Uploaded September 2014 | Updated September 2026, 3 weeks ago
Ruth Bowman was engaged to the Philip Larkin from 1948 until 1950. She received 400 letters from him. The snapshot of her was taken by Larkin.
theguardian.com/books/2013/jan/22/ruth-siverns
"Bosomy rose with fur gloves on" was Jane Exall. He complained to his friend Kingsley Amis that he spent three quid on her lunch and all he got for it was a kiss on his ear. Real fur was still worn in the 50's and it was expensive. The height of glamour for a girl was a mink coat, an extravagance that cost as much as an average house.
Larkin took many "snaps" of Jane but I can't find any of them online and there's probably good reason for this. In the 50's snapshots were black and white. I needed a picture for atmosphere at the end so I used one of a screen actress, Francis Doble, 1902-1969. philiplarkin.com/pdfs/essays/jane_exall_skamitani.pdf
There's some analysis here:
enorfaslitionachampain.blogspot.co.uk/2014/02/wild-oats.html
In fact there's plenty of analysis of this poem and Larkin's affairs online. The private lives of poets get picked over like chicken guts in the hands of a haruspex. That's the chief reason I never tried to be a poet. Another reason is that the pay is lousy. Instead I sought immortality by not dying, which would be cuter if Woody Allen hadn't said it first.
I can't help thinking that Larkin would have been not so painfully self-conscious nor such a misanthrope if he'd never met Kingsley Amis. I admire Kingsley Amis because he's amusing and entertaining, he reflects the spirit of his time. However I never liked him: he was narcissistic and he harmed everybody who crossed his path, as narcissists tend to do. He suffered in his later years from an ailment sometimes called "serveyourightis", meaning that it was caused by his self-indulgence and selfishness: the nymphs had departed. Like Bukowski said in the last poem I read, he had to pay for all those profligate years. I'll bet that brings me a few brickbats.
About twenty years ago
Two girls came in where I worked—
A bosomy English rose
And her friend in specs I could talk to.
Faces in those days sparked
The whole shooting-match off, and I doubt
If ever one had like hers:
But it was the friend I took out,
And in seven years after that
Wrote over four hundred letters,
Gave a ten-guinea ring
I got back in the end, and met
At numerous cathedral cities
Unknown to the clergy. I believe
I met beautiful twice. She was trying
Both times (so I thought) not to laugh.
Parting, after about five
Rehearsals, was an agreement
That I was too selfish, withdrawn,
And easily bored to love.
Well, useful to get that learnt.
In my wallet are still two snaps
Of bosomy rose with fur gloves on.
Unlucky charms, perhaps.
Ruth Bowman was engaged to the Philip Larkin from 1948 until 1950. She received 400 letters from him. The snapshot of her was taken by Larkin.
theguardian.com/books/2013/jan/22/ruth-siverns
"Bosomy rose with fur gloves on" was Jane Exall. He complained to his friend Kingsley Amis that he spent three quid on her lunch and all he got for it was a kiss on his ear. Real fur was still worn in the 50's and it was expensive. The height of glamour for a girl was a mink coat, an extravagance that cost as much as an average house.
Larkin took many "snaps" of Jane but I can't find any of them online and there's probably good reason for this. In the 50's snapshots were black and white. I needed a picture for atmosphere at the end so I used one of a screen actress, Francis Doble, 1902-1969. philiplarkin.com/pdfs/essays/jane_exall_skamitani.pdf
There's some analysis here:
enorfaslitionachampain.blogspot.co.uk/2014/02/wild-oats.html
In fact there's plenty of analysis of this poem and Larkin's affairs online. The private lives of poets get picked over like chicken guts in the hands of a haruspex. That's the chief reason I never tried to be a poet. Another reason is that the pay is lousy. Instead I sought immortality by not dying, which would be cuter if Woody Allen hadn't said it first.
I can't help thinking that Larkin would have been not so painfully self-conscious nor such a misanthrope if he'd never met Kingsley Amis. I admire Kingsley Amis because he's amusing and entertaining, he reflects the spirit of his time. However I never liked him: he was narcissistic and he harmed everybody who crossed his path, as narcissists tend to do. He suffered in his later years from an ailment sometimes called "serveyourightis", meaning that it was caused by his self-indulgence and selfishness: the nymphs had departed. Like Bukowski said in the last poem I read, he had to pay for all those profligate years. I'll bet that brings me a few brickbats.
About twenty years ago
Two girls came in where I worked—
A bosomy English rose
And her friend in specs I could talk to.
Faces in those days sparked
The whole shooting-match off, and I doubt
If ever one had like hers:
But it was the friend I took out,
And in seven years after that
Wrote over four hundred letters,
Gave a ten-guinea ring
I got back in the end, and met
At numerous cathedral cities
Unknown to the clergy. I believe
I met beautiful twice. She was trying
Both times (so I thought) not to laugh.
Parting, after about five
Rehearsals, was an agreement
That I was too selfish, withdrawn,
And easily bored to love.
Well, useful to get that learnt.
In my wallet are still two snaps
Of bosomy rose with fur gloves on.
Unlucky charms, perhaps.
