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