You Can't Put Off Being Young Until

Only One Ship Is Seeking Us, A Black-sailed Unfamiliar, Towing At Her Backa Huge And Birdless Silence. In Her Wakeno Waters Breed Or Break.

Since The Majority Of Me Rejects The Majority Of You, Debating Ends Forthwith, And We Divide.'' Philip Larkin

I Never Think Of Poetry Or The Poetry Scene, Only Separate Poems Written By Individuals.

Death: The Anaesthetic From Which None Come Round.

Now, Helpless In The Hollow Of An Unarmorial Age, A Trough Of Smoke In Slow Suspended Skeins Above Their Scrap Of History, Only An Attitude Remains: Time Has Transfigured Them Into Untruth. The Stone Finality They Hardly Meant Has Come To Be Their Final Blazon, And To Prove Our Almost-instinct Almost True: What Will Survive Of Us Is Love.