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The Less Deceived

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[26 Nov 2006|07:19pm]

Everybody's probably going to hate me for this :\ I'm not asking anybody to write my essay, just to help me out with some little bits of it. I've got most of it nailed but I'm struggling to figure out what the significance of To the Sea being the first poem of High Windows and The Explosion is? Or if there is any of all? And how could they be considered the key to the collection? If anybody could help I'd be so so so grateful!
fuck the other kid

[12 Nov 2006|07:00pm]

You're all going to hate me for this, but I thought it was worth asking. Could somebody please post Posterity for me? In a comment, or a link to it or something. I don't need information about it, I've got all my notes, I've just lost my bloody book and have some questions on it to answer for first lesson tomorrow. Thanks if you can!
2 have known paradise| fuck the other kid

Long Lion Days [27 Jul 2006|12:26pm]
Whatever conceived
Now fully leaved,
Abounding, ablaze –
O long lion days.

P.A.L 1982
1 have known paradise| fuck the other kid

Love and Death In Hull [04 Jun 2006|11:40pm]

Hello; I've finally joined this community after a continuing interest in all things Larkin.
However, I've heard tell of two documentaries, "Love and Death In Hull" and "Love Again", both of which were apparently shown almost three years ago now on Channel 4 and BBC2. Obviously, neither is available to buy, so I wondered if anybody here could help me with finding copies of either of them.

5 have known paradise| fuck the other kid

Hello! [28 May 2006|08:22pm]

Larkin is my favourite poet. He just hits it right on the nose, and when he's at his best he can send shivers down my spine. I've just started reading a collection of his letters and plan to name my first born (or adopted) in his honour (Larkin, not Philip).

My favourite Larkin poem:

To My Wife

Choice of you shuts up that peacock-fan
The future was, in which temptingly spread
All that elaborative nature can.
Matchless potential! but unlimited
Only so long as I elected nothing;
Simply to choose stopped all ways up but one,
And sent the tease-birds from the bushes flapping.
No future now. I and you now, alone.

So for your face I have exchanged all faces,
For your few properties bargained the brisk
Baggage, the mask-and-magic-man's regalia.
Now you become my boredom and my failure,
Another way of suffering, a risk,
A heavier-than-air hypostasis.
4 have known paradise| fuck the other kid

[06 Jun 2005|02:21am]

Hey! I'm new *waves*

I'm seventeen, from the UK and was lucky enough to study Philip larkin for English literature at AS level. I studied High Windows and quickly became obsessed - earning me the nickname of "Miss Larkin" :D

The poem that caught me was:

Forget what did.

Stopping the diary
Was a stun to memory,
Was a blank starting,

One no longer cicatrized
But such words, such actions
As bleakened waking.

I wanted them over,
Hurried to the burial
And looked back on

Like the wars and winters
Missing behind the windows
Of an opaque childhood.

And the empty pages?
Should they ever be filled
Let it be with observed

Celestial recurrences,
The day the flowers come,
And when the birds go.

How did you get introduced to Larkin?

♥ Sylvie xx
16 have known paradise| fuck the other kid

[14 Dec 2004|05:28pm]

[ mood | glad it's done ]

Things that happen if you're me after seventy two hours without sleep:

#1: Your senior thesis teacher introduces the visiting critque artist and when he says "This is Gideon Park, he's from..." you yell "THE FUTURE!!!"

#2: You become deeply suspicious of the sophmore in the printshop with the lazy eye. "OMG! She turned her head in the other direction, but she's STILL LOOKING AT ME!"

#3: This:

(The text in the following prints are almost all Philip Larkin, the rest is W.H. Auden and T.S. Eliot.)

Shhh. No words.Collapse )
6 have known paradise| fuck the other kid

[05 May 2004|02:42pm]

every once in a while, when i'm at this computer, i reach out to rest my fingers on Larkin's collected poems, on the bookshelf right next to me. i take out the book and just open it somewhere, and then read the poem fate has chosen for me to read.

today's discovery:

Nothing significant was really said,
Though all agreed the talk superb, and that
The brilliant freshman with his subtle thought
Deserved the praise he won from every side.
All but one declared his future great,
His present sure and happy; they that stayed
Behind, among the ashes, were all stirred
By memory of his words, as sharp as grit.

The one had watched the talk: remembered how
He'd found the genius crying when alone;
Recalled his words: 'O what unlucky streak
Twisting inside me, made me break the line?
What was the rock my gliding childhoo struck,
And what bright unreal path has led me here?'

