Poems, deep on many levels,
May end up nowhere near enough.
At such a time, we should give thanks
That Mister Larkin did his stuff.
It’s true he had a gloomy side
And used the odd indecent word,
But nobody would claim his work
Would better be unseen or heard.
He wrote about the everyday,
Of unspent childhood, wedding feasts,
Sullied posters, non-commitment,
The tiny tragedies of beasts.
Time, but never cheap nostalgia.
Place, far beyond the postcard kind.
Doctors, louts, reflective journeys;
His world, with something on its mind.
(Recently I penned this little tribute to the poetry of Philip Larkin,
in recognition of all the pleasure it has given me.
I am pleased to share it with you).