Self-Portrait, 1969

Self-Portrait, 1969

by Frank Bidart

He's still young—; thirty, but looks younger—

or does he? . . . In the eyes and cheeks, tonight,

turning in the mirror, he saw his mother,—

puffy; angry; bewildered . . . Many nights

now, when he stares there, he gets angry:—

something unfulfilled there, something dead

to what he once thought he surely could be—

Now, just the glamour of habits . . .

                                                                 Once, instead,

he thought insight would remake him, he'd reach

—what? The thrill, the exhilaration

unravelling disaster, that seemed to teach

necessary knowledge . . . became just jargon.

Sick of being decent, he craves another

crash. What reaches him except disaster?