(written somewhere before March 1940, it says)
fuck the other kid

Hi! [29 Mar 2004|11:08am]

[ mood | calm ]

Hi, I'm 17 and I've only recently become interested in Philip Larkin and his work. We're studying "The Whitsun Weddings" collection for the A Level syllabus, and I was astonished to find that I could actually enjoy poetry, and even be moved by it on occasions! Philip Larkin is the first poet I've ever really got into, the first one who has ever spoken to me. I've tried to get into other poets, but they just don't do anything for me. I think the great thing about Larkin is his utter conviction that he is right. I know he uses words and phrases expressing uncertainty such as "almost" and "I suppose" and "perhaps" a lot, but underneath it all you get the sense that he believes totally in the bleak world view he presents. I read Andrew Motion's biography of the man, and enjoyed it thoroughly - I advise anyone who has even the slightest interest in Larkin to read it!
The only problem I have with Larkin is that once you've been sucked into his miserable, cynical world, it's hard to get out again! I know he wasn't always miserable, but at the same time it's very hard to find a poem of his that is entirely jubilant and happy.
Just to spark off some conversation, I'd be interested to know what people think the last verse of "Poetry of Departures" is all about. I think the poem's brilliant, but I can't understand the point that's being made at the end. What does Larkin mean by "such a deliberate step backwards to create an object"? I really want to understand this poem more, so if anybody's got any ideas, feel free to let me know!

fuck the other kid

[27 Mar 2004|11:24am]

[ mood | impressed ]

i've recently started work as an assistant librarian in a small college of higher education in lincoln. our head librarian, a librarian of the old school, has been here thirty six years. now there is a point to this because our college - bishop grosseteste - used to get it's degrees finalised by the university of hull, just an hour away from us here. so the odds that our librarian and the university of hull's famous head librarian knew each other were fairly high. in fact if what i read about larkin's time as a librarian at hull is anything to go by, i'd say that he and our librarian would be in some way kindred spirits

so yesterday, i broached the topic with him. and the answer was rather tantalising to say the least. he looked at me and went "oh the librarian of hull? oh yes. i knew him alright. in fact i had a rather unusual one on one interview with the man. a very odd occasion that..." and just as he was about to explain what it was, suddenly someone came in for urgent business and the moment was lost

but by god, i will find out what this occasion was and report back! consider me tantalised!

10 have known paradise| fuck the other kid

Today I Give Up! [29 Jan 2004|06:49pm]

[ mood | disappointed ]

I think (sometimes). this community is Dead. I will post my thoughts about The Poet on my own Log from now on. there is no point in being here!

fuck the other kid

I feel lonely when I visit this place! [26 Jan 2004|03:36pm]

[ mood | content ]

It's a bit of a ghost town.

My distribution of Larkin has continued, another birthday present of his collected works for my cousins wife! I would have bought the fuller volume but the shop did not have it!

fuck the other kid

The Royal Station Hotel [16 Jan 2004|10:48am]

[ mood | thoughtful ]

Yesterday I missed my train, so I thought that I would ask inside The Royal if they had any plaque or anything about Larkin. Alas the girl behind reception did not even know what or who I was talking about!

1 have known paradise| fuck the other kid

Spreading The Word [12 Jan 2004|12:43pm]

[ mood | calm ]

I bought 2 different Larkin anthologies yesterday, one for me and one for some friends. I think they were taken a back, they probably never saw me as a reader of poetry! (Hidden Depths!)Anyhoo my friend Jackie was named after Sidney Bechets girlfriend! Coincidences everywhere!

3 have known paradise| fuck the other kid

From The Whitsun Weddings [08 Jan 2004|07:58pm]

[ mood | cynical ]


fuck the other kid

The Royal Station Hotel [07 Jan 2004|12:39pm]

Here was where the businessmen from Leeds waited for the train - and sometimes still do!
<img src=http://groups.msn.com/_Secure/0WgAPA!MdLZKyPWTNS0sBCPj06BTikVzZv7Q9k6Ojwri5lDhqh0byO1STTQJIUaNeeaBpTUy7qPLCaAz5vA3hEYUS*HdZl0QwWp7hBMHo!gekkQ*3Vj8Uqm7lF7bV1tT2L86VgJ3IVxA/royalhotel.jpg?dc=4675454557717855592
1 have known paradise| fuck the other kid

Days [06 Jan 2004|06:38pm]

[ mood | contemplative ]

I love this one!

