07 noviembre 2006

a Philip Larkin

Alan Bennett lee "Aubade" con New Order de fondo

Aubade

I work all day, and get half-drunk at night.
Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare.
In time the curtain-edges will grow light.
Till then I see what's really always there:
Unresting death, a whole day nearer now,
Making all thought impossible but how
And where and when I shall myself die.
Arid interrogation: yet the dread
Of dying, and being dead,
Flashes afresh to hold and horrify.
The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse
- The good not done, the love not given, time
Torn off unused - nor wretchedly because
An only life can take so long to climb
Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never;
But at the total emptiness for ever,
The sure extinction that we travel to
And shall be lost in always. Not to be here,
Not to be anywhere,
And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true.

This is a special way of being afraid
No trick dispels. Religion used to try,
That vast, moth-eaten musical brocade
Created to pretend we never die,
And specious stuff that says No rational being
Can fear a thing it will not feel, not seeing
That this is what we fear - no sight, no sound,
No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with,
Nothing to love or link with,
The anasthetic from which none come round.

And so it stays just on the edge of vision,
A small, unfocused blur, a standing chill
That slows each impulse down to indecision.
Most things may never happen: this one will,
And realisation of it rages out
In furnace-fear when we are caught without
People or drink. Courage is no good:
It means not scaring others. Being brave
Lets no one off the grave.
Death is no different whined at than withstood.

Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape.
It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know,
Have always known, know that we can't escape,
Yet can't accept. One side will have to go.
Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring
In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring
Intricate rented world begins to rouse.
The sky is white as clay, with no sun.
Work has to be done.
Postmen like doctors go from house to house.

Philip Larkin
Four Seasons In One Day to Philip Larkin por Crowded House

3 comentarios:

Enrique Ortiz dijo...

qué flipe y cuántas coincidencias; me han recomendado bennet porque dicen que te descojonas y todavía no he podido encontrarlo; me gusta new order, o, bueno, me gustaba. Y me encanta Larkin, me interesa sobremanera y ese poema en concreto (en castellano) me vuelve loco. Uff, cuántas cosas.

Manley Halliday dijo...
Este comentario ha sido eliminado por el autor.
Manley Halliday dijo...

Hay cierta tristeza compartida -la desesperación de lo intensamente cotidiano, por ejemplo- entre Larkin y New Order. Quizá sea por ese gris color culo de mono que tiene tantas veces el cielo de Inglaterra. Aunque creo que el responsable de todo -as usual- es el duque de Edimburgo.

"People in this world, we have no place to go"

Temptation. New Order.

"Life is immobile, locked, / three-handed struggle between / your wants, the world´s for you and (worse) /the unbeatable slow machine that brings what you´ll get."

The life with a Hole in it. Philip Larkin