Perhaps it isn’t fair to parody someone else’s juvenilia (is that really the spelling?).
Perhaps it’s like rifling through their underwear drawer when they’ve nipped out to brush their teeth.
Not really allowed, excellent fun.
Behold, Phillip Larkin’s Night Music:
And with it the noise
Of the black poplars.
Long since had the living
By a thin twine
Been led into their dreams
Where lanterns shine
Under a still veil
Of falling streams;
Long since had the dead
In the light soil.
There were no mouths
To drink of the wind,
Nor any eyes
To sharpen on the stars’
Only the sound
Long sibilant-muscled trees
Were lifting up, the black poplars.
And in their blazing solitude
The stars sang in their sockets through
`Blow bright, blow bright
The coal of this unquickened world.’
Now, after hearing a rather wonderful paper on said poem, and then picking it apart into little poetry morsels (which sounds DISGUSTING but was in fact most diverting), some changes were made.
Both of these poems are sort of in response to the comment ‘perhaps he was just writing about being on his own?’.
The first one is from me. The second is from Dave, who can be found writing what I think might be the best poetry reviews on the entire internet over on his blog, Dave Poems. Check him out.
The night is empty: I am here alone,
sense heightened by the lateness of the hour.
The living sleep. The dead rot down to coal.
Wind summons through the trees:
no spirits come.
And the stars up above like security lights,
emit a static hum.
Swooshy swoosh goes the swishy wind