D.M. Thomas

Good Stuff | A Love Letter from Larkin
August 25, 2017 Thomas D.M.

Good Stuff


‘There’s some good stuff on Youtube,’ someone writes.

The kettle’s heating; while I’m waiting,

I find the one he means.  My lighter lights

At last. The thousands who have chosen

To watch the clip have given it a rating

Of 3.8.  Not bad.  The Square looks frozen,


Spread out before the grandiose railway station,

Volgograd-1.  Misleadingly

There seems no one about – sheer desolation;

Is no one travelling for New Year?

I see minute parked cars — the CCTV

Too far behind the vast Stalinist square


For figures to appear.  I smoke and watch.

Nothing is happening in the bleak

Midwinter scene.  I pour a warmth of Scotch

Into my coffee.  Then, a tongue

of flame no larger than my lighter’s weak

flicker provides a welcome red among


the dreary greys and blacks of the dull clip

But it fades instantly.  A stain

Of smoke smudges my screen, but as I sip

The scene returns to emptiness.

I stub my fag and click to play again.

Well, 3.8 seems high, I’d give it less.


I play it three or four more times, as though

The scene inside the station should

Have brought more than the nanosecond’s glow,

Even silent, and from far away.

The same drab coldness, though where people stood

In line, fur-hatted, muffled, waiting patiently


To have their bags checked, after the brief red

There are now bloody pieces of

Legs, hands, torsos, and a black widow’s head,

With New Year gifts intended for

Someone’s grandmother lonely in Rostov,

Another’s sickly aunt in Krasnodar,


And dolls and children’s puzzles for the train.

Hell, we have seen New Yorkers leap!

I need at least a glimpse of death and pain.

Hopeful, I watch the clip again.

In what was Stalingrad life is always cheap.

Eighteen this time.   I stare out at the rain.




A Love Letter from Larkin


Dearest, while waiting for my cheese to melt

I think of you and listen to Bechet.

We seem to be less close.  It’s all my fault.


The crocuses, your nice blue frock…  I felt,

as you write, dear, we had a lovely day.

Recalling you, your marvellous legs, I melt.


I wonder is it true that ‘if the salt…?’

England fought back well by the close of play–

were you listening?  That run-out!   Compton’s fault.


Those swine have turned their wireless up.  I’d bolt,

but where to?   Maeve’s at the library,

I can’t go there.  This blasted cheese won’t melt.


I’m just a clumsy oaf, a cowardly dolt

who would be helpless if you went away,

yet seem to feel less close.  It’s all my fault.


Yes, I did like your red suspender belt.

I’m sorry you’re so down.  What can I say?

How can I make things easier?  Ah, the melt!

Do you feel we’re less close?  It’s all my fault.

D.M. Thomas is a British novelist and poet. He was awarded the Los Angeles Times Fiction prize for his novel The White Hotel, an international bestseller, translated into 30 languages; a Cholmondeley award for poetry; and the Orwell Prize for his biography of Alexander Solzhenitsyn. He lives in his native Cornwall, England. His most recent work is Vintage Ghosts, a verse novel (Francis Boutle, 2012).