Saturday 23 November 2013

Who am I

Something a bit special today, about Dr Who. I remember the foggy junk yard, and watching it recently in a repeat, I was struck that now I am older than William Hartnell was when he took on the role. He has stayed the same, an immortal in moving images, while I have aged.

I originally wrote this when David Tennant was the Doctor, and has been updated to include the John Hurt character who denied the name of the Doctor, and the Matt Smith current incarnation. Here it is for the 50th celebration day of the doctor!

Who am I?
(The Nature of the Self)

Old man, crotchety and cross,
Wandering traveller, albatross
That never rests, over all time;
This is the mystery sublime.

Tramp, dancing a merry jig;
Always trouble, a whirligig
Lifestyle, yet one can sense
Beneath it sharp intelligence.

Flamboyant, master scientist;
Improvising, good pragmatist;
Sometimes off in merry flight,
But always on the side of right.

Bohemian, smiling, full of wit,
Everywhere he seemed to flit;
Taking broken threads, then,
Binding them together again.

Fresh, open face, yet wise youth,
Always polite, never uncouth,
Always tried to play the game,
Often victorious, overcame.

Manic barometer, up and down,
Often dressed too like a clown;
Angry words, and sharp repartee,
But goodness under still to see.

Secretive, dreaming, and clever:
A chess player who could never,
Be defeated; a strategic thinker
Liking to meddle, always tinker.

The romantic poet of these ways,
Enjoying all the nights and days;
Kisses and logic, now together,
Racing throughout stormy weather

The stormy war comes to pass
Dreadful deed, all flesh is grass
Nameless now, he goes to war
And sees the closing of a door

So lonely, lost, as one of a kind,
Others all gone, now left behind;
Not like them as quite scholastic
But travelling on, and so fantastic.
More feeling, but also harder too:
Touched by pain. There is virtue,
But justice has less mercy today,
And for tomorrow, who can say.

The bow tie magician lives again
Companions lost, he feels the pain
But he had a wife, or so it seems
Now at his end, the Tardis gleams

Books stacked upon a bookshelf,
Like this is the nature of the self;
No simple answers, now behold,
So many stories, so many untold.

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