Aubade read by 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 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.

Philip Larkin

All photos taken by me: http://www.flickr.com/hoolebronx

(c) hoolebronx 2009

Category:

Entertainment

Tags:

• aubade
• larkin
• philip
• literature
• poetry
• poem
• death

[jonno52]

Read this years ago but it never loses its impact. Terrifying is the word. I need a drink.

[mfwettlaufer]

One of the most powerful poems ever written.

[clownsandjugglers]

I have read this poem many times over the years, it is quite strange to hear how Larkin reads it. Not at all what I would have expected.

[bigjstokes]

nothing more terrible; nothing more true

[standswithawine]

Thanks for posting. Good stuff

[MrTycho7]

@novadrian

Really? I can think of some bright souls who did believe in God. Dante, Shakespeare, Hopkins, TS Eliot, Dostoevsky, Tolstoy...the list is miles long. These bright people alleged no sham, why do you?

[novadrian]

@MrTycho7 But truly sensitive poets, writers artists and scientists are not taken in by fairy stories of God and angels. The brightest souls among us see right through religious faith for the sham that it is. Thank God ha ha for Philip Larkin.

[julesthemadman]

I got my answer elsewhere - it was one of a number of recordings done by Larkin in later life which came to light only comparatively recently...

[MrTycho7]

@MrDarkbloom

Why doesn't it make sense?

[julesthemadman]

When was this recorded? I know Larkin recorded all his main collections (excluding The North Ship, 1945, reissued 1966), but was unaware he had recorded "Aubade", which was never collected in the poet's lifetime.

[MrDarkbloom]

@MrTycho7 'to know God and his graces!' Doesn't make sense

[MrTycho7]

How can something false be so beautiful? I disagree entirely with the nihilism underneath this poem, but have to admire Larkin's craft. What a joy it would have been for someone so sensitive to know God and his graces!