Philip Larkin — Have You Heard Of Him? Poem by Pete Crowther

“How are you keeping then? ”, she wrote,
“still going on O.K.? Me,
I’m at college now, doing English lit.
This term it’s Philip Larkin —
I think he’s brilliant,
a bit depressive, but
he’s really written some good stuff —
have you heard of him? ”
Into my mind there came that long
lugubrious clean-shaven face
that always smelled of after-shave,
those heavy black-rimmed spectacles,
the hearing aid that always whistled,
that stylish belted macintosh he wore,
and his spacious room with its sprawling desk
on which incongruously sat
an aspidistra and a photograph
of Guy, the gorilla, next to where
his secretary, Betty, placed the tray
of Earl Grey tea in porcelain cups,
but most of all did I recall
his voice — its deep, slow,
rich cultured tones. So great a loss,
so kind a man and in his way
so modest too. Upon his small
neat white gravestone you’ll find
no flowery epitaph, just:
“Philip Larkin / 1922–1985 / writer.”
He feared death — its endless emptiness,
but don’t we all, deep down?
I’ll not forget his generous friendly smile
last time we met just a little while
before he died. We were not close,
but yet, he told me once that he’d dreamt of me
and I too, when he was dead, once dreamt of him,
so I may justly say to you,
“It’s true, I’ve heard of him”.