Another year slides away. If my life is the Samuel Beckett play, “Breath” I am on the exhale. I intend to squeeze every drop of juice out of what is left. If fatalism teaches you anything it teaches you to treasure the moment. Just treasuring Dublin retaining the Sam Maguire at the moment. Full time for Dublin, and I am (hopefully) still in the third quarter.
For a Birthday: by Thom Gunn
I have reached a time when words no longer
Instead of guiding me across the moors
Strong landmarks in the uncertain out-of-doors,
Or like dependable friars on the Alp
Saving with wisdom and with brandy kegs,
They are gravel-stones, or tiny dogs which yelp
Biting my trousers, running round my legs.
Description and analysis degrade,
Limit, delay, slipped land from what has been;
And when we groan My Darling what we mean
Looked at more closely would too soon evade
The intellectual habit of our eyes;
And either the experience would fade
Or our approximations would be lies.
The snarling dogs are weight upon my haste,
Tons which I am detaching ounce by ounce.
All my agnostic irony I renounce
So I may climb to regions where I rest
In springs of speech, the dark before of truth:
The sweet moist wafer of your tongue I taste,
And find right meanings in your silent mouth.