Larkin' around with McGough

It's taken me a long time to realise the rather close connection Philip Larkin had with Roger McGough. At first sight, any connection seems unlikely. It is true that both are popular poets, but their readerships are probably not that closely aligned - although research might prove me wrong. Their public profiles are certainly very dissimilar: Larkin, the deeply private academic librarian writing poetry of febrile subtlety, and profound feeling, which underlines his complex, introverted relationships with women and, indeed, life in general. By contrast McGough was part of The Liverpool Sound, trendiest poetic movement of the twentieth century, extrovert performer with The Scaffold, friend of The Beatles, giving readings to thousands, and writing poetry that is often laugh out loud funny, instantly accessible, but maybe just a bit facile? Publication of McGough's 'Collected Poems - 1959-2024' is an opportunity to reassess his reputation and I shall do this in a later Blog, but for now I want to focus on a curious link between Larkin and McGough which McGough celebrates (if that is the right word) in his poem 'Aubade Mirabilis'.

McGough read French and Geography at the University of Hull when Larkin was Librarian. Larkin encouraged McGough's writing and followed his career after he'd graduated. He was also sub-warden of Wheeler Halls of Residence where McGough lived for part of his time at Hull. I don't think Larkin had a room at the Halls, but McGough, who cheerfully admits to making up stories, imagines what might have happened if he had...

Aubade Mirabilis

Needler Hall, the University of Hull

Woken at dawn to the sound of

Bechet’s clarinet

coming from his room on the

floor above,

as the door opens and he creeps

down the stairs.

The flop of moth-eaten brocade

slippers

along the corridor. The knock.

The ‘Come in’. He stands in the doorway,

plain as a wardrobe.

'Thought you might be able to help.'

He stays just on the edge of

vision,

an unfocused blur, a standing

chill.

There is no escape. The curtain-

edges grow light

and the room takes shape. ‘Work

has to be done. What year was the Beatle’s first

LP?’

‘Nineteen sixty-three,’ I mum-

ble.

‘ABBAB. Excellent.’ And he is

gone.

The sky is white as clay, with no

sun.

This is of course a poetry in-joke referring to Larkin's poem 'Annus Mirabilis'

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.

McGough's poem is, on one level, rather a good joke: the very untrendy Larkin seeking a contemporary cultural reference from the embryonic pop poet; but there is more to the poem than that. McGough references Larkin's late poem Aubade

I work all day, and get half-drunk at night.

Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare.

In time the curtain-edges will grow light.

Till then I see what's really always there:

Unresting death, a whole day nearer now,

Making all thought impossible but how

And where and when I shall myself die.

Arid interrogation: yet the dread

Of dying, and being dead,

Flashes afresh to hold and horrify.

The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse -

The good not done, the love not given, time

Torn off unused - nor wretchedly because

An only life can take so long to climb

Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never;

But at the total emptiness for ever,

The sure extinction that we travel to

And shall be lost in always. Not to be here,

Not to be anywhere,

And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true.

This is a special way of being afraid

No trick dispels. Religion used to try,

That vast, moth-eaten musical brocade

Created to pretend we never die,

And specious stuff that says No rational being

Can fear a thing it will not feel, not seeing

That this is what we fear - no sight, no sound,

No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with,

Nothing to love or link with,

The anasthetic from which none come round.

And so it stays just on the edge of vision,

A small, unfocused blur, a standing chill

That slows each impulse down to indecision.

Most things may never happen: this one will,

And realisation of it rages out

In furnace-fear when we are caught without

People or drink. Courage is no good:

It means not scaring others. Being brave

Lets no one off the grave.

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.

So McGough uses Larkin's own grim lines ('The sky is white as clay, with no sun' for example) to show the nihilistic disquiet behind his librarian-dry facade.

This is not the whole story of course. Larkin was capable of a self-deprecating humour which is rather endearing. He and McGough kept in contact (Larkin included him in The Oxford Book of Twentieth Century English Verse which he edited) and was amused to be able to tell the younger poet that McGough's books in Hull University Library were read far more often than his own - 'Keep up the good work!' he cheerfully remarked. As for McGough being a shade facile, well, on occasion he is, but at other times, he is capable of a very definite and individual magic. I first heard this poem read at Cathays High School Cardiff in 1969 and it has haunted me ever since:

Three Rusty Nails

Mother, there’s a strange man

Waiting at the door

With a familiar sort of face

You feel you’ve seen before.

Says his name is Jesus

Can we spare a couple of bob

Says he’s been made redundant

And now can’t find a job.

Yes I think he is a foreigner

 Egyptian or a Jew

Oh aye, and that reminds me

He’d like some water too.

Well shall I give him what he wants

Or send him on his way?

OK I’ll give him a tanner

Say that’s all we’ve got today.

And I’ll forget about the water

I suppose it’s a bit unfair

 But honest, he’s filthy dirty

All beard and straggly hair.

******

Mother, he asked about the water

 I said the tank had burst

Anyway I gave him the coppers

That seemed to quench his thirst.

He said it was little things like that

That kept him on the rails

Then he gave me his autographed picture

And these three rusty nails.