Trafika Europe 13 - Russian Ballet

Ten poems

For One Born in England...

This was Mr. Bleaney’s room... ‒philip larkin

For one born in England it’s best to stay put, To not travel anywhere‒so the poet said‒ But remain in provincial Hull, where he lived, None of this crossing the globe at the drop of a hat In Hull, Birmingham, Manchester, Oxford‒ I think (but don’t say) this goes for London too. A trip to Holland? You must be joking! God forbid! What would they show you, a new dawn, the latest rainbow? On the Continent and, what’s more, having to drive on the right, An Englishman feels uncomfortable, and a trifle odd. And, though, speaking largely, he holds France in high regard‒ Verlaine, Baudelaire, Mallarmé: a bit showy? ‒ in their lines, their fates? It is better to work one’s whole life as a librarian In a small town, exchange nods withMr. Bleaney at the petrol pump Or the chemist’s‒it’s here that two words jump out‒ “Hi” and “So long,” we’d say in Russian. And when the wind starts to howl at the window, And there is exactly nowhere to go, and the mercury Plummets, still he gets on somehow, Mr. Bleaney, And this means you somehow manage as well.

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