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.

fuck the other kid

I am so pleased to have found you! [05 Jan 2004|10:07pm]

[ mood | thankful ]

I have only recently discovered Larkin. I am especially pleased to working in Hull - I am able to put actual places to the poems. For example, I pass The Royal Station Hotel everyday! I had wanted to buy his house a couple of years ago but my wife was not keen to move to Hull.

fuck the other kid

[12 Dec 2003|12:54pm]

Mr Bleaney

This was Mr Bleaney's room. He stayed
The whole time he was at the Bodies, till
They moved him. Flowered curtains, thin and frayed,
Fall to within five inches of the sill,

Whose window shows a strip of building land,
Tussocky, littered. 'Mr Bleaney took
My bit of garden properly in hand.'
Bed, upright chair, sixty-watt bulb, no hook

Behind the door, no room for books or bags -
'I'll take it.' So it happens that I lie
Where Mr Bleaney lay, and stub my fags
On the same saucer-souvenir, and try

Stuffing my ear with cotton-wool, to drown
The jabbering set he egged her on to buy.
I know his habits - what time he came down,
His preference for sauce to gravy, why

He kept on plugging at the four aways -
Likewise their yearly frame: the Frinton folk
Who put him up for summer holidays,
And Christmas at his sister's house in Stoke.

But if he stood and watched the frigid wind
Tousling the clouds, lay on the fusty bed
Telling himself that this was home, and grinned,
And shivered, without shaking off the dread

That how we live measures our own nature,
And at his age having no more to show
Than one hired box should make him pretty sure
He warranted no better, I don't know.

The Whitsun Weddings, May 1955
1 have known paradise| fuck the other kid

[09 Dec 2003|10:06pm]

not really to the point in this community, but i found out today that a *new* professor of mine, Raphael Ingelbien (new as from this year, as he is replacing someone else for an as yet undefined period of time), who will be teaching Shakespeare next term (yay, finally), used to be holder of the Philip Larkin Scholarschip in the university of Hull. even though it doesn't really matter, i was more than pleased to read it :)

and anyway, this community could use an update :) anyone still out there?
3 have known paradise| fuck the other kid

(c) Philip Larkin:On Family [19 Oct 2003|02:05pm]

[ mood | contemplative ]

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

hmm ...


2 have known paradise| fuck the other kid

Success so huge and wholly farcical [15 Oct 2003|02:00pm]

Poet's poll crowns Larkin king of verse and 'The Whitsun Weddings' the favourite poem of the last 50 years.
1 have known paradise| fuck the other kid

[10 Oct 2003|12:03pm]

The Mower

The mower stalled, twice; kneeling, I found
A hedgehog jammed up against the blades,
Killed. It had been in the long grass.

I had seen it before, and even fed it, once.
Now I had mauled its unobtrusive world
Unmendably. Burial was no help:

Next morning I got up and it did not.
The first day after a death, the new absence
Is always the same; we should be careful

Of each other, we should be kind
While there is still time.
fuck the other kid

[01 Oct 2003|11:59pm]

[ mood | blank ]

I Remember, I Remember

Coming up England by a different line
For once, early in the cold new year,
We stopped, and, watching men with number-plates
Sprint down the platform to familiar gates,
'Why, Coventry!' I exclaimed. 'I was born here.'

I leant far out, and squinnied for a sign
That this was still the town that had been 'mine'
So long, but found I wasn't even clear
Which side was which. From where those cycle-crates
Were standing, had we annually departed

For all those family hols? . . . A whistle went:
Things moved. I sat back, staring at my boots.
'Was that,' my friend smiled, 'where you "have your roots"?'
No, only where my childhood was unspent,
I wanted to retort, just where I started:

By now I've got the whole place clearly charted.
Our garden, first: where I did not invent
Blinding theologies of flowers and fruits,
And wasn't spoken to by an old hat.
And here we have that splendid family

I never ran to when I got depressed,
The boys all biceps and the girls all chest,
Their comic Ford, their farm where I could be
'Really myself'. I'll show you, come to that,
The bracken where I never trembling sat,

Determined to go through with it; where she
Lay back, and 'all became a burning mist'.
And, in those offices, my doggerel
Was not set up in blunt ten-point, nor read
By a distinguished cousin of the mayor,

Who didn't call and tell my father There
Before us, had we the gift to see ahead -

'You look as if you wished the place in Hell,'
My friend sai, 'judging from your face.' 'Oh well,
I suppose it's not the place's fault,' I said.

'Nothing, like something, happens anywhere.'

8 january 1954, The Less Deceived

fuck the other kid

[26 Sep 2003|10:39pm]

what a great idea for a community, well done whoever made it!

Big Larkin fan, how is everyone.
anyone catch 'love again'?
1 have known paradise| fuck the other kid

[09 Sep 2003|06:39pm]


The widest prairies have electric fences,
For though old cattle know they must not stray
Young steers are always scenting purer water
Not here but anywhere. Beyond the wires

Leads them to blunder up against the wires
Whose muscle-shredding violence gives no quarter.
Young steers become old cattle from that day,
Electric limits to their widest senses.

