A Poem by Kay Boyle

Advice to the Old
(Including Myself)

Do not speak of yourself (for God’s sake) even when asked.
Do not dwell on other times as different from the time
Whose air we breathe; or recall books with broken spines
Whose titles died with the old dreams. Do not resort to
An alphabet of gnarled pain, but speak of the lark’s wing
Unbroken, still fluent as the tongue. Call out the names of stars
Until their metal clangs in the enormous dark. Yodel your way
Through fields where the dew weeps, but not you, not you.
Have no communion with despair; and, at the end,
Take the old fury in your empty arms, sever its veins,
And bear it fiercely, fiercely to the wild beast’s lair.


Hmmm- speak of the lark's wing... Call out the names of stars....
Something strong in these words speaks deliberately and delicately and devotedly about a vocation.
What would this mean, and how would one live it?!