It's not a stretch to feature Jude Law's birthday on Poetry Friday, since he is a big reader, and, he reads poetry. He was interviewed by the British newspaper, The Telegraph, two years ago. In the article, "Jude Law: the books that made me – from Charlie Brown to Iris Murdoch," he mentions a poem by Philip Larkin, "And the Wave Sings Because It is Moving." Of it he says,
I had it on my fridge for a while, and then it was in a folded-up piece of paper by my bed for four years, because it moved me so much, and yet I couldn’t quite work out what it was about. Well, I think in the end it’s about death – but there’s more marrow in it.
It’s proof that you don’t always necessarily need to understand – if you feel, that’s almost enough.
Happy Birthday, Jude Law! And many more!
Here's Larkin's poem (1946):
And the wave sings because it is moving
And the wave sings because it is moving.
Caught in its clear side, we also sing.
We are borne across graves, together, apart, together,
In the lifting wall imprisoned and protected,
And so devised to make ourselves unhappy.
Apart, we think we wish ourselves together,
Yet sue for solitude upon our meetings,
Til the unhindered turning of the sea
Changes our comforts into griefs greater
Than they were raised to cancel, breaking them.
Such are the sorrows that we search for meaning,
Such are the cries of birds across the waters,
Such are the mists the sun attacks at morning,
Laments, years, wreaths, rocks, all ridden down
By the shout of the heart continually at work
To break with beating all our false devices;
Silver-tongued like a share it ploughs up failure,
Carries the night and day, fetches
Profit from sleep, from skies, driven or star-slung,
From all but death takes tithes,
Finds marrow in all but death to feed
And frame to us, but death it cannot invoke.
Death is a cloud alone in the sky with the sun.
Our hearts, turning like fish in the green wave,
Grow quiet in its shadow. For in the word death
There is nothing to grasp; nothing to catch or claim;
Nothing to adapt the skill of the heart to, skill
In surviving, for death it cannot survive,
Only resign the irrecoverable keys.
The wave falters and drowns. The coulter of joy
Breaks. The harrow of death
Deepens. And there are thrown up waves.
And the waves sing because they are moving.
And the waves sing above a cemetery of waters.
Visit Heidi at My Juicy Little Universe for the last Poetry Friday Round-Up of 2017! Happy New Year!