Philip Larkin

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

Philip Larkin Poems

If you see a poem only with title, it is listed that way because of copyright reasons.
81. At Grass 4/2/2010
82. For Sidney Bechet 1/3/2003
83. Days 4/2/2010
84. The Whitsun Weddings 1/3/2003
85. Deceptions 4/2/2010
86. Ambulances 4/2/2010
87. Ignorance 1/3/2003
88. Far Out 1/3/2003
89. High Windows 1/3/2003
90. The Old Fools 1/3/2003
91. Faith Healing 1/3/2003
92. An Arundel Tomb 4/2/2010
93. Aubade 4/2/2010
94. Church Going 4/2/2010

Comments about Philip Larkin

  • Ron Price Ron Price (12/2/2009 11:38:00 PM)

    Poetry is like trying to remember a tune you've forgotten... A poem is written because the poet gets a sudden vision.....he juggles with sounds and associations which will best express the original vision. It is done quite intuitively, sometimes esoterically, sometimes with a very common touch. That is why the poet never thinks of the reader. The vision has something to do with sex. I don't know what it is; it's subtle, elusive, indefineable. It's not surprising, obviously two creative forces in alliance, closely connected.

    The result is a poetry of self-indulgence, the patter of the entertainer, fodder for future social historians from a poet who needs emotional isolation, from a poet who touches our hearts by showing his own, who reveals the paradoxes and enigmas of our lives by putting his own on the table, who provides, for me, perspectives on unity that emerge out of aloneness and solitude. -Ron Price with thanks to Andrew Swarbrick, Out of Reach: The Poetry of Philip Larkin, St. Martin 's Press, NY,1995, p.21.

    He pursues self-definition,
    the nature of identity,
    through separateness,
    exclusion and difference,
    negative self-definition,
    a voice of Englishness
    back in that ninth and
    early tenth stage of history1,
    after the loss of imperial power,
    diminished influence and, yes,
    a new value to English experience.

    A remorseful tone, secular
    but communal and telling,
    not untrue, not unkind and
    on the margins, exposed to
    the beyond, imprisoned in a
    personality, something hidden,
    something he has been given,
    reticence-English privacy ethic:
    where difference merges into
    absolute unity; where special
    uniqueness and loneliness are
    clarified as oneness, endless
    continuities and discontinuities.

    Ron Price

    1 1953-1963-ninth stage of history; 1963-1973-first ten years of the tenth stage of history. Larkin did not write 'many poems after 1973.'(ibid., p.164)

    16 person liked.
    15 person did not like.
  • 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.

  • 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,, 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

Church Going

Once I am sure there's nothing going on
I step inside, letting the door thud shut.
Another church: matting, seats, and stone,
And little books; sprawlings of flowers, cut
For Sunday, brownish now; some brass and stuff
Up at the holy end; the small neat organ;
And a tense, musty, unignorable silence,
Brewed God knows how long. Hatless, I take off
My cycle-clips in awkward reverence,

Move forward, run my hand around the font.
From where I stand, the roof looks almost new-
Cleaned or restored? Someone would know: I don't.
Mounting the lectern, I...

Read the full of Church Going

Wild Oats

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,

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