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I never think of poetry or the poetry scene, only separate poems written by individuals.

Philip Larkin

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Philip Larkin
Age: 63 †
Born: 1922
Born: August 9
Died: 1985
Died: December 2
Critic
Journalist
Librarian
Music Critic
Music Journalist
Novelist
Poet
Writer
Coventry
England
UK
Philip Arthur Larkin
Thinking
Separate
Individuals
Scene
Poetry
Written
Individual
Never
Think
Poems

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Novels seem to me to be richer, broader, deeper, more enjoyable than poems.
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I think that at the bottom of all art lies the impulse to preserve.
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In everyone there sleeps a sense of life lived according to love.
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Life is first boredom, then fear. Whether or not we use it, it goes, And leaves what something hidden from us chose, And age, and then the only end of age.
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My age fallen away like white swaddling Floats in the middle distance, becomes An inhabited cloud.
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Spring, of all seasons most gratuitous, Is fold of untaught flower, is race of water, Is earth's most multiple, excited daughter And those she has least use for see her best, Their paths grown craven and circuitous, Their visions mountain-clear, their needs immodest.
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Everyone should be forcibly transplanted to another continent from their family at the age of three.
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And the case of butterflies so rich it looks As if all summer settled there and died.
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Life has a practice of living you, if you don't live it.
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SEX is designed for people who like overcoming obstacles.
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Uncontradicting solitude Supports me on its giant palm And like a sea-anemone Or simple snail, there cautiously Unfolds, emerges, what I am.
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Get stewed:Books are a load of crap.
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... everyone young going down the long slide To happiness, endlessly.
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Any memory for the most part depending on chance.
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What are days for? Days are where we live.
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I work all day, and get half-drunk at night.
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There is bad in all good authors: what a pity the converse isn't true!
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Here no elsewhere underwrites my existence.
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One of the sadder things, I think, Is how our birthdays slowly sink: Presents and parties disappear, The cards grow fewer year by year, Till, when one reaches sixty-five, How many care we're still alive?
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All the unhurried day / Your mind lay open like a drawer of knives.
Philip Larkin