For all the poets he now reads since my ‘death’ (and remember I am a library’s ghost dictating these words to him, my librarian, from the shelves of his ‘living’ library, which I currently haunt), he still has lines of that old-type natural fouled-up guy-poet Philip Larkin enmeshed in his memory. Even when he opens […]
I have foreseen and foresuffered all – Aeneas in Seamus Heaney’s “The Golden Bough” (Virgil’s Aeneid 6, 98-148) from Seeing Things I might have been a wise king setting out Under the Christmas lights – except that It felt like the forewarned journey back Into the heartland of the ordinary. – Philip Larkin in Seamus […]
As winter creeps upon us here in Ohio, with its cold and dark, and leaves litter the ground, my newly invigorated daily bogging on Minus Plato may appear like a longing for spring. As such, it has brought to mind Philip Larkin’s poem The Trees: The trees are coming into leaf Like something almost being said; The […]
