I think more subconsciously than by intent, I wrote this poem in response to Philip Larkin's 'Mr Bleaney'. I enjoy Larkin's writing but find it, particularly 'The Whitsun Weddings', suffocatingly middle class. Poor old Mr Bleaney, having slogged his guts out to provide a meagre living for himself, is far more deserving of respect than he receives at the hands of Larkin's snooty observations. Bleaney is representative of so many of us that do not enjoy the many advantages afforded to the intellectual class, this does not mean we do not have the same cultural and intellectual ownership of our literary and artistic heritage. If, as Larkin complains, the company of Mr Bleaney is so tiresome, why then elevate him to the subject of your creative endeavour?

Dignum Laude Virum Musa Vetat Mori*

The first rays of light crept hopefully about

Casting their prying fingers in and out

Of long night time shadows, forcing them

To slink like nocturnal beasts revealed

Into remote corners and crevices unseen

As day followed night the light fell full length

Upon a dusty window pane shut tight

Made grimy by neglect and marching time

It struggled and yet finally did pass through

To cut the dusty gloom inside a house

No better than its neighbours and no worse

The cheerful light laid bare with no remorse

The shabby living room of this small house

A patterned woollen carpet, faded in the sun

The patchy threads had been much walked upon

And battered furniture antique in style

Old newspapers left yellowing in a pile

Upon the mantelpiece a clock had ceased

To count the passing hours long ago

An ashtray was the only souvenir

To indicate this house was still a home

It lay full gorged upon the butts and ash

Explaining why the peeling walls were stained

And in that sealed room the air was stale

A fine layer of dust had settled gently upon

The back of an old armchair, its back to the door

Still looming in the fast receding shadows

A gnarled hand grips each arm tightly

Wrinkled brown skin, chipped black nails

Paler than the palest ivory

The whites of eyes that can no longer see

Staring from his face quite peacefully

A face much lined with wrinkled age and care

Though crowned with white his head is mostly bare

In life he had been poor and lived alone

In the dignity of death this was undone

And so we must retire from this poignant scene

Back out onto the streets from whence we came

And up above those rooftops all the same

To watch the bloated sunset's fading rays.

* The man worthy of praise the Muse forbids to die. Horace