For once, I don't have much to say. I would like to point out that most of the comments here are directed to Liza, but this post is labeled as "a guest post by Emily Baldo" and the byline at the top mentions both of their names. So, thank you to both Liza AND Emily for this analysis.
Larkin is not my favorite poet, and this is not my favorite poem. His poetics are serviceable, so I'm neither wildly applauding not derisively hooting at the construction of the poem. It is really the content I dislike. Larkin's attitude ("philosophy" if you will) simply doesn't resonate with me nor convince me, and besides, the whole thing is a bit didactic. So in this case, I evaluate form separately from content.
I note also that most of the comments respond to the poem, not to the analysis. So let me be the first to say it: the analysis is better than the poem. You both do a very nice job of outlining Larkin's themes and noting his poetic elements, but this poem affords limited scope for demonstrating your chops, since it has little thematic depth or subtlety of expression. It is a "read it once" poem that doesn't really require much digging to get what is there. I am much more impressed with a painting that I can stare at for an hour than one whose complete artistic purpose I can take in at a glance, and the same goes for poems.
Nothing wanting in the analysis, just a poem in which I don't find much to sink my teeth into. YMMV, of course.
Agree with this! As I said in my analysis, it's more of a straightforward poem—perhaps filled with a resignation that us "carpe diem" folks don't resonate with as much. It's not one of my all-time favorites, but I appreciate it for its sober take.
Emily is my assistant! She outlined some of the points I make in this post to save me a bit of time as we focus on querying, so I credit her with some of the observations :)
I had an even more pessimistic read: you can brood over death, but still the unpleasant work of living looms. You can look into the void, but there's still diaper changes and annoying phone calls to make. (A 2025 Larkin, if he were gay and hence allowed to be published, would perhaps use a beeping cellphone.)
"Meanwhile phones lurk, getting ready to buzz
At solitary bedsides, and all the vile scuzz
of our processed world begins to rouse.
The sky is white as clay, with no sun.
Work has to be done.
Laptop lights blink on from house to house."
Yeah, I know, there's a reason he's Philip Larkin and I'm not.
Thank you for this analysis. In most of his poems Larkin returned to this idea—there’s ultimately nothing to turn to, and yet believing in something makes us human, and alive. In another one of his poems, he simply reminded us “Days are where we live.” Doctors, priests, and philosophers try to explain why, but we live, here and now. Carpe diem, friends.
"Larkin then goes so far as to argue that staunch religious belief only exacerbates the fear of death, for it misguides us into thinking that it is not possible to fear something that we cannot experience—a notion that the poet rejects as false."
I read this differently. He starts the stanza by dismissing religion as something that has been "created to pretend we never die", meaning something that is not real and therefore can provide no comfort. The second half of the stanza is not about staunch religious belief, but about how he is equally unpersuaded by secular arguments against fearing death.
Well, I murkily awakened today at 4:30. So I awoke - so to speak - in “media res” at the beginning of “Aubade.” Awakening at such a time, more or less, corresponds to the putative author’s experience. It is a strange correspondence. Nearly every morning I experience the whiteness of the burgeoning dawn: that happens whether dawn turns to golden light or … well … the whiteness of dreary clouds. Yet all this quotidian experience is a friend to me, a time to process what has been processed at night, my unasked for thoughts or, sometimes what seems as a vision. Sometimes these visions are nightmare prods to action, sometimes these visions are paths to contemplation, the latter being the more - what shall I say? Quotidian. Today I awakened internally humming to myself, Paul Simon’s “Born at the Right Time.” Reading “Aubade” put a stop to that. But … I found it curious that I had started to read the first few lines of “Aubade,” when my wife of 53 years called me to bed … as I said, curious that the lines of “Aubade” met me this pre-dawn with the contemplation of Death. I had read enough the previous night, before being called to bed, to know that Larkin’s aubade was not going to be an ordinary aubade, the title a cheerful invitation to an ironic turn. Yet I greeted the cold reality of Death peacefully because I recognized “the ineluctable modality of the visible,” that is, the ineluctable reality of death. What might be called The Truth. I have learned that any truth is better than a lie. So there it was … the truth. I found myself internally humming “Love is but a song we sing:/ It fears the way we die” - which, in my youth, I took to be a joyful song. I wondered: is it joyful only because it is Truth, and not because (la de dah) it was a happy anthem among my youthful comrades. Yet, I felt happy internally humming it. After I had filled my second cop of coffee, I found myself once again internally humming “Born at the Right Time.” And, then, I decided to write what became this.
