Philip Larkin

I turned a quarter of a century old last March. I wonder if I'll ever make it to another. I Have Started to Say Philip Larkin I have started to say "A quarter of a century" Or "thirty years back" About my own life. It makes me

It feels like a Friday. And everything is eerily quiet. Days Philip Larkin What are days for? Days are where we live. They come, they wake us Time and time over. They are to be happy in: Where can we live but days? Ah, solving that question Brings the priest

Little steps. Tiny steps. A bit of crawling. Until you're alright again. High Windows Philip Larkin When I see a couple of kids And guess he’s fucking her and she’s Taking pills or wearing a diaphragm, I know this is

Back to my old habits again (well did I ever stop?) --- sleeping late, waking up late. At this rate I'll always be sick, and I need to take care of myself, now more than ever. I need to break

Just another one of those days. This Be the Verse Philip Larkin They fuck you up, your mum and dad. They may not mean to, but they do. They fill you with the faults they had And add some extra, just for you. But they were fucked

Had too much wine, but happy to welcome 2011 anyway. Here's to another year of poetry, wonderful, beautiful poetry. A Writer Philip Larkin 'Interesting, but futile,' said his diary, Where day by day his movements were recorded And nothing but his loves received inquiry; He knew,

Haven't been sleeping right these past few days. My morning's the night, my night's the morning, or sometimes, the afternoon. I hardly make sense anymore, most of all to myself, but I suppose one is entitled to such period of

And so, speaking of homes: Poetry Of Departures Philip Larkin Sometimes you hear, fifth-hand, As epitaph: He chucked up everything And just cleared off, And always the voice will sound Certain you approve This audacious, purifying, Elemental move. And they are right, I think. We all hate home And having to be

I was thinking of leaving. But I know it's not going to be the answer. Home is So Sad Philip Larkin Home is so sad. It stays as it was left, Shaped in the comfort of the last to go As if to win them