ALARMING BEAUTY OF THE SKY, THE

Letter to Philip Larkin

77 Letter to Philip Larkin I want a form that’s big enough to swim in, And talk on any subject that I choose. —Auden: Letter to Lord Byron A balmy night in hills above L.A., A callow century’s fifteenth full moon, A spread of vegetarian buffet, A group prepared to revel and commune— Until,“ ‘I just think it will happen, soon’,” The pessimistic close of “Going, Going”, Was spoke, and woe, along with wine, was flowing. And so, dear Larkin, did our spirits fade, Despite night-blooming jasmine stealing in On zephyrs weaving through the open shade. The ‘cast of crooks and tarts’ you feared would win, And bury us in greeds up to our chin, Is thriving, as is rampant, unread verse, Which is, as each year passes, getting worse. A distant firetruck slurred a slow lament, And in its wake, coyotes howled and yipped, As if to mock their own predicament. “Poor devils,” someone said.Another quipped, “They sound as if they’ve lost their souls,” and sipped The last remains of doleful Beaujolais. Brandy, uncorked, persuaded us to stay. 78 Great Satchmo brought us bliss from a CD, And held us in a thrall of Larkin lore. We’re all to blame; we all, to some degree, Mess earth about, chuck filth, and scream for more. We have our share of days.What are days for? We toasted your despair by candle light, While moonlit palm fronds glittered in the night. A grapefruit fell and skidded off the tiles. “Most things may never happen; that one will,” I said, to moody laughs and nodding smiles. The trumpet and the brandy fought the chill That folded with the fog over the hill Above the patio. Homes are so sad: Bank calendars, the realtor’s memo pad, Sprinklers that spit on every weed-whacked lawn. We haven’t grown more kind while we’ve had time, And mums and dads keep fucking up their spawn. We escape by car, and from the highway’s climb, We see the wide Pacific: sleek, sublime— The coastal shelf that deepens with suspense— Its abalone blue, pristine, intense. 79 Intensely sad, you’d say, like choirs of money. How much do rich shits fork out for this view? Who cares how many days a year are sunny, When, seismically, destruction’s overdue? Wherever home is now, we’re glad you knew The pleasure of employing artful breath In loathing life, and loathing, harder, death. Note:The Larkin poems referred to are: Going, Going; Days;Aubade; Home Is So Sad;The Mower; This Be theVerse; Money Also referred to is Philip Larkin’s career as a jazz critic, and his great admiration for Louis Armstrong . ...