The Explosion by Philip Larkin   On several occasions, I’ve heard people say they don’t like to be manipulated by art. I have never managed to fathom this view. I stand before art and demand to be spun, flung, pulled, wrenched, twisted, startled and turned and turned and turned to more than a new direction—to a new shape.  I want a poem to turn all my tables. To achieve this, poets should be as skilled as woodturners at shaping raw material; they should be turners of would, of possibilities. I ask of the poet, exploit me, take advantage of my rawness, make designs on me. I don’t want art to save me. Let it lathe me. The turn turns poetry into alchemy. It demonstrates…