A poem for Tuesday

I'm reading a Beckett biography and particularly the chapters of his emigration and the simultaneous complexity and simplicity of that decision. I think reinvention of self is fundamental to the emigrant mentality. More than economy or famine or religion or any of the other reasons people go. People want a chance to transcend that, create a new identity and physically leaving is a powerful expression of that change. And much as there's homesickness, there's a sadness associated with home, the sepulchre of it. I've read this Philip Larkin poem a lot lately.

Home is so Sad
Home is so sad. It stays as it was left,
Shaped to the comfort of the last to go
As if to win them back. Instead, bereft
Of anyone to please, it withers so,
Having no heart to put aside the theft

And turn again to what it started as
A joyous shot at how things ought to be,
Long fallen wide. You can see how it was:
Look at the pictures and the cutlery.
The music in the piano stool. That vase.
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