Despite my deeply-held conviction that there must have been a clerical error, the calendar does not budge on this issue: in a couple of months, I shall be seven-oh years old. There's been a lot of good stuff written about ageing, in prose and as poems, and a lot of rubbish, too. I'm pitching this new one into the void to join whichever category it likes. As you will see, my take on the whole thing is that peoples' opinions of one generally matter less and less as time goes by. If they're not calling me crazy and grumpy by now I'm not trying hard enough. There's a drawing to go with this poem. Of Oneself. Not really a selfie in the modern sense, and not grand enough to be dubbed a self-portrait either, but it's a ballpoint sketch which seeks not to flatter but to betray the crazy/grumpy thing a bit. I am falling more and in love with biro-sketching. There's something satisfyingly subversive about producing art with such an everyday medium, and the lines have spontaneity, immediacy and impact that pencil lacks. (Pretentious? Moi?) If you're reading this, do pop onto the Pointypencils tab when you go to the Pointypoems website. There are new drawings posted there unannounced from time to time. Also, if you have it, still more on Instagram. To read 'Doing seventy' click here
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