He looks out at you from the photograph <br />or rather, doesn’t: eyes wide but blank, <br />thick lenses would place your image <br />in a plane you don’t inhabit; <br /> <br />like a fish that in an aquarium <br />suddenly swims direct toward you <br />stopping at the glass to stare a moment: <br />was there a meeting? What <br />are you to the fish? <br /> <br />So, nothing. Then next day, <br />he’s propping his bike against the wall, <br />bending down to take off his cycle clips; <br />caught so close, you exchange <br />English noises: the weather, <br />a joke or was it, delivered deadpan: <br />but the sound of him stays with you: <br />melancholy and yet celebrating <br />the confidence in being ordinary. <br /> <br />Then next day, the poetry: <br />starts matter-of-fact, regretful, <br />doesn’t miss a thing around him, <br />sharp eyes hiding behind pebble lenses: then, <br />dives with us into the sea of greatness: <br />calls us, reels us in, enslaves the heart <br />with voice that speaks beyond all melancholy; <br />haunted by the completeness of eternity.<br /><br />Michael Shepherd<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/celebrating-philip-larkin/
