It's not really a poem, but...

[Gyppo]

...I think the poets may 'get' this ...

    The Flickering Flame.

    I occasionally light a small candle to mark the passing of 
someone I respected or admired, even if I never met them in everyday 
life.  Mum used to do this, and it seems I've inherited the habit.

    It's a strange and eclectic collection of people who get this 
final accolade. 

    A while back it was for Mike Hoare, the mercenary leader.  The 
old bugger lived to be 100, whch is a rare thing amongst those who 
followed his trade.

    Most recently it was for Harry Patterson (Jack Higgins), the 
writer.  I couldn't help thinking it was also for his regular 
characters, their slow development over the years suddenly halted.

    As Mum once said, "The old order changeth, always.  And the 
new have to find their own way.  The light shines in both directions, 
if you let it."

    Gyppo

[Dave]

I am not sure I get this but then how can one ever be sure. The choice of people to admire is eclectic indeed and puzzling on face value, especially Mike Hoare whom the writer here seems to admire for surviving. The texts are largely prose in conception and poetic in intention. I do like Mum's sentiment. 

[Tracy Mitchell]

 The light shines in both directions, 
if you let it."

Ah.  very nice.  This has a very poetic feel to it. The conversational tone adds rather than detracts, as far as I am concerned.

Years ago on MWC some may recall I found myself pulled sideways into discussions/arguments about what is and what isn't a poem.  Mind-numbingly fruitless.  I resolved then to focus instead on whether or not the piece is good writing.  And this piece is definitely good writing.  I knew an old lawyer who found frequent occasions for his laconic, "the road runs east, but it also runs west".  Yeah.

Thanks for posting this.

T

[Gyppo]

Tracy and Dave,

This was one of those odd little bits which forced itself into my life recently, and I'll admit I'm not 100% sure where it was taking me.  But it wouldn't go away

I guess there's a wry recognition of the fact that we are all a flickering flame.  Sometimes we burn strong and bright, other times no so much so.

The recipients of my 'passing candles' are indeed a strange bunch, and sometimes the only thing they have in common is that they 'ploughed their own furrow', were 'true to themselves'.

It's odd because, despite being a pacifist - from reasoned choice rather than instinct -  Housman's 'Epitaph On A Band Of Mercenaries'  has always struck a chord with me.  Here's a link if you don't know it.

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/ ... ercenaries

Gyppo