The Thirtieth Year of My Age

The shutters slam, but that is only wind.

My dog wakes and starts growling by the fire,

Yet he'll obey me if I bid him down

Just as I learn to bid down all desire

Here in an old house, thirty miles from town.

Outside gnarled fruit trees intercept the wind,

But trees and house and dog may all come down

By intercepting my contentious mind.

Fiercely the tongues of fire lick a log

As my thirtieth year approaches, while alone

I sit here in a cold room with a dog

Imagining a man's placative tone,

And the sweet voice of one I dearly love.

Yet tones and imagined voices are not enough

Here tonight. Now must I turn aside

To face these faces that I cannot hide:

My father's face after his banks had failed,

His eyes frightened and half-weary of fright;

The face of one I used but never loved,

The bitter face a child has lost in night;

A man I despised and exceedingly hate,

Though the fire warns me it is getting late;

And one, the one I lack the power to bless,

Who gave me all, knowing I would give less.

Giving or taking, how much goes in flame?

J. V. HEALY

The ashes gather, yet here's more than ash:

Here are these spirits whispering my name,

While outside with the howling of the wind

White, damned faces twist my heart away:

Egregious, broken shapes my soul must call

To witness the beginning of its fall

Into the thirtieth year which is half-way.

Into the log at last the flames have spread!

If they were merciful they'd take the heart,

Or are the flames themselves the heart instead?

I recall how my father used to say:

"It's best you keep your heart out of your head."

Yet by doing so his own head fell apart!

I cannot say what's left is merely ash.

Suppose this flame be one I cannot quash?

Suppose, leaving the log, it starts to burn

In the clean air, goes blazing round the room

And struggles to go mounting up the stairs

As if, drink-crazed, it flustered to consume

The livid body and its dross of days?

Now as the night grows cold the fire dies;

At last I have arrived at thirty years:

A man at thirty must account his lies,

J.V. Healy