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Philip Larkin

Philip Larkin

Solar

Suspended lion face
Spilling at the centre
Of an unfurnished sky
How still you stand,
And how unaided
Single stalkless flower
You pour unrecompensed.
 
The eye sees you
Simplified by distance
Into an origin,
Your petalled head of flames
Continuously exploding.
Heat is the echo of your
Gold.
 
Coined there among
Lonely horizontals
You exist openly.
Our needs hourly
Climb and return like angels.
Unclosing like a hand,
You give for ever.

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Altre opere di Philip Larkin...
He Hears That His Beloved Has Become Engaged

When she came on, you couldn’t kee… Fighting your way up through the o… Tup—heavy bumpkin, you confused yo… Fell in the drum —how we went ha h… But once you gained her side and s…
For Sidney Bechet

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…
Grief

If grief could burn out Like a sunken coal The heart would rest quiet The unrent soul Be as still as a veil
Love Again

Love again: wanking at ten past th… (Surely he’s taken her home by now… The bedroom hot as a bakery, The drink gone dead, without showi… To meet tomorrow, and afterwards,
 3
Next, Please

Always too eager for the future, w… Pick up bad habits of expectancy. Something is always approaching; e… Till then we say, Watching from a bluff the tiny, cl…
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Take One Home for the Kiddies

On shallow straw, in shadeless gla… Huddled by empty bowls, they sleep… No dark, no dam, no earth, no gras… Mam, get us one of them to keep. Living toys are something novel,
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Myxomatosis

Caught in the center of a soundles… While hot inexplicable hours go by What trap is this? Where were its… You seem to ask. I make a sharp reply,
The Little Lives of Earth and Form

The little lives of earth and form… Of finding food, and keeping warm, Are not like ours, and yet A kinship lingers nonetheless: We hanker for the homeliness
Whatever Happened?

At once whatever happened starts r… Panting, and back on board, we lin… With trousers ripped, light wallet… Yes, gone, thank God! Remembering… We toss for half the night, but fi…
Cut Grass

Cut grass lies frail: Brief is the breath Mown stalks exhale. Long, long the death It dies in the white hours
 3
Nude with Apple, by William Glackens
Annus Mirabilis

Sexual intercourse began In nineteen sixty-three (which was rather late for me)— Between the end of the Chatterley… And the Beatles’ first LP.
 2
The Old Fools

What do they think has happened, t… To make them like this? Do they s… It’s more grown-up when your mouth… And you keep on pissing yourself,… Who called this morning? Or that,…
To my Wife

Choice of you shuts up that peacoc… The future was, in which temptingl… All that elaborative nature can. Matchless potential! but unlimited Only so long as I elected nothing…
 1
Interior with Ida in a White Chair, by Vilhelm Hammershøi
Days

What are days for? Days are where we live. They come, they wake us Time and time over. They are to be happy in:
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Easter Morning, by Caspar David Friedrich
The Trees

The trees are coming into leaf Like something almost being said; The recent buds relax and spread, Their greenness is a kind of grief… Is it that they are born again
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