by Giles Booth, (then) aged 19 and three quarters
‘How many dragons did you kill today?’
Asks Philip Larkin in his turtle-like way,
Scarcely believing he’s worse off than most
Imprisoned by toads and his library post.
But last night I dreamt of his over-grown snakes,
Of clubbing his dragons. I reckon that makes
Six before breakfast, though it might soon be more;
Number seven lies bleeding on his office floor.
I’m researching an essay, but time after time
I’m totally flummoxed by the opaque last line.
His curriculum vitae might yield a clue
As to which of these poems is explicitly true.
Wellington, Leicester, Belfast and Hull,
How could he be so incredibly dull?
I can’t understand what he’s trying to prove,
Getting nearer the scrap-heap with every move.
He’s been out of tune with the Modernist sages
Since, expecting a Pevsner, he scoured the pages
With thick specs and torchlight under the bedding
Of Ezra Pound’s guide book, the one about Reading.