5

. . . for me, this poem has proved almost as eerie and distant as its subject matter. I learnt it by heart back in the deepest mists of my childhood - though from where I do not know. Neither title nor author's name survived from that time, and I only succeeded in filling in these blanks a few years ago.

THE DWELLER by H. P. Lovecraft

It had been old when Babylon was new;
None knows how long it slept beneath that mound,
Where in the end our questing shovels found
Its granite blocks and brought it back to view.
There were vast pavements and foundation-walls,
And crumbling slabs and statues, carved to shew
Fantastic beings of some long ago
Past anything the world of man recalls.
And then we saw those stone steps leading down
Through a choked gate of graven dolomite
To some black haven of eternal night
Where elder signs and primal secrets frown.
We cleared a path - but raced in mad retreat
When from below we heard those clumping feet

By way of contrast, here is one from a favourite modern poet, Philip Larkin - you'll see why - he cuts through the BS and hits the nail square on the head.

He was offered 'Poet Laureate' when John Betjamin died, but declined the honour.

Larkin was born in Coventy, only a few miles from where I was born. His dates are 1922-1985 - and he and I share the same birthday (though not the same year).

This Be The Verse

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
                                      They may not mean to, but they do.
                                    They fill you with the faults they had
                                      And add some extra, just for you.
                                    
                                    But they were fucked up in their turn
                                      By fools in old-style hats and coats,
                                    Who half the time were soppy-stern
                                      And half at one another's throats.
                                    
                                    Man hands on misery to man.
                                      It deepens like a coastal shelf.
                                    Get out as early as you can,
                                      And don't have any kids yourself.

Beautiful, ain't it? . . . and who but
                                    Larkin

would have slapped an eye-watering dollop

of unconscienable simile three lines
                                    from the

edge of this delicious literary
                                    catharsis?