Tag Archives: Philip Larkin

I Have Started to Say

death, poetry, time, ,

The last stanza of this poem brings to mind the advice to “Die before you die.” It has been attributed to Rumi and to C.S. Lewis, and I’ve heard Orthodox Christians echo the saying. St. Paul said, “I die daily,” and also, “I am crucified with Christ.” Whatever all these people meant, our final death we are definitely instructed to keep in mind, and as the poet says, “learn” something about it — though it’s not clear that he was numbering his days in the Christian fashion.

But it was the second stanza that caught my attention here, Larkin’s description of the disorienting effect of considering time and ageing. The images capture what I often feel.

I HAVE STARTED TO SAY

I have started to say
“A quarter of a century”
Or “thirty years back”
About my own life.

It makes me breathless
It’s like falling and recovering
In huge gesturing loops
Through an empty sky.

All that’s left to happen
Is some deaths (my own included).
Their order, and their manner,
Remain to be learnt.

-Philip Larkin

Philip Larkin, by Humphrey Ocean

 

Spring ups and downs.

poetry, , , ,
fig

DAYS

What are days for?
Days are where we live.
They come, they wake us
Time and time over.
They are to be happy in:
Where can we live but days?
Ah, solving that question
Brings the priest and the doctor
In their long coats
Running over the fields.

– Philip Larkin

One of my favorites will do for a spring poem. I don’t have much to say about my garden pictures, so I looked through old posts for verse to accompany them, and it appears that springtime has generally found me too busy to read poetry. It’s happening again.

The last day of November I was soddenly planting out bulbs and annuals in the front yard and wishing things were different; I had not wanted to be planting myself; that’s why I’d hired the new landscaper, to help me. It also seemed too late to be setting out those plants. Well, now I am awfully glad for everything, and the flowers that are proliferating at this point.

In the back, more surprises. For one, I didn’t think the irises I transplanted last fall would bloom yet, but they have lots of buds. And a disappointing surprise is that the daffodils from the package I bought are not as advertised:

One of my already blooming  new perennials is this member of the gooseberry family:

Ribes viburnifolium – Santa Catalina Island Currant

At the moment a cold wind is banging the gate and rain is coming on. I’m wishing I hadn’t arranged for help to clean the fountain today, and glad I took these pictures yesterday and before. By the time the storm passes more things will be blooming, and a new day will come and wake us — a day to be happy in.
Continue reading Spring ups and downs. →

A mind like snow.

poetry, , , , , ,

This lighthearted (or sardonic – see the comments below) poem by Philip Larkin reminds me of a short conversation I had with a Christian friend about the possibility of my developing dementia in my old age, to the point where I would forget God. She gently rebuked me for not remembering that it is in my spirit, my nous, that I know God most truly, and I would never forget him, no matter what happened to my fragile intellect.

One aspect of the mind that I notice in the poem is its coldness, as it’s likened to snow. By contrast, we might think of those whose hearts are warmed by the love of God. If you have people like that around, radiating into your life, it doesn’t really matter what facts they have forgotten.

THE WINTER PALACE

Most people know more as they get older:
I give all that the cold shoulder.

I spent my second quarter-century
Losing what I had learnt at university.

And refusing to take in what had happened since.
Now I know none of the names in the public prints,

And am starting to give offence by forgetting faces
And swearing I’ve never been in certain places.

It will be worth it, if in the end I manage
To blank out whatever it is that is doing the damage.

Then there will be nothing I know.
My mind will fold into itself, like fields, like snow.

-Philip Larkin

 

Are the trees born again?

nature, poetry, trees,

TREES

by Philip Larkin

The trees are coming into leaf
Like something almost being said;
The recent buds relax and spread,
Their greenness is a kind of grief.

Is it that they are born again
And we grow old? No, they die too,
Their yearly trick of looking new
Is written down in rings of grain.

Yet still the unresting castles thresh
In fullgrown thickness every May.
Last year is dead, they seem to say,
Begin afresh, afresh, afresh.

-Philip Larkin