The air deals blows: surely too hard, too often?
No: it is bent on bringing summer down.
Dead leaves desert in thousands, outwards, upwards,
Numerous as birds; but the birds flyaway,
And the blows sound on, like distant collapsing water,
Or empty hospitals falling room by room
Down in the west, perhaps, where the angry light is.
Then rain starts; the year goes suddenly slack.
O rain, O frost, so much has still to be cleared:
All this ripeness, all this reproachful flesh,
And summer, that keeps returning like a ghost
Of something death has merely made beautiful,
And night skies so brilliantly spread-eagled
With their sharp hint of a journey - all must disperse
Before the season is lost and anonymous,
Like a London court one is never sure of finding
But none the less exists, at the back of the fog,
Bare earth, a lamp, scrapers. Then it will be time
To seek there that ill-favoured, curious house,
Bar up the door, mantle the fat flame,
And sit once more alone with sprawling papers,
Bitten-up letters, boxes of photographs,
And the case of butterflies so rich it looks
As if all summer settled there and died.
AGAINST THE POETRY OF PHILIP LARKIN
I learned to live with my despair,
And suddenly Philip Larkin's there,
Explaining why all life is hateful.
I don't see why I should be grateful.
It's hard enough to draw a breath
Without his hectoring about nothingness.
My dear Larkin, I understand
That death will not miss anyone.
But this is not a decent theme
For either an elegy or an ode.
Czeslaw Milosz: "New and Selected Poems" 1931-2001