Reading Philip Larkin Poem by Edwin Hopper

Whitsun Weddings was fairly pleasant,
but Philip Larkin was not quite present.
He judged us from a nervous height,
and was never happy with the sight.

We are like dirt smeared on his slide.
Our movement something to be spied.
Great loves and yearning, all are loathed.
Small needs and fashions, all exposed.

His poems would hardly articulate,
occasions when he could participate,
in germ filled gross carnality,
or bed stain sexuality.

His words never kissed a woman's hips,
or returned a look from smiling lips.
A part of his soul would never die,
when he heard a helpless baby cry.

There is no wrong or right or emotion,
or anger when he failed promotion.
There is no pride, no love, no joy,
no jealous eye, no happy toy.

We should pity the miserable sod,
not worship him as a poetry God.