#EnglishWriters
Sometimes you hear, fifth-hand, As epitaph: He chucked up everything And just cleared off, And always the voice will sound
Higher than the handsomest hotel The lucent comb shows up for miles… All round it close—ribbed streets… Like a great sigh out of the last… The porters are scruffy; what keep…
Morning, a glass door, flashes Gold names off the new city, Whose white shelves and domes trav… The slow sky all day. I land to stay here;
Waiting for breakfast, while she b… I looked down at the empty hotel y… Once meant for coaches. Cobblesto… But sent no light back to the load… Sunk as it was with mist down to t…
The cloakroom pegs are empty now, And locked the classroom door, The hollow desks are lined with du… And slow across the floor A sunbeam creeps between the chair…
I feared these present years, The middle twenties, When deftness disappears, And each event is Freighted with a source—encrusting…
‘Dockery was junior to you, Wasn’t he?’ said the Dean. ‘His s… Death-suited, visitant, I nod. ‘A… You keep in touch with—’ Or remem… Black-gowned, unbreakfasted, and s…
When I was a child, I thought, Casually, that solitude Never needed to be sought. Something everybody had, Like nakedness, it lay at hand,
This empty street, this sky to bla… This air, a little indistinct with… Like a reflection, constitute the… A time traditionally soured, A time unrecommended by event.
Sexual intercourse began In nineteen sixty—three (which was rather late for me) — Between the end of the Chatterley… And the Beatles’ first LP.
That note you hold, narrowing and… Like New Orleans reflected on the… And in all ears appropriate falseh… Building for some a legendary Qua… Of balconies, flower—baskets and q…
Delay, well, travellers must expec… Delay. For how long? No one seems… With all the luggage weighed, the… It can’t be long... We amble too… Sit in steel chairs, buy cigarette…
Rain patters on a sea that tilts a… Fast-running floors, collapsing in… Tower suddenly, spray-haired. Con… A wave drops like a wall: another… Wilting and scrambling, tirelessly…
My readers... sometimes I wonder whether they really exist. Truly they arer remarkably tolerant, manifesting themselves only by the occasional query as to where they can buy records: ju...
The wind blew all my wedding—day, And my wedding—night was the night… And a stable door was banging, aga… That he must go and shut it, leavi… Stupid in candlelight, hearing rai…