Saturday, June 18, 2016

Aubade By Philip Larkin

Aubade By Philip Larkin

I work all day, and get half-drunk at night.
Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare.
In time the curtain-edges will grow light.
Till then I see what's really always there:
Unresting death, a whole day nearer now,
Making all thought impossible but how
And where and when I shall myself die.
Arid interrogation: yet the dread
Of dying, and being dead,
Flashes afresh to hold and horrify.
The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse
- The good not done, the love not given, time
Torn off unused - nor wretchedly because
An only life can take so long to climb
Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never;
But at the total emptiness for ever,
The sure extinction that we travel to
And shall be lost in always. Not to be here,
Not to be anywhere,
And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true.

This is a special way of being afraid
No trick dispels. Religion used to try,
That vast, moth-eaten musical brocade
Created to pretend we never die,
And specious stuff that says No rational being
Can fear a thing it will not feel, not seeing
That this is what we fear - no sight, no sound,
No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with,
Nothing to love or link with,
The anasthetic from which none come round.

And so it stays just on the edge of vision,
A small, unfocused blur, a standing chill
That slows each impulse down to indecision.
Most things may never happen: this one will,
And realisation of it rages out
In furnace-fear when we are caught without
People or drink. Courage is no good:
It means not scaring others. Being brave
Lets no one off the grave.
Death is no different whined at than withstood.

Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape.
It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know,
Have always known, know that we can't escape,
Yet can't accept. One side will have to go.
Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring
In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring
Intricate rented world begins to rouse.
The sky is white as clay, with no sun.
Work has to be done.
Postmen like doctors go from house to house.

2 comments:

erin said...

marion, i came across this this morning and accepted it as optimism. then read about the poet who apparently tended to be less optimistic...

but i still receive it as optimism.

we do have this opportunity.))

feels a good response to the larkin poem.

If You Imagine, by Raymond Queneau

If you imagine

If you imagine

little sweetie little sweetie

If you imagine

this will this will this

will last forever

this season of

this season of

season of love

you are fooling yourself

little sweetie little sweetie

you are fooling yourself




If you think little one

If you think ah ah

that that rosy complexion

that waspy waist

those lovely muscles

the enamel nails

nymph thigh

And your light foot

If you think little one

that will that will that

Will last forever

you are fooling yourself

little sweetie little sweetie

you are fooling yourself




The lovely days disappear

the lovely holidays

Suns and planets

go round in a circle

but you my little one

you go straight

toward you know not what

very slowly draw near

the sudden wrinkle

the weighty fat

the triple chin

the flabby muscle

come gather gather

the roses the roses

roses of life

and may their petals

Be a calm sea

Of happiness

come gather gather

if you don’t do it

you are fooling yourself

little sweetie little sweetie

you are fooling yourself

Marion said...

Wonderful contrast to Larkin's having a bad day poem....but, but, but (and a big butt it is!) about this Raymond Queneau, long dead since 1976...

But I wonder, Erin, (don't you??) why didn't this old poet write about an aging MALE:

hair going bald,
old man, old man,
mind slipping woefully,
old man, old man,
once firm muscles flabby,
old man, old man,
wheezing chest from too many cigars,
old man, old man
pot belly spreading
judgmental old man,
dried up shriveled balls drooping woefully
down to crackling/crippled old knees,
old man, old man
non-working/spongy penis,
useless piece of flesh
old man, old man
foul breath from rotting teeth & empty words,
old man, old man
mind gone soft as he can only fantasize (isn't that what he's doing, after all?)
about perky young women
going to seed?!?!?!

Ah, the hypocrisy & complete & utter narcissism of the male of the species knows no bounds...especially when degrading women.