Stevie Smith diagnoses the type in “Souvenir de Monsieur Poop”in her second collection, Tender Only to One (1938). Her poem begins:
“I am the self-appointed guardian of English literature,
I believe tremendously in the significance of age;
I believe that a writer is wise at 50,
Ten years wiser at 60, at 70 a sage.”
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A note from one of the Spartans, Northern Ireland based Ian Bolger.
I came across this recently in the Irish Times; thought you might enjoy reading.
“I don’t think of 90. I am 90! But really, my body is a man of, I’d say 60.”
Gary Player, who turned 90 on November 1st. The South African regularly beats his age when playing a round of golf and attributed his well-being to 12 keys to living to 100 given to him by a gerontologist: Under eat. Exercise. Read. Prayer/meditate. Love. Ice bath. Gratitude. Sleep. Laughter. Keep busy. Friends. Do things you don’t want to do.
I am 9/12. How about you?
You’re Writing a Book. So Stop Writing a Movie.Rebecca Makkai. “Old but still interesting and a nice break from violence.”
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'Mystery's toys'
It's Epiphany Sunday today. Here is something typically chastening from our best religious poet of recent times, R.S. Thomas –
Epiphany
Three kings? Not even one
any more. Royalty
has gone to ground, its journeyings
over. Who now will bring
gifts and to what place? In
the manger there are only the toys
and the tinsel. The child
has become a man. Far
off from his cross in the wrong
season he sits at table
with us, with on his head
the fool’s cap of our paper money.
And here is an Epiphany poem by Geoffrey Hill (the setting of which is the grand parish church of Kidderminster, the largest in Worcestershire) –
The wise men, vulnerable in ageing plaster,
are borne as gifts
to be set down among the other treasures
in their familial strangeness, mystery's toys.
Below the church the Stour slovens
through its narrow cut.
On service roads the lights cast amber salt
slatted with a thin rain doubling as snow.
Showings are not unknown: a six-winged seraph
somewhere impends – it is the geste of invention,
not the creative but the creator spirit.
The night air sings a colder spell to come.
This evening, having been obliged to miss all Christmas services, I shall be making my way to the cathedral for the Epiphany carol service. I look forward to being duly asperged...

