Improv., Week 10

from "Aubade" by Philip Larkin (p. 133 in Writing Poetry)

"Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape.
It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know,
Have always known, know that we can't escape,
Yet can't accept. One side will have to go.
Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring
In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring
Intricate rented world begins to rouse.
The sky is white as clay, with no sun.
Work has to be done.
Postmen like doctors go from house to house."


Meanwhile, offices ring with the locks of postmen,
never on time, never knowing the time,
intricately readying themselves to rouse.
Work will not wait, so the uncaring sun,
white like clay, goes from house to house
urging all to rise. Light strengthens
the boredom of an office, locked out of sun,
doing intricate work like how-much-for-this
and where-to-with-that. The social world
is something like clay, malleable and sticky,
inevitably hardening. The telephone rings
like a telepathic postman, arriving at each house
as their needs are met, unlocking an escape,
accepting each day the world takes its shape.