HUD HUDSON
This week she has been reading Philip Larkin's
The Less Deceived.
She also read Larkin's The
North Ship, The Whitsun Weddings, and High Windows,
four slim volumes of poetry in
all. Xerxes had never heard of Larkin, despite the fact that he
was identified as the greatest,
British, post-war writer by The Times half-a-dozen years ago.
She wonders how many great
writers she has managed to miss completely -- just by chance, while
many of her peers are
thoroughly familiar with them. She thinks it's fun to discover them,
though.
Here is the poem, "Church
Going," from The Less Deceived:
Once I am sure there's nothing going on
I step inside, letting the door thud shut.
Another church: matting, seats, and stone,
And little books; sprawlings of flowers, cut
For Sunday, brownish now; some brass and stuff
Up at the holy end; the small neat organ;
And a tense, musty, unignorable silence,
Brewed God knows how long. Hatless, I take off
My cycle-clips in awkward reverence.
Move forward, run my hand around the font.
From where I stand, the roof looks almost new -
Cleaned, or restored? Someone would know: I don't.
Mounting the lectern, I peruse a few
Hectoring large-scale verses, and pronounce
'Here endeth' much more loudly than I'd meant.
The echoes snigger briefly. Back at the door
I sign the book, donate an Irish sixpence,
Reflect the place was not worth stopping for.
Yet stop I did: in fact I often do,
And always end much at a loss like this,
Wondering what to look for; wondering, too,
When churches will fall completely out of use
What we shall turn them into, if we shall keep
A few cathedrals chronically on show,
Their parchment, plate and pyx in locked cases,
And let the rest rent-free to rain and sheep.
Shall we avoid them as unlucky places?
Or, after dark, will dubious women come
To make their children touch a particular stone;
Pick simples for a cancer; or on some
Advised night see walking a dead one?
Power of some sort will go on
In games, in riddles, seemingly at random;
But superstition, like belief, must die,
And what remains when disbelief has gone?
Grass, weedy pavement, brambles, buttress, sky,
A shape less recognisable each week,
A purpose more obscure. I wonder who
Will be the last, the very last, to seek
This place for what it was; one of the crew
That tap and jot and know what rood-lofts were?
Some ruin-bibber, randy for antique,
Or Christmas-addict, counting on a whiff
Of gown-and-bands and organ-pipes and myrrh?
Or will he be my representative,
Bored, uninformed, knowing the ghostly silt
Dispersed, yet tending to this cross of ground
Through suburb scrub because it held unspilt
So long and equably what since is found
Only in separation - marriage, and birth,
And death, and thoughts of these - for which was built
This special shell? For, though I've no idea
What this accoutred frowsty barn is worth,
It pleases me to stand in silence here;
A serious house on serious earth it is,
In whose blent air all our compulsions meet,
Are recognized, and robed as destinies.
And that much never can be obsolete,
Since someone will forever be surprising
A hunger in himself to be more serious,
And gravitating with it to this ground,
Which, he once heard, was proper to grow wise in,
If only that so many dead lie round
***
Any comments you might have for Xerxes
can be sent to Hud[dot]Hudson[at]wwu[dot]edu.
I will see to it that she receives them.
***
Xerxes' Junior Year
Last week Xerxes was reading
J.R.R. Tolkien's
The Hobbit
The week before Xerxes was reading
Voltaire's
Candide
The week before Xerxes was reading William Shakespeare's
The
Tempest
The week before Xerxes was reading Jack Fincher's
Lefties
The week before Xerxes was reading Yann Martel's
Life of Pi
The week before Xerxes was reading Jorge Luis Borges's
Ficciones
Xerxes' Sophomore Year
The week before Xerxes was reading Dante Alighieri's
Purgatorio
The week before Xerxes was reading Neil Gaiman and Terry
Pratchett's
Good Omens
The week before Xerxes was reading Alfred Lord Tennyson's
In
Memoriam
The week before Xerxes was reading Paul Woodruff's
Reverence
The week before Xerxes was reading Marilynne Robinson's
Gilead
The week before Xerxes was reading William Hjortsberg's
Falling Angel
The week before Xerxes was reading Herman
Melville's
Moby
Dick
The week before Xerxes was reading G.K. Chesterton's
Orthodoxy
The week before Xerxes was reading Anonymous's
Everyman
The week before Xerxes was reading David Maine's
Fallen
The week before Xerxes was reading The Dalai Lama's
An Open
Heart
The week before Xerxes was reading William Shakespeare's
As You
Like It
The week before Xerxes was reading William Shakespeare's
Macbeth
The week before Xerxes was reading Leo Tolstoy's
The Devil
Xerxes' Freshman Year
The week before Xerxes was
reading Jean Toomer's
Cane
The week before Xerxes was reading Patrick Süskind’s
Perfume
The week before Xerxes was reading Gore Vidal's
Creation
The week before Xerxes was reading A.S. Byatt's
Possession
The week before Xerxes was reading Dennis Potter's
Blackeyes
The week before Xerxes was reading Mervyn Peake's
Titus Alone
The week before Xerxes was reading Mervyn Peake's
Gormenghast
The week before Xerxes was reading Mervyn Peake's
Titus
Groan
The week before Xerxes was reading Lois Lowry's
The Giver
The week before Xerxes was reading Rudyard Kipling's
Mandalay
The week before Xerxes was reading Ralph Helfer's
Modoc
The week before Xerxes was reading George MacDonald's
The Portent
The week before Xerxes was reading Robert Graves's
I Claudius
The week before Xerxes was reading Mervyn Peake's
Mr Pye
The week before Xerxes was reading Riff Raff and Magenta's
The Time
Warp