living dynamos, with their blood in them, making a life of their own, with their own choices and decisions; but often immolating themselves in self-lit fires. And then unasked, they get up from their wheelchairs, and break open the glass door of the fire extinguisher, and save the souls of their offspring, the way they did when they were young.

And suddenly, the invisible become visible. The useless become useful. The extinct become extant.

I remember Almodovar’s Talk To Her, where a male nurse spent years talking to a woman who was in a coma, who probably did not comprehend a single word of what was being spoken, who probably had little chance of recovery, but does so because he loves her. I often wonder what stops us from doing the same with the elderly in our family, when they are not even comatose, and would be absorbing of what we say, observant in what they give. In our hierarchy of choices, we would rather exult in the digital euphoria of social media than have the slow patience to savour the quiet delight of a life fully-lived.

If only we go beyond our professed love for our parents and other ageing loved ones, and actually spent time with them, with words or merely sharing silences, we will come back, awash in light and drenched in gratitude. Attention is the soul and water and sunshine for an ageing soul.

As the sun sets, and we revel in its afterglow, grace fills our soul, and the tenderness of what we give comes back to us and makes us malleable and alive.

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If you like this poem, consider listening to these other poems on the inevitabilities of life:

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