They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.
But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another’s throats.
Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don’t have any kids yourself.
This poem has a great deal of resonance for me, right now. Having said that, I’d like to straight away apologise to my mum and dad for posting it!
I don’t know much about Larkin, to be honest. But I do feel like I’d like to explore his poetry further. This one reminds me, in its rather grimly jocular way, of Alan Bennett. They seem to share very British qualities of the eloquently curmudgeonly depressive!