The literary landscape of the 20th century is incomplete without mentioning the poetic genius of Philip Larkin. His profound contributions to the world of poetry have left a lasting impact, with his collections such as The Whitsun Weddings and High Windows emerging as great classics. Known for his candid and often bleak outlook on life, Larkin’s poetry is a testament to the power of the written word and its ability to engage readers in a deep introspection about life, relationships, and death.
Philip Larkin’s poem “The Whitsun Weddings” is a journey through the heartland of England, capturing the subtle nuances of ordinary life with extraordinary elegance. The poem unfolds as a train journey that witnesses various couples getting married on Whitsun Saturday, symbolizing hope and new beginnings. Yet, Larkin’s depiction of these events is immersed in a sense of melancholy and disillusionment. His brilliance lies in the ability to offer a profound commentary on life, using a simple train journey as a metaphor.
In “High Windows”, Larkin employs his trademark pessimism to explore themes of ageing, religion, and sexuality. His candid depiction of these complex subjects coupled with his unique blend of cynicism and wit makes “High Windows” one of his most celebrated works. Despite its seemingly grim undertones, the poem is often praised for its undercurrent of liberation and freedom. The high windows serve as a symbol for escape and aspiration, demonstrating Larkin’s ability to weave sophisticated symbolism into his work.
Philip Larkin’s poetic brilliance lies in his ability to capture the profundity of everyday experiences. His vivid portrayals of life’s mundane aspects reveal deeper truths about human existence, making his works timeless pieces of literature. The Whitsun Weddings and High Windows are perfect embodiments of this talent, showcasing Larkin’s unparalleled ability to transform simple observations into profound reflections about life and its complexities.
Church Going
Once I am sure there’s nothing going on
I step inside, letting the door thud shut.
Another church: matting, seats, and stone,
And little books; sprawlings of flowers, cut
For Sunday, brownish now; some brass and stuff
Up at the holy end; the small neat organ;
And a tense, musty, unignorable silence,
Brewed God knows how long. Hatless, I take off
My cycle-clips in awkward reverence,
Move forward, run my hand around the font.
From where I stand, the roof looks almost new-
Cleaned or restored? Someone would know: I don’t.
Mounting the lectern, I peruse a few
Hectoring large-scale verses, and pronounce
“Here endeth” much more loudly than I’d meant.
The echoes snigger briefly. Back at the door
I sign the book, donate an Irish sixpence,
Reflect the place was not worth stopping for.
Yet stop I did: in fact I often do,
And always end much at a loss like this,
Wondering what to look for; wondering, too,
When churches fall completely out of use
What we shall turn them into, if we shall keep
A few cathedrals chronically on show,
Their parchment, plate, and pyx in locked cases,
And let the rest rent-free to rain and sheep.
Shall we avoid them as unlucky places?
Or, after dark, will dubious women come
To make their children touch a particular stone;
Pick simples for a cancer; or on some
Advised night see walking a dead one?
Power of some sort or other will go on
In games, in riddles, seemingly at random;
But superstition, like belief, must die,
And what remains when disbelief has gone?
Grass, weedy pavement, brambles, buttress, sky,
A shape less recognizable each week,
A purpose more obscure. I wonder who
Will be the last, the very last, to seek
This place for what it was; one of the crew
That tap and jot and know what rood-lofts were?
Some ruin-bibber, randy for antique,
Or Christmas-addict, counting on a whiff
Of gown-and-bands and organ-pipes and myrrh?
Or will he be my representative,
Bored, uninformed, knowing the ghostly silt
Dispersed, yet tending to this cross of ground
Through suburb scrub because it held unspilt
So long and equably what since is found
Only in separation – marriage, and birth,
And death, and thoughts of these – for whom was built
This special shell? For, though I’ve no idea
What this accoutred frowsty barn is worth,
It pleases me to stand in silence here;
A serious house on serious earth it is,
In whose blent air all our compulsions meet,
Are recognised, and robed as destinies.
And that much never can be obsolete,
Since someone will forever be surprising
A hunger in himself to be more serious,
And gravitating with it to this ground,
Which, he once heard, was proper to grow wise in,
If only that so many dead lie round.
-Philip Larkin, from The Less Deceived, 1955
Curated by Jennifer
