1963 and all that

To mark World Poetry Day, a short poem. One of my favourites...

Annus Mirabilis, by Philip Larkin

Lady Chatterley's Lover, by D H Lawrence

Sexual intercourse began
In nineteen sixty-three
(which was rather late for me) -
Between the end of the “Chatterley” ban
And the Beatles’ first LP.

Up to then there’d only been
A sort of bargaining,
A wrangle for the ring,
A shame that started at sixteen
And spread to everything.

Then all at once the quarrel sank:
Everyone felt the same,
And every life became
A brilliant breaking of the bank,
A quite unlosable game.

So life was never better than
In nineteen sixty-three
(Though just too late for me) -
Between the end of the “Chatterley” ban
And the Beatles’ first LP.

Here's a recording of Larkin himself reading Annus Mirabilis - priceless.

Do you know any good poems worth reading today? Let us know.

Goodreads, anyone?

CS Lewis said we read to know we’re not alone. That could explain why Goodreads is such a great website. I put short reviews of every book I read there, and I’m always looking for new goodreads friends - so if you’re also a member, please get in touch. Here’s my profile page. And here's my latest book review.

On the skids

Had he not drunk himself to death in 1969, Jack Kerouac might have been celebrating his 90th birthday today. He would be younger than Prince Philip.

Of course longevity was always an unlikely prospect for the poster boy of the Beats, the man who wrote, “The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time…”

Here he is giving a toe-curling interview to the Italian writer Fernanda Pivano near the end. It'd make Oliver Reed blush. Not a great advert for whiskey.

Old age should burn and rave

John Cale is 70 today. Last week it was Lou Reed. Odd to think of the Velvet Underground as septuagenarians. Here's Cale doing a great musical performance of Dylan Thomas's poem Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night.

Choose your weapons

They fuck you up, your wife and kids. They may not mean to, but they do.

Once upon a time I had a life. I had a job. I ran marathons. I socialised with friends and bored them rigid with stories of the time I hitch-hiked alone through Central Africa (have I told you about that trip? Don’t worry, I will).

And then – BOOM! – a tiny creature wrapped in a blanket was placed gently into my clumsy hands. His name, we decided, was Matthew. Sleep appeared to be alien to him. From that day forward, I have never looked up.

And fate wasn’t done with me yet. Two years later – BOOM! - another boy, Luke. Work offered redundancy; I took it. I was hoping to combine freelancing with childcare; a naïve and foolish plan. Now, of course, I spend my days wiping bottoms, washing clothes and worrying about head lice. The missus brings home the bacon. I am stuck at home ironing. Somehow I have become a stuck-at-home husband. My name is Simon and I am a stuck-at-home dad.

Do I give a shit? To be honest: not really. I signed up for this and I’ve no right to complain. We’re not short of money. I’m content with life. I love my boys, and the missus, and would do anything for them.

Yet something feels odd, a little emasculating, shameful even. Is this really how things were meant to be?  At 10, I dreamed of being General Custer. At 20, I wanted to be a war reporter. Now, aged 44, the only combat I’ll ever know is the bloody battle of the sexes. You could say I’m a casualty, wounded at the frontline. I am a bewildered, shell-shocked POW dreaming of tunnelling to freedom.

But there’s a silver lining, there always is. Now that I’ve stopped living, I can start writing. Words are loaded pistols. Sartre said that. My weapon of choice is the Bendle Blog. I said that.

With apologies to Philip Larkin