“How are you keeping then? ”, she wrote,
“still going on O.K.? Me,
I’m at college now, doing English lit.
This term it’s Philip Larkin —
I think he’s brilliant,
a bit depressive, but
he’s really written some good stuff —
have you heard of him? ”
Into my mind there came that long
lugubrious clean-shaven face
that always smelled of after-shave,
those heavy black-rimmed spectacles,
the hearing aid that always whistled,
that stylish belted macintosh he wore,
and his spacious room with its sprawling desk
on which incongruously sat
an aspidistra and a photograph
of Guy, the gorilla, next to where
his secretary, Betty, placed the tray
of Earl Grey tea in porcelain cups,
but most of all did I recall
his voice — its deep, slow,
rich cultured tones. So great a loss,
so kind a man and in his way
so modest too. Upon his small
neat white gravestone you’ll find
no flowery epitaph, just:
“Philip Larkin / 1922–1985 / writer.”
He feared death — its endless emptiness,
but don’t we all, deep down?
I’ll not forget his generous friendly smile
last time we met just a little while
before he died. We were not close,
but yet, he told me once that he’d dreamt of me
and I too, when he was dead, once dreamt of him,
so I may justly say to you,
“It’s true, I’ve heard of him”.
Pete Crowther
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/philip-larkin-have-you-heard-of-him/