4 November 1950, The Less Deceived
fuck the other kid

What will survive of us is love. [17 Aug 2003|02:35pm]

An Arundel Tomb

Side by side, their faces blurred,
The earl and countess lie in stone,
Their proper habits vaguely shown
As jointed armour, stiffened pleat,
And that faint hint of the absurd -
The little dogs under their feet.

Such plainness of the pre-baroque
Hardly involves the eye, until
It meets his left-hand gauntlet, still
Clasped empty in the other; and
One sees, with a sharp tender shock,
His hand withdrawn, holding her hand.

They would not think to lie so long.
Such faithfulness in effigy
Was just a detail friends would see:
A sculptor's sweet commissioned grace
Thrown off in helping to prolong
The Latin names around the base.

They would not guess how early in
Their supine stationary voyage
The air would change to soundless damage,
Turn the old tenantry away;
How soon succeeding eyes begin
To look, not read. Rigidly they

Persisted, linked, through lengths and breadths
Of time. Snow fell, undated. Light
Each summer thronged the grass. A bright
Litter of birdcalls strewed the same
Bone-littered ground. And up the paths
The endless altered people came,

Washing at their identity.
Now, helpless in the hollow of
An unarmorial age, a trough
Of smoke in slow suspended skeins
Above their scrap of history,
Only an attitude remains:

Time has transfigures them into
Untruth. The stone fidelity
They hardly meant has come to be
Their final blazon, and to prove
Our almost-instinct almost true:
What will survive of us is love.

~Philip Larkin, February 1956

This was one of the very first Larkin poems that I studied at 14, and has been a special favourite of mine ever since.

~ Arundel Tomb

Interestingly, the first paragraph of one of my lecturer's books on the novelist Julian Barnes reads:

'As a Ph.D. student, I wrote to Julian Barnes asking for help with my thesis. He replied promptly. He sent me a postcard of Arundel tomb, two figures side by side, carved out of stone and emphatically not alive. On the other side he had written 'While I am glad you are reading my books, being studied and researched makes me feel like this', at which point an arrow indicated the lifelessness of the picture. I suspect that this polite rebuke was based partly on a suspicion that Barnes may have thought that I was going to be more interested in the writer than the writing.'
~Matthew Patemen, Julian Barnes
fuck the other kid

[06 Aug 2003|02:40pm]

[ mood | content ]

Mythological Introduction

A white girl lay on the grass
With her arms held out for love;
Her goldbrown hair fell down her face,
And her two lips move:

See, I am the whitest cloud that strays
Through a deep sky:
I am your senses' crossroads,
Where the four seasons lie.

She rose up in the middle of the lawn
And spread her arms wide;
And the webbed earth where she had lain
Had eaten away her side.

~ Philip Larkin, 1943

fuck the other kid

[25 Jul 2003|01:40pm]

Past days of gales
When skies are colourless
The acorn falls,
Dies; so for this space
Autumn is motionless.

Because the sun
So hesitates in this decay,
I think we still could turn,
Speak to each other in a different way;
For ways of speaking die,

And yet the sun pardons our voices still,
And berries in the hedge
Through all the nights of rain have come to the full,
And death seems like long hills, a range
We ride each day towards, and never reach.

17 November 1945, In The Grip Of Light
1 have known paradise| fuck the other kid

[07 Jul 2003|04:46pm]

The Larkin docu was actually a little disappointing, I thought. It was sad. The focus was obviously on death and love... but really, there was more than just death and love. The footage of Hull looked miserable, the spring bank cemetary didn't look as beautiful as it did in March. But there is so much more, and somehow I always feel that Larkin is never done justice. Maybe I just don't like the truth, and I prefer to believe in his affirmations of faith, rather than his denial of it.

When everything seems hopeless, I like to believe there is hope somewhere. Even if it is hidden & unseen.

This is the Larkin that I love, with all the shit and the kids fucking and the aubade and those high voyeuristic windows. People are soon to forget the dancer, somehow, in addition:

The Dancer

Or falling leaf,
Which ought I to imitate
In my dancing?

And if she were to admit
The world weaved by her feet
Is leafless, is incomplete?
And if she abandoned it,
Broke the pivoted dance,
Set loose the audience?
Then would the moon go raving,
The moon, the anchorless
Moon go swerving
Down to the earth for a catastrophic kiss.

~ Philip Larkin, 1943-4

But maybe I am wrong. Believe in the negative indicative, the toads, Mr Bleaney, the importance of elsewhere... but never the dancer. Never the leaf or the butterfly. Never the catastrophic kiss.
1 have known paradise| fuck the other kid

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