I got a book of poetry by Philip Larkin from the library. He is an Irish poet who hasn't achieved much international fame and has only received critical acclaim since his death. The bulk of his work tends to dwell on rural Irish life and the discouraging futility of it all, but he does have a secret love of love. I found one such indulgence that may be my new favorite love poem of all time (suck it, Barrett-Browning).
Love
The difficult part of love
Is being selfish enough,
Is having the blind persistence
To upset an existence
Just for your own sake.
What cheek it must take.
And then the unselfish side--
How can you be satisfied,
Putting someone else first
So that you come off worst?
My life is for me.
As well ignore gravity.
Still, vicious or virtuous,
Love suits most of us.
Only the bleeder found
Selfish this wrong way round
Is ever wholly rebuffed,
And he can get stuffed.
-Philip Larkin
Isn't that sweet?
