Philip Larkin
Philip Larkin
Philip Arthur Larkin CH CBE FRSLwas an English poet, novelist and librarian. His first book of poetry, The North Ship, was published in 1945, followed by two novels, Jilland A Girl in Winter, and he came to prominence in 1955 with the publication of his second collection of poems, The Less Deceived, followed by The Whitsun Weddingsand High Windows. He contributed to The Daily Telegraph as its jazz critic from 1961 to 1971, articles gathered in All What Jazz: A...
NationalityEnglish
ProfessionPoet
Date of Birth9 August 1922
superstitions belief dies
But superstition, like belief, must die...
past poetry criticism
One of the great criticisms of poets of the past is that they said one thing and did another.
death fear-of-death walks
Walk with the dead For fear of death.
wisdom people giving
Most people know more as they get older: I give all that the cold shoulder.
distance white clouds
My age fallen away like white swaddling Floats in the middle distance, becomes An inhabited cloud.
party thinking years
One of the sadder things, I think, Is how our birthdays slowly sink: Presents and parties disappear, The cards grow fewer year by year, Till, when one reaches sixty-five, How many care we're still alive?
fear boredom age
Life is first boredom, then fear. Whether or not we use it, it goes, And leaves what something hidden from us chose, And age, and then the only end of age.
thinking scene individual
I never think of poetry or the poetry scene, only separate poems written by individuals.
girl dream women
Boys dream of native girls who bring breadfruit, Whatever they are....
iceland hang-over ifs
Depression hangs over me as if I were Iceland.
children husband lying
Heads in the Women's Ward On pillow after pillow lies The wild white hair and staring eyes; Jaws stand open; necks are stretched With every tendon sharply sketched; A bearded mouth talks silently To someone no one else can see. Sixty years ago they smiled At lover, husband, first-born child. Smiles are for youth. For old age come Death's terror and delirium.
fall voice enormous
On me your voice falls as they say love should, Like an enormous yes.
grief years tree
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.
people poetry about-yourself
Novels are about other people and poems are about yourself