Have to be honest, not really impressed by the poem. Your take on the last stanza may be more you than Larkin, no? "The sky is white as clay, with no sun" We work because it is the opposite of death but there is little illumination. At any rate, I prefer his distant cousin Dylan - https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dylan_Larkin, a man of action!
Nihil ex nihilo. Typical of him. Typical of that age of very bad poetry (this is not a specimen of the un-poetry anti-poetry of Ferlinghetti, Ginsburg, Rexroth et al). It is only minimally poetic.
Why he spent the time and effort to write it up in decameter with that ABABCCDEDE rhyme scheme is anyone's guess, but since he had it published, clearly he wanted other people to know it was important to him -- the dissemination of his personal woe was intentional. Thanks but no thanks, Phil.
I read through all of Larkin decades ago and could not find one poem of his that delighted or instructed me. He discovered nothing and tells the reader in this writing that he hasn't, so what's the point of it? His writing is as grey and oppresive as the industrial Yorkshire smoky skies he spent his life under.
Tennyson, on the other hand, turned his despair into sonorous language that flows off the tongue with an elegant sophistication of thought that is rich in insight. Sample "In Memoriam" and you'll find much better poetry to write about.
Larkin's not for everyone, but I think you're comparing apples and oranges with Tennyson.
I don't wake in the night thinking...
"O Sorrow, cruel fellowship,
O Priestess in the vaults of Death,
O sweet and bitter in a breath,
What whispers from thy lying lip?"
...I mean obviously my life would be richer if I did, but I don't. I do recognise something of what Larkin describes though and seeing it so articulated has value for me.
Especially, as Liza points out, because there's also the optimism to overcome it. We're not only visited by doctors (sickness, death) but also by postmen (connections, love, life).
Goddamnit, when did I become a conservative blog? I am not going to argue with this prescription but man, I'm trying to pretend to be a liberal to secure a literary agent 😅
For once, I don't have much to say. I would like to point out that most of the comments here are directed to Liza, but this post is labeled as "a guest post by Emily Baldo" and the byline at the top mentions both of their names. So, thank you to both Liza AND Emily for this analysis.
Larkin is not my favorite poet, and this is not my favorite poem. His poetics are serviceable, so I'm neither wildly applauding not derisively hooting at the construction of the poem. It is really the content I dislike. Larkin's attitude ("philosophy" if you will) simply doesn't resonate with me nor convince me, and besides, the whole thing is a bit didactic. So in this case, I evaluate form separately from content.
I note also that most of the comments respond to the poem, not to the analysis. So let me be the first to say it: the analysis is better than the poem. You both do a very nice job of outlining Larkin's themes and noting his poetic elements, but this poem affords limited scope for demonstrating your chops, since it has little thematic depth or subtlety of expression. It is a "read it once" poem that doesn't really require much digging to get what is there. I am much more impressed with a painting that I can stare at for an hour than one whose complete artistic purpose I can take in at a glance, and the same goes for poems.
Nothing wanting in the analysis, just a poem in which I don't find much to sink my teeth into. YMMV, of course.
Agree with this! As I said in my analysis, it's more of a straightforward poem—perhaps filled with a resignation that us "carpe diem" folks don't resonate with as much. It's not one of my all-time favorites, but I appreciate it for its sober take.
Emily is my assistant! She outlined some of the points I make in this post to save me a bit of time as we focus on querying, so I credit her with some of the observations :)
I had an even more pessimistic read: you can brood over death, but still the unpleasant work of living looms. You can look into the void, but there's still diaper changes and annoying phone calls to make. (A 2025 Larkin, if he were gay and hence allowed to be published, would perhaps use a beeping cellphone.)
"Meanwhile phones lurk, getting ready to buzz
At solitary bedsides, and all the vile scuzz
of our processed world begins to rouse.
The sky is white as clay, with no sun.
Work has to be done.
Laptop lights blink on from house to house."
Yeah, I know, there's a reason he's Philip Larkin and I'm not.
Omg I have to read more of his poetry. I’ve only read This be the Verse before. Which is an all-time favorite.
Thank you for this analysis. In most of his poems Larkin returned to this idea—there’s ultimately nothing to turn to, and yet believing in something makes us human, and alive. In another one of his poems, he simply reminded us “Days are where we live.” Doctors, priests, and philosophers try to explain why, but we live, here and now. Carpe diem, friends.
