To Midlander Phillip Larkin
modernity was always a sin
So influential in his time
with continuity his constant 'rime'
Abide
by Michael R. Burch
after Philip Larkin's "Aubade"
It is hard to understand or accept mortality—
such an alien concept: not to be.
Perhaps unsettling enough to spawn religion,
or to scare mutant fish out of a primordial sea
boiling like goopy green tea in a kettle.
Perhaps a man should exhibit more mettle
than to admit such fear, denying Nirvana exists
simply because we are stuck here in such a fine fettle.
And so we abide...
even in life, staring out across that dark brink.
And if the thought of death makes your questioning heart sink,
it is best not to drink
(or, drinking, certainly not to think) .
Originally published by Light. Keywords/Tags: Philip Larkin, Aubade, abide, death, mortality, depression, religion, drink, drinking, drunk, drunkenness, alcohol, addiction, fear, fettle, mettle, Nirvana, solitude, curtal sonnet
They eff you up, your Mum and Dad,
At least that's what we're told,
All your Dad's genes are hand-me-downs,
Your anger, spawn of old,
It's not your fault you can't fly straight,
it's not your fault you fail.
I'll blame it on my Ma and Pa,
It's the reason I travail,
I've got no money - oh screw you Mum! - Why wasn't I brought up wealthy?
I smoke ten a day - oh screw you Dad! -Feel guilt 'cos I'm not healthy.
I've broke up with my seventh wife, It seems I can't commit,
I no longer see my children, WHY CAN'T YOU DO YOUR BIT?
I sit here in my bedsit, my doorbell never rung,
Nobody wants to speak to me, I was curbed when I was young,
They eff you up, your Mum and Dad, the pain is all their fault,
I blame it on your DNA, the reason I assault.
I loop the rope up to the roof, the noose rests on my knee,
And then a flash of clarity - it wasn't you, it's me!
So sorry Mum, and sorry, Dad, It's my fault that I'm done,
Your better off without me, but I'm glad I was your son.
The rain. Unrelenting.
Cats and dogs.
The dreary architecture of the souless
grey-brown urban landscape
worthy of the matchstick man fella
But. Hopeful.
The smokers hunched by the bookies,
beside the battlecruiser. Handy.
A cosy camaraderie with a common denominator
No judgement; but wonder or at least inquisitiveness
I envy them; I'm not of their clan
They are the self determined grassroots,
as politicians like to say
A certain folksy wisdom prevails
Later; the grim realities unveil
But. Enough!
Have the craic, lads
Have the craic!
Maybe the old toad was right,
There really is nothing to be said
As a magpie picks its way along
Crumbling bricks which do little to conceal
Barracks demolished without a fight.
What once was alive is now dead,
Memories echoing like the last chord of a song
Beautiful resonance before they congeal
Revealing the uncomfortable truth that
One day it will be us.
Every moment, proud or painful
Will be forgotten in time.
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