||[Aug. 27th, 2017|08:46 pm]
The air that refuses to cool though the sun is hidden feels like an anathema that has has been pronounced, as though the day were some priest, or the Pope of time itself, delivering inescapable judgment. The crickets' buzz, agitated nerves of night, vibrates inside my head like a mental sweat trying to evaporate consciousness. |
The fattening moon hangs like a reproach to the repose of darkness, and my mind evokes from the sight of it a fallacious sympathy that casts it as a smug villain, entranced by its own slow dervish dance with earth and sun, all the while mocking me for being trapped in an indifferent celestial routine that drags me through these heavy, tedious summer days, gravity's forsaken toy.
by Philip Larkin
When I was a child, I thought,
Casually, that solitude
Never needed to be sought.
Something everybody had,
Like nakedness, it lay at hand,
Not specially right or specially wrong,
A plentiful and obvious thing
Not at all hard to understand.
Then, after twenty, it became
At once more difficult to get
And more desired — though all the same
More undesirable; for what
You are alone has, to achieve
The rank of fact, to be expressed
In terms of others, or it's just
A compensating make-believe.
Much better stay in company!
To love you must have someone else,
Giving requires a legatee,
Good neighbours need whole parishfuls
Of folk to do it on — in short,
Our virtues are all social; if,
Deprived of solitude, you chafe,
It's clear you're not the virtuous sort.
Viciously, then, I lock my door.
The gas-fire breathes. The wind outside
Ushers in evening rain. Once more
Supports me on its giant palm;
And like a sea-anemone
Or simple snail, there cautiously
Unfolds, emerges, what I am.
Who needs Sunday Verse when you are going to write like this!
Thanks. As I was writing it I wasn't sure if it was making sense, or if I was just having another bout of poesic diarrhea (or as it is sometimes known, Fenimore Cooper's revenge.)