Philip Larkin

(9 August 1922 – 2 December 1985 / West Midlands / England)

Comments about Philip Larkin

  • Charlotte Chadwick (8/6/2009 5:22:00 AM)

    Hi-the word anaesthetic is misspelled: 'anasthetic' in the Larkin poem 'Aubade' on this site. Please correct! Cheers.

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  • Chris Guidon (6/18/2009 2:24:00 PM)

    Oblivion, Ill drink to oblivion.

    A rutting alchemist just like the rest,
    my potent breath warms their swollen breast's,
    the differentiation between truth and lies blurred,
    and my eloquent post modernist jive now slurred,
    ...so, dazed... i drift into the night,
    head filled with romance, seduced by the city lights.
    larkin taught me my moral views,
    nescient i, ever obtuse; subscribed to the school of self abuse.
    Now the smoky sweet taste of vomit brings dawn.
    I write on the walls, the words 'Vacant' and 'Forlorn.'

  • Kim Doyle (5/24/2009 6:32:00 PM)

    Not to be Anywhere Forever

    Philip Larkin said in “Aubade”
    but we are always in the hearts
    of those who love us, though
    we are apart. That is the place
    we rest and are remembered.

    That which must not be spoken of,
    no not the name Macbeth by an actor,
    gives the zing to the smallest of things;
    the minutiae that makes up life.

    Without death there can be no life,
    no life without death. Interminably
    biting at each others’ tails.

    We all fail, in the end. Good Night,
    Good Morning, again.

  • p.a. noushad p.a. noushad (7/11/2008 4:49:00 AM)

    the poems nerrate the simple and complex side of life.

  • Tracker Ogryphon (2/21/2008 3:31:00 PM)

    A suprizing anthology of english writing. It is a bit above my understanding. But I enjoyed the story.

    Thank You.

Best Poem of Philip Larkin

Aubade

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 ...

Read the full of Aubade

Mother, Summer, I

My mother, who hates thunder storms,
Holds up each summer day and shakes
It out suspiciously, lest swarms
Of grape-dark clouds are lurking there;
But when the August weather breaks
And rains begin, and brittle frost
Sharpens the bird-abandoned air,
Her worried summer look is lost,

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