07-09-2017, 06:26 PM
(07-08-2017, 05:19 AM)Leanne Wrote: Ah yes, you're right of course -- the best of English came from people who despised their Englishness and went off to foreign countries to try to become king/ not die of venereal diseases/ find someone to shag who wasn't related. Alternatively, let us look to 700-odd years ago, when all poets were beloved of milkmaids and other demonstrative demoiselles, but the language they wrote in can only be called English by virtue of it having been written occasionally in a garret in Cornwall, pining across the centuries for an Arthurian figment.
Alternatively, we could just work with the rich, fluid and exceedingly poetic language that we have right now, and do it properly.
You are a legend.
I've written a few poems, off Larkin poems. I love his one about the funeral procession, and the one about the huge space between people in the same bed.
He's as weird as Anne Sexton, really. You're not supposed to notice though.
Saturday morning in the Royal
The dining room’s akimbo doors impart
a look of hasty exit; disarray
of wine glass sideways, chairs left backed away
and stains like blood on tabletop’s op art.
The carpet seems to undulate and grow
around the splintered light that makes its way
in silence. Windows introduce the day
through faded curtains. Seams and patches show.
He wakes beside the young man in his bed
and shudders to recall the night before,
the easy sex before they slipped to sleep.
He’s penitent and through his aching head
pour thoughts of gender, parents, love, and more.
His offshore isolation makes him weep.
After ‘Friday Night in the Royal Station Hotel’ by Philip Larkin