Of course I know that he must have done so. I know Shakespeare must have done so, but it remains, in some ways, astonishing to think about.

There is a new book of Larkin’s poems – a “complete collected” by Archie Burnett. There is also a rather good article about confronting what “completes” reveal about a poet.

Burnett’s edition includes “all of Larkin’s poems whose texts are accessible.” These texts, meticulously checked against primary sources, are offered under four rubrics: the four volumes published in Larkin’s lifetime “preserved as collections” (117 poems); other poems published in the poet’s lifetime but not included in any collection (36 poems in order of publication date); poems not published in the poet’s lifetime (403 poems in chronological order determined by the date on which Larkin stopped working on each poem); and undated or approximately dated poems (10 poems).

Of the total, then, of 566 poems (some as brief as two lines), 413 are poems Larkin did not publish himself. Fewer than a dozen of these poems could conceivably make their way without Larkin; for the approximately four hundred remaining poems, their only claim to anyone’s interest is that they were written by Philip Larkin. He said himself, “If one is interested in a poet one wants all of his poems in the order they were published, not a selection according to his own idea reshuffled to conceal how bad he was when he started, the whole with lots of alterations to suit the latest fashion in adjectives.”

When I read that bit “how bad he was when he started” was both aghast and amused. I mean who wants to express one’s horrible clum-bustedness to the world at large? Everyone knows one has to learn greatness – I don’t care how much talent one has at birth, the language still needs to be learnt – but to display one’s early ineptitude?

Gack.

I suppose it comes down to allowing great poets to be human first and great poets second, but the desire to keep them as icons is rather strong.  I suppose that desire is about as strong as one’s own when it comes to not seeming like a blithering idiot if one is fond of one’s intelligence.  For example, imagine reading Ayn Rand at 12 and being taken by the ideas. Forgivable, I suppose, if just barely. But in a 40-year old? Gawd.

Still. I think I’ll buy Burnett’s book. It may give me hope that I might one day produce at least one really good poem.

There are a number of Larkin poems online. Try here, here and here for a sample.