An experiment, begun with Larkin.

Blues Shouter.

There ain’t no music
East side of this city
That’s mellow like mine is,
That’s mellow like mine.

Wooden guitar, light cavern
Where the strings pound:
Hideout, haven,
Romping walk of sound.

Innocent beat
No one can imprison,
No one can rob or cheat,
Bully or argue down.

Honour the shaking
Chamber under a hand:
Untouchable, talking,
Coherent diamond.

Here making a heaven-
Hive of sound,
Of joy, driven
All wild and underground.


Or falling leaf,

Which ought I to imitate
In my dancing?

And if she were to admit
The world weaved by her feet
Is leafless, is incomplete?
And if she abandoned it,
Broke the pivotal dance,
Set loose the audience?

Then would the moon go raving,
The moon, the anchorless
Moon go swerving
Down at the earth for a catastrophic kiss.

I doubt he would approve. Alors, world.

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