Identity

                                                                                         Acapulco



 Dear Reader,

I have been reading a book about the poet Philip Larkin and his long term companion Monica Jones.  Philip Larking has always been one of my favourite poets, along with Thomas Hardy, and I thought I would much enjoy learning about his life.  But this isn't really the case.  It turns out that he was a particularly unpleasant man, sarcastic, antisemitic, cruel and racist.  And that is just the start.  He met Monica Jones, a fellow student, when they were both at Oxford university where she fell in love with him and stayed in love with him for thirty odd years.  But he had several other women over the years including one called Maeve, a librarian, who  also thought she was the favourite.  He married none of them, and lied to them all.

I think my point is that it is a mistake to read about much admired and loved authors.  As it said in the book, the real Philip Larkin was very difficult to pin down.  Reading the biography of Thomas Hardy I learnt some unpleasant truths about him which upset me considerably as he was my hero at school and beyond.  I still enjoy the poetry of both of these poets but view them now in a different light. People are so complex and their art is only side of them, I suppose.

                                                                                       *

From Gilbert White, August 1st 1786 in Hampshire

'The poor begin to glean wheat.  The country looks very rich, being finely diversified with crops of corn of various sorts and colours.'

From John Ruskin, August 1st, 1884 in Lancashire

'Very lovely with calm lake, but the roses fading, the hay cut.  the summer is ended.  Autumn begun.'

                                                                                        *

Identity

"Why hello", she said, "how are you,
what have you been doing,
how are the family, is your sister
still writing, I love her books,
and George, I expect he is as
busy as ever, and the  twins, heavens
how are they, and your grandmother, does
she still live in Acapulco, breeding
donkeys, and your dog, is it alive and well?
Ah good, good, good.
Gosh look at the time -
I really must fly,  but so
lovely to hear all about you,
and your life.

The woman scratched her fingernails
down her cheek,
a spot of blood
splattered her hand,
she pinched her arm, sensed the pain,
she stamped the ground,
felt paving stones beneath her feet,
and  she saw a 23 bus drawing near.
These things were proof of
her existence, weren't they?
So she was alive, was there,
just invisible.

                                                                            *

With very best wishes, Patricia