[John Whitworth]

No. 2599: The road not taken
In the Observer’s ‘My Other Life’ column, writers reveal their fantasy job (Margaret Drabble: marine biologist). You are invited to step into the shoes of a well-known writer, past or present, and give their account, in verse or prose, of a career path they might like to have taken (16 lines/150 words maximum). Entries to ‘Competition 2599’ by 4 June or email lucy@spectator.co.uk.

This looks a real goodie in my opinion. The Kiddies' Alphabets weren't much good except for Bill Greenwell's but the subject wasn't very uplifting. Now this one... Philip Larkin is obviously an agony aunt.

[Petra Norr]

.
Could I but trade my quill for shining sword,
my desk for a round table steeped in time,
I would be freed from pining for the lord
and lady who inflict such heartless crime.
Were I a knight, my favours would be sought
for I would shake my spear and lance a lot.

.

[Petra Norr]

.
Bake, bake, bake,
in thy hot stone hearth, O see!
And I would that my poetry cease
and flour and frosting cover me.

O, well for Albert, our dear Prince
on his royal anniversary
I would I were the half-clad nymph
who jumps out from the cake to mince.

.

[David Anthony]

The Road Taken

Youth’s urgency permitted no delay
and many paths diverged. I didn’t know
which one to take or where I ought to go,
and settled for a broad and trodden way
because it offered light and company;
but as my friends dispersed along the road
I travelled on alone and often strode
in haste where I had no desire to be.

At evening everything becomes opaque,
and circumstance has turned the track I chose
back on itself, much nearer now to those
remembered byways I shall never take.
This is a light to me when dark is near:
the paths diverged but all at last led here.

[Petra Norr]

That's lovely, David.

* * * * *

I, the sainted Swinburne, swoon to be a simple swineherd;
I pine for porkers, pastoral life, and marriage to a fine bird.

.

[Clive]

I like this game.

The Hull Librarian

I work all day and get undressed at night.
Tucked up in my single bed, I sigh.
If only I had lived my life aright,
I'd be directing porn. But we pass by
the junctures in the road we ought to take
not even knowing it until we're through
with being young. Our every mistake
appears so clear when seen through the rear-view.
Ah well, what use is rueful retrospection?
The old toad keeps my larder stocked, my gin
replenished and augments my jazz collection
while still allowing time enough for sin.
But still, when one is in one's cups, one sits
and dreams of days spent nostril-deep in tits.

[Petra Norr]

That's a fun Larkin, Clive.

* * * * *

I will shift shape, and shape a life in Innisfree
and a small stable have there, filled with hay and corn.
Two calves will suckle there, and the mother will be me –
all changed, changed udderly: A terrible beauty is born.

.

[John Whitworth]

Here's another Philip - as an agony aunt as I said.

Auntie Phil

I read the wretched wrecks of dreams and hopes.
I trace the tracks of tears, so wan and ghostly.
I see the letters in their envelopes,
And the addresses, neatly written mostly.
You have to keep your spirits up, you must
Preserve the possibility of better.
Your past and future crumble into dust
And yet you find the strength to write a letter
To me, to me. Because? Because to tell
Your sadness and your suffering amends them?
The wounds you bare here never will be well,
You know, I know, we know that nothing ends them.
Something far back, too far, was bad begun.
No comfort save the lack of comfort. None.

[Janet Kenny]

John,
That's such a splendid idea. I wouldn't dare touch Philip Larkin after that. I chose another favourite poet of mine.

John Betjeman


I’d own a teashop in a street
Where conversation isn’t drowned
By traffic noise. A quiet retreat
Where teacups make a gentle sound.
Brown earthen teapots, scones with cream,
And racks with Punch and Country Life,
For supermarket girls to dream
Of love and being a country wife.
There’d be a tinkle from the door
When customers went out or in,
And table cloths, and on the floor
Some faded rugs to damp the din.
I’d listen and I’d watch and quite
Forget the grief that makes me write.

[John Whitworth]

I wondered if, when, you were going to post this. Brilliant, a winner. Or at least I think so.