Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

Philip Larkin, the Marvell Press, and Me
tells the story of this small, non-
metropolitan publishing house: literally a
small house, next to an off-licence and a
fish-and-chip shop. It charts the growth of
a press which, with the magazine Listen,
became a chapter of literary history.

About a month after we received Philip’s last letter from Ireland we met him. Knowing his nature, I do not suppose he was any less nervous about our first encounter than we were. We had often speculated about his appearance and I had decided he would have lots of ginger hair and a merry smile with a hint of sadness round the eyes, and lie would have a liking for houndstooth jackets and green trousers. If ours was not a typical publishing house, we were certainly an unlikely pair of publishers. George was a small, handsome youth whose black hair and olive skin revealed his Maltese ancestry. His insecurity betrayed itself in an odd mixture of brash confidence and reserve whereas, on such testing occasions, I tended to gush and be over-anxious to please.

     We felt self-conscious about the Marvell Press premises. Our house stood in a row of twelve, next door to an off-licence on one Side and four doors away from a fried-fish shop on the other. It was mean and cramped inside and its horsehair-and-plaster walls efficiently relayed every sound from the adjoining houses. At weekends we heard Alice Turner at the beer-off practising scales with her piano pupils, and Trev Deasle, a motor mechanic, using his power tools to transform his property into a little palace. At night he and Doris played over and over again the three records they had bought on their wedding day: ‘Shrimp Boat’, ‘Jezebel’ and ‘White Christmas’. From outside, the cottage looked passable
with its tiny bay window and minuscule garden. I planted fuchsia sprigs, to discourage the neighbourhood dogs from trespassing and when in blossom they looked quite pretty, once I had removed the grey fish-skins which the high-spirited fish shop customers nightly draped over them
 
     I had cleaned and titivated the house, hidden all the children’s paraphernalia and tried to make the place look as arty as possible to disguise the furnishing deficiencies, but it can only have given an impression of extreme poverty - which might just have been mistaken for deliberate bohemianism, but I doubt it. Philip’s diaries, which were destroyed after his death, would have revealed the misgivings he would undoubtedly have had when we opened the door of our hovel, and he thought ‘how young and we thought ‘how old’. The difference between twenty-two and thirty-two seems enormous to people of those ages.

     I was greatly alarmed when I saw a dignified gent, slim, with dark hair (receding), very formally-suited, serious and quite unsmiling. His frequent ‘White Rabbit’ glances at his pocket-watch did nothing to put us at our ease. It was hard to connect his solemn appearance with the wit of ‘Toads’ or the passion of ‘Wedding Wind’. With his chin well tucked in he paced up and down our small living-room, his tall body bowed to avoid a head-on collision with the light bulb.

     He later told me that this was a very lonely period in his life so perhaps it was partly for that reason, as well as our shared interest in literature and his desire to be involved in the production of his book, that he became a regular visitor. Most Saturdays he would come bowling along on his enormous bike (featured in the TV Monitor programme), the biggest I have ever seen, looking more than life-size as he pedalled down Hull Road, Hessle. On arrival, he would unhitch a huge haversack in which were the week’s groceries that he had just bought in Hammond’s food basement. One day a woman in front of him accidentally knocked over and smashed half a dozen jars of jam, and Philip worried about what he would have done had it been he who had knocked them over. Anxiousness came easily to him, and fear of death was a subject which featured frequently in his conversation, but his unpretentiousness and self-mockery stopped him from ever seeming morbid or self-dramatising. He asked me if I was afraid of death. I said no, in fact it would be a happy release. This was a fairly accurate indicator of my state of mind at the time. He laughed, but clearly did not believe me.

     We would talk about jazz, the progress of his book, the triumphs or setbacks of the week, who had just published what, and the price of meat. He was a marvellous mimic and his parodies of other poets were wickedly funny.

Ted Schofield

waiting for a taxi in the rain

scenes from everyday life