Larkin, England, South Africa, father, poem, poetry

CEMETERY ROAD
“may not mean to/
but they do”

I’ve read that
this be the Larkin poem

by any metric
it’s a real shocker

give it its due
painfully spot on
must have
begun somewhere

with Adam and Eve
tragic trace elements
springing out
of the big
bang
catastrophic for
the happiness of our species

and so me
not yet teenage

about to be whisked, nay,
catapulted to Africa
and apartheid
South Africa
at that

far from this little British
cul-de-sac
joy there in the sweet
English place of
pastoral they
call
a pastoral

where my father dutifully
taught me how
to ride
a bicycle

not much interest in my
life

this broken life

after which
my father’s little dream
of upping
roots, defining
his Empire

somehow not
translating

finding purchase, believers,
means of manufacture

will not
let this poem end as
dead at
point blank range
as Larkin’s does