Late Larkin
(Towards the end of his life, Philip Larkin wrote very little poetry. 'They don't come any more', he said.)
In a small way, I understand the man.
As he grew older, verses would not come;
His delicious palette had been stowed away.
The ideas were there, aplenty, for sure -
Let’s face it, we have ideas all the time -
And words, waiting coyly to be favoured;
But his poems required some ballast,
A network of exits and entrances,
Into tunnels, weaving beneath a maze.
He knew this…prerequisite, I suppose,
And without his usual materials,
These physical props of inspiration,
He might have turned out a mere scribbler’s work,
Crouching copies of a towering past.
Stephen Gospage
Fri 12th Aug 2022 11:35
Thank you, Ray. He was a complicated person and obviously had a sense of life ebbing away, even in his forties. Perhaps writing poems became too much of a chore. We should be grateful that he was so prolific for so long.
And thanks to Brenda and Pete for liking.