"Larkin then goes so far as to argue that staunch religious belief only exacerbates the fear of death, for it misguides us into thinking that it is not possible to fear something that we cannot experience—a notion that the poet rejects as false."
I read this differently. He starts the stanza by dismissing religion as something that has been "created to pretend we never die", meaning something that is not real and therefore can provide no comfort. The second half of the stanza is not about staunch religious belief, but about how he is equally unpersuaded by secular arguments against fearing death.
Well, I murkily awakened today at 4:30. So I awoke - so to speak - in “media res” at the beginning of “Aubade.” Awakening at such a time, more or less, corresponds to the putative author’s experience. It is a strange correspondence. Nearly every morning I experience the whiteness of the burgeoning dawn: that happens whether dawn turns to golden light or … well … the whiteness of dreary clouds. Yet all this quotidian experience is a friend to me, a time to process what has been processed at night, my unasked for thoughts or, sometimes what seems as a vision. Sometimes these visions are nightmare prods to action, sometimes these visions are paths to contemplation, the latter being the more - what shall I say? Quotidian. Today I awakened internally humming to myself, Paul Simon’s “Born at the Right Time.” Reading “Aubade” put a stop to that. But … I found it curious that I had started to read the first few lines of “Aubade,” when my wife of 53 years called me to bed … as I said, curious that the lines of “Aubade” met me this pre-dawn with the contemplation of Death. I had read enough the previous night, before being called to bed, to know that Larkin’s aubade was not going to be an ordinary aubade, the title a cheerful invitation to an ironic turn. Yet I greeted the cold reality of Death peacefully because I recognized “the ineluctable modality of the visible,” that is, the ineluctable reality of death. What might be called The Truth. I have learned that any truth is better than a lie. So there it was … the truth. I found myself internally humming “Love is but a song we sing:/ It fears the way we die” - which, in my youth, I took to be a joyful song. I wondered: is it joyful only because it is Truth, and not because (la de dah) it was a happy anthem among my youthful comrades. Yet, I felt happy internally humming it. After I had filled my second cop of coffee, I found myself once again internally humming “Born at the Right Time.” And, then, I decided to write what became this.
Have to be honest, not really impressed by the poem. Your take on the last stanza may be more you than Larkin, no? "The sky is white as clay, with no sun" We work because it is the opposite of death but there is little illumination. At any rate, I prefer his distant cousin Dylan - https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dylan_Larkin, a man of action!
Poetry that is real poetry is not a codification of the mundane.
Sometimes I wonder if men are more afraid of death than women are.
As someone who is very afraid of death, I will have to disagree with you on this one 😅
Interesting. .
Nihil ex nihilo. Typical of him. Typical of that age of very bad poetry (this is not a specimen of the un-poetry anti-poetry of Ferlinghetti, Ginsburg, Rexroth et al). It is only minimally poetic.
Why he spent the time and effort to write it up in decameter with that ABABCCDEDE rhyme scheme is anyone's guess, but since he had it published, clearly he wanted other people to know it was important to him -- the dissemination of his personal woe was intentional. Thanks but no thanks, Phil.
I read through all of Larkin decades ago and could not find one poem of his that delighted or instructed me. He discovered nothing and tells the reader in this writing that he hasn't, so what's the point of it? His writing is as grey and oppresive as the industrial Yorkshire smoky skies he spent his life under.
Tennyson, on the other hand, turned his despair into sonorous language that flows off the tongue with an elegant sophistication of thought that is rich in insight. Sample "In Memoriam" and you'll find much better poetry to write about.
Larkin's not for everyone, but I think you're comparing apples and oranges with Tennyson.
I don't wake in the night thinking...
"O Sorrow, cruel fellowship,
O Priestess in the vaults of Death,
O sweet and bitter in a breath,
What whispers from thy lying lip?"
...I mean obviously my life would be richer if I did, but I don't. I do recognise something of what Larkin describes though and seeing it so articulated has value for me.
Especially, as Liza points out, because there's also the optimism to overcome it. We're not only visited by doctors (sickness, death) but also by postmen (connections, love, life).
There are different literary traditions. I prefer Tennyson as well, but as you see above even people with archaic literary tastes enjoy Larkin too.
Goddamnit, when did I become a conservative blog? I am not going to argue with this prescription but man, I'm trying to pretend to be a liberal to secure a literary agent 😅
Also yes—Larkin and Tennyson. Apples and oranges.
Edited. I'm not trying to damage your literary ambitions.
Right, even the Ancient Greeks had epic, lyric, and dramatic poetry.
Literary pretensions, you mean.