A Writer by Philip Larkin

Philip Larkin

A Writer by Philip Larkin

T.

Had too much wine, but happy to welcome 2011 anyway. Here’s to another year of poetry, wonderful, beautiful poetry.

A Writer

Philip Larkin

‘Interesting, but futile,’ said his diary,

Where day by day his movements were recorded

And nothing but his loves received inquiry;

He knew, of course, no actions were rewarded,

There were no prizes: though the eye could see

Wide beauty in a motion or a pause,

It need expect no lasting salary

Beyond the bounds’ momentary applause.

He lived for years and never was surprised:

A member of his foolish, lying race

Explained away their vices: realised

It was a gift that he possessed alone:

To look the world directly in the face;

The face he did not see to be his own.

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poetry