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Useful analysis of Mr Bleaney. | Philip larkin, Level up, Literature

Sort order. But just occasionally, an actual poet comes and does something completely magical with words. Every phrase is a marvel, exactly sketching out all the banalities of an English train journey in the s and now, but then also unearthing a forgotten, almost unnoticed social ritual which is completely a 50s thing, quaint and moving. Whitsun is the seventh Sunday after Easter. As both are moveable feasts that information is not so useful, but it happens in late May.

In these secular times hardly anyone in England would have the faintest idea what a Whitsun was.


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The Whitsun Weddings by Philip Larkin That Whitsun, I was late getting away: Not till about one-twenty on the sunlit Saturday Did my three-quarters-empty train pull out, All windows down, all cushions hot, all sense Of being in a hurry gone. We ran Behind the backs of houses, crossed a street Of blinding windscreens, smelt the fish-dock; thence The river's level drifting breadth began, Where sky and Lincolnshire and water meet.

All afternoon, through the tall heat that slept For miles inland, A slow and stopping curve southwards we kept. Wide farms went by, short-shadowed cattle, and Canals with floatings of industrial froth; A hothouse flashed uniquely: hedges dipped And rose: and now and then a smell of grass Displaced the reek of buttoned carriage-cloth Until the next town, new and nondescript, Approached with acres of dismantled cars. At first, I didn't notice what a noise The weddings made Each station that we stopped at: sun destroys The interest of what's happening in the shade, And down the long cool platforms whoops and skirls I took for porters larking with the mails, And went on reading.

Once we started, though, We passed them, grinning and pomaded, girls In parodies of fashion, heels and veils, All posed irresolutely, watching us go, As if out on the end of an event Waving goodbye To something that survived it. Struck, I leant More promptly out next time, more curiously, And saw it all again in different terms: The fathers with broad belts under their suits And seamy foreheads; mothers loud and fat; An uncle shouting smut; and then the perms, The nylon gloves and jewellery-substitutes, The lemons, mauves, and olive-ochres that Marked off the girls unreally from the rest.

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All down the line Fresh couples climbed aboard: the rest stood round; The last confetti and advice were thrown, And, as we moved, each face seemed to define Just what it saw departing: children frowned At something dull; fathers had never known Success so huge and wholly farcical; The women shared The secret like a happy funeral; While girls, gripping their handbags tighter, stared At a religious wounding. Free at last, And loaded with the sum of all they saw, We hurried towards London, shuffling gouts of steam. Now fields were building-plots, and poplars cast Long shadows over major roads, and for Some fifty minutes, that in time would seem Just long enough to settle hats and say I nearly died, A dozen marriages got under way.

They watched the landscape, sitting side by side - An Odeon went past, a cooling tower, And someone running up to bowl - and none Thought of the others they would never meet Or how their lives would all contain this hour. I thought of London spread out in the sun, Its postal districts packed like squares of wheat: There we were aimed. And as we raced across Bright knots of rail Past standing Pullmans, walls of blackened moss Came close, and it was nearly done, this frail Travelling coincidence; and what it held stood ready to be loosed with all the power That being changed can give.

We slowed again, And as the tightened brakes took hold, there swelled A sense of falling, like an arrow-shower Sent out of sight, somewhere becoming rain. View all 3 comments. Simple, uncomplicated poetry. It is no wonder that Larkin is one of the best loved poets. He never tries to hide anything behind his words, his words and his poetry are all-in, so to speak. I need to read the properly arranged version, but this was a good start. Something everybody had, Like nakedness, it lay at hand, Not specially right or specially wrong, A plentiful and obvious t Simple, uncomplicated poetry.

Something everybody had, Like nakedness, it lay at hand, Not specially right or specially wrong, A plentiful and obvious thing Not at all hard to understand. Much better stay in company!

The Conflict Between Reason and Emotion. Analysing Philip Larkin's Poem 'No Road'

Viciously, then, I lock my door. The gas-fire breathes. The wind outside Ushers in evening rain. Once more Uncontradicting solitude Supports me on its giant palm; And like a sea-anemone Or simple snail, there cautiously Unfolds, emerges, what I am. View all 16 comments.

Wild Oats by Philip Larkin (read by Tom O'Bedlam)

May 14, Petal X rated it it was amazing Shelves: reviews , reviewed , dnf-or-never-read , poetry-drama. Read Emir Never 's comment. Clever man!


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  • The Conflict Between Reason and Emotion. Analysing Philip Larkin's Poem 'No Road'?
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  • 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. Man hands on misery to man. It deepens like a coastal shelf. View all 9 comments. Dec 13, Megan Baxter rated it liked it. I fully admit that I know very little about poetry. Very little. But what I've now read of Philip Larkin's work really didn't grab me at all. At times, it irritated the heck out of me. This started with a nasty little poem called "To My Wife" and never really went away.


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    • Also, as far as I could tell, he never married. Note: The rest of this review has been withdrawn due to the changes in Goodreads policy and enforcement. You can read why I came to this decision here. In the meantime, you can read I fully admit that I know very little about poetry. In the meantime, you can read the entire review at Smorgasbook View all 8 comments. I feel like a liar whenever I mark down a good book of poetry as 'read'. You don't read it straight through, and you don't ever finish it.

      With poetry and memorable fiction you go back and reference the good bits infrequently. Larkin's joining that group, no question.

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      So what if the man is a shitheel? What he created will endure, beautiful and decayed as it is. View 1 comment. Because the section of Larkin's "Early Poems" makes the final third of this collection a rather unrewarding slog, "Collected Poems" sat on my "currently reading" shelf for nearly a year. Then I decided that I didn't need to read every one of the poems that Larkin himself downplayed and shuffled from the spotlight in order to consider this book "read.

      Before I try describin Because the section of Larkin's "Early Poems" makes the final third of this collection a rather unrewarding slog, "Collected Poems" sat on my "currently reading" shelf for nearly a year.

      https://www.markprofcon.com/images/443/luzoh-best-new.php Before I try describing Larkin's poetry and try understanding why I like him, let me devote a few sentences to people with less time. They are sharp, entertaining, acidic and reduced. If you don't enjoy them, I don't think you should bother with Larkin's shorter, less thoughtful and often mopier pieces. He atomizes adornment, ceremony and cheerfulness, holding them by the tips of his fingers, as if they reek.

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      It entertains me that he describes three married couples as follows: "Adder-faced singularity Espouses a nailed-up childhood, Skin-disease pardons Soft horror of living, A gabble is forgiven By chronic solitude. Senility beckons, death looms, promises are already breaking and every man outmaneuvers himself in an effort to avoid the fear of all that is failed and meaningless. Still, it's good fun. He's one of the most winning grouches I remember reading and was probably an excellent drunk. Jan 10, Manny rated it liked it. I was given a copy of this book by my parents.

      No, really!