Although my blog is set aside for exposing my own poetry, I do enjoy showcasing a new found poet that I have become quite fond of their work. Philip Larkin is known as one of the greatest English poets of the later half of the 20th century. As a graduate from Oxford with a degree in English language and literature, Larkin became a librarian; A librarian with an attitude, now thats my kinda poet! His work has been noted as being extremely "English"; meaning very gloomy and sad (not my opinion of English poetry but you know...), and has a lowered sight on emotions, places and expectations. However, what was very English about Larkin was his solitary, bold attitude and no patience for having a public literary life. He was once quoted saying "The poem is the business of the poet, and everyone else can fuck off!" Haha! Isn't he fabulously dark? This is a poem that particularly stood out to me; I think it truly embodies his style and demeanour about poetry.
Essential Beauty
By Philip Larkin
In frames as large as rooms that face all ways
And block the ends of streets with giant loaves,
Screen graves with custard, cover slums with praise
Of motor-oil and cuts of salmon, shine
Perpetually these sharply-pictured groves
Of how life should be. High above the gutter
A silver knife sinks into golden butter,
A glass of milk stands in a meadow, and
Well-balanced families, in fine
Midsummer weather, owe their smiles, their cars,
Even their youth, to that small cube each hand
Stretches towards. These, and the deep armchairs
Aligned to cups at bedtime, radiant bars
(Gas or electric), quarter-profile cats
By slippers on warm mats,
Reflect none of the rained-on streets and squares
They dominate outdoors. Rather, they rise
Serenely to proclaim pure crust, pure foam,
Pure coldness to our live imperfect eyes
That stare beyond this world, where nothing's made
As new or washed quite clean, seeking the home
All such inhabit. There, dark raftered pubs
Are filled with white-clothed ones from tennis-clubs,
And the boy puking his heart out in the Gents
Just missed them, as the pensioner paid
A halfpenny more for Granny Graveclothes' Tea
To taste old age, and dying smokers sense
Walking towards them through some dappled park
As if on water that unfocused she
No match lit up, nor drag ever brought near,
Who now stands newly clear,
Smiling, and recognising, and going dark.
