Mr Bleaney's Room (An Open Letter To Philip Larkin) Poem by Sheena Blackhall

Mr Bleaney's room was Spartan.
Curtains, thin;
A single, bulb-lit bed
Where he tucked in
His fusty blankets.
Pied a terre to house
The dead-pan musings
Of a human mouse.

Dear Mr Philip Larkin: Should
We measure Bleaney's life by Hollywood,
Where nouveaux riches, spot-lit by plastic moons
Use quivering naked virgins like spitoons?

Ah, in that narrow, unelaborate cell,
Where dark tucked Mr Bleaney in too well,
For all you knew,
When bedsit lights went dim,
Like Blake, his pillows
Blazed with cherubim.