Larkin lived on Dixon Drive

now he’s still dead

and I’m alive.

He stacked books

with referenced spine

and trousered coin,

paid in fine.

 

I lived just off Ethel Road

half a man

but full-on toad.

Crushed into my loutish form

dull schooling

shaped me

to this norm.

 

Phil moved on,

to Queens and hope

with less despair

and longer rope.

An “elsewhere place”

that pushed his pen

“the salt rebuff” of tougher men.

 

I too, found the Belfast road

its years had turned…

too much implode.

No scholars gown

or tweed for me,

nor friendly tongue

across that sea.

 

He a poet I the fool

two lives not shaped

by finer tools.

Though one sharp mind

was lesser lost

the two seemed spent

at equal cost.

 

 

All the poets of all the Kings

with all their fine imaginings

have only ever offered up

the favoured flavour of their sup.

 

with words so lofty, full of grace

persuading of their given place,

that they alone could fill that space.

Emblazoned coin, gods chosen face.

 

While those of us with poets eyes

not blessed with pardons for our lies,

see through the crown to truthful skies

where sunlight strips all earthly guise.

 

Then with our mortal time unspun

we’ll coil our spirit toward the Sun,

to close the round as it begun

where all of matter is as one.