Get out as early as you can,
And don’t have any kids yourself.
‘Perfick,’ said Old Larkin
The last kid put to bed
He took the Missus in his arms
Gave her a kiss and said:
‘I’ll pop out for a quick one
If that’s all right with you?
I’ll not be long, I promise
’Cos I’ve got work to do.’
‘You mean the roof,’ said Ma,
‘You’re going to mend that leak.’
Philip stopped.
‘No, “This Be The Verse”,’
That final stanza’s too bleak.’
They don’t fuck you up, your mum and dad
(Despite what Larkin says)
It’s other grown-ups, other kids
Who, in their various ways
Die. And their dying casts a shadow
Numbering all our days
And we try to keep from going mad
In multifarious ways.
And most of us succeed, thank God,
So if, to coin a phrase
You’re fucked up, don’t blame your mum and dad
(Despite what Larkin says).
To the mourners round his deathbed
William Blake was moved to say:
‘Oh, if only I had taken
The time to write that play.’
Nor was William Shakespeare
Finally satisfied:
‘I know there’s a novel in me.’
(No sooner said than died.)
Beethoven in his darkest hour
Over and over he railed:
‘If only I had learned guitar
Before my hearing failed.’
In the transept of St Paul’s
Slumped Sir Christopher Wren:
‘I’d give them something really good
If I could only do it again.’
Leonardo, Mozart, Rembrandt
Led sobbing through the Pearly Gates:
‘If only I’d have…
I could have been one of the Greats.’
Light rain, like steam
from a cup of camomile tea
poured from a copper kettle
heated o’er a sandalwood fire
bids him return home
and consider an alternative career.
Why can’t I teach Creative Writing in Minnesota?
Or, better still, be Poet in Residence at Santa Fe?
Where golden-limbed girls with a full quota
Of perfect teeth lionize me, feed me, lead me astray.
A professorship, perhaps, visiting in Ann Arbor?
(Nothing too strenuous, the occasional social call.)
What postcards I can write, what ambitions I can harbour:
Hawaii in the springtime, Harvard in the fall.
‘It’s all bad.
Especially in parts.’
I want to write a new poem.
What words shall I choose?
I go in. The variety is endless.
Images stretch into infinity.
I dither. Can’t make up my mind.
Inspiration becomes impatient.
Stamps its feet. Panicking
I grab the nearest forty-two,
Sometimes they trap me
Stop me in my tracks.
Thinking my way through
Towards a promising idea
When I am distracted
By a sound. A spelling crackles.
Without a second thought
I am off into the thicket.
The next thing I know
It is time for bed.
Another poem finished
And nothing said.
‘I found I could not use the long line because of my nervous nature.’
– William Carlos Williams
As soon as my voice is heard above the babble
Which ceases as people turn
I want to disappear. Hide under the table.
My pulse races and I consequently gabble.
Puzzled faces make mine burn
And make it crystal clear – I’m from Planet Babel.
John in the garden
Playing goodies and baddies
Janet in the bedroom
Playing mummies and daddies
Mummy in the kitchen
Washing and wiping
Daddy in the study
Stereotyping
From the first
tentative scratch on the wall
To the final
unfinished, hurried scrawl:
One poem.
Feeling a trifle smug after breaking off an untidy,
Drawn-out affair with somebody I no longer fancied
I was strolling through Kensington Gardens
When who should I bump into but Gavin.
Gavin, I should point out, is the husband.
‘I’m worried about Lucy,’ he said, straight out.
‘I don’t blame you,’ I thought, but said nothing.
‘Suspect she’s having an affair. Any ideas?’
‘Divorce,’ I suggested. ‘You might even get custody.’
‘No, I mean Lucy,’ he persisted. ‘Who with?’
We walked on in silence, until casually, I asked:
‘An affair, you say, what makes you so convinced?’
He stopped and produced from an inside pocket
A sheet of paper which I recognized at once.
It was this poem. Handwritten, an early draft.
Then I saw the gun. ‘For God’s sake, Gavin,
It’s only a p…
A shot rang out. The bullet was not intended for me.
It embedded itself harmlessly into a tall sycamore.
(Harmlessly, that is, except for the tall sycamore.)
Gavin pocketed the gun. I was shaking like a leaf.
I seized his arm. ‘It’s over now,’ I stammered
‘There was nothing in it really. A moment of madness.’
I was lying and wondered if he could tell.
He gave no sign, so relaxing my grip we walked on.
‘You’d better have this,’ he said, and held out the poem.
‘But I’d rather you didn’t publish. Spare my blushes.’
I took it. ‘If not for me for Lucy’s sake.’
‘Trust me,’ I said and crumpled it into a ball.
Behind us, the sycamore rose swaying from the bushes,
Staggered across the ornamental lake
And collapsed against a wall.
Poets make awful acrobats.
Good at barely moving
Idle musing has impaired
Their sense of balance.
Once the horizon tilts
Everything begins to slide:
Cups and saucers, trees,
Buildings, spirit-levels.
Out of touch with the ground
They are out of touch with themselves.
Struggling to make sense of air
They become entangled with it.
The roll of drums:
A few floppy cartwheels
A crumpled somersault
Then up on to the high wire…
After the first falter, the fall.
It is faultless. The safety-net
Holds out its arms. The poet
misses.
(Gravity hangs its head in shame.)
Poets have a way with language
A certain jauntiness with hats
They can make a decent curry
And are very fond of cats
Though some are closet fascists
In the main they’re democrats
But all things being considered
Poets make awful acrobats.