As another New Year’s Day approaches, with its time for resolutions, perhaps we can all learn something from this poem by Philip Larkin? Maybe we should be concentrating on the present, instead of waiting for future joys and promises?
Next, Please by Philip Larkin
Always too eager for the future, we
Pick up bad habits of expectancy.
Something is always approaching; every day
Till then we say,
Watching from a bluff the tiny, clear
Sparkling armada of promises draw near.
How slow they are! And how much time they waste,
Refusing to make haste!
Yet still they leave us holding wretched stalks
Of disappointment, for, though nothing balks
Each big approach, leaning with brasswork prinked,
Each rope distinct,
Flagged, and the figurehead with golden tits
Arching our way, it never anchors; it’s
No sooner present than it turns to past.
Right to the last
We think each one will heave to and unload
All good into our lives, all we are owed
For waiting so devoutly and so long.
But we are wrong:
Only one ship is seeking us, a black-
Sailed unfamiliar, towing at her back
A huge and birdless silence. In her wake
No waters breed or break.
Larkin argues that people get far too fixated on the future, but that we should be concentrating on the here and now.
The poet uses the extended metaphor of ships in the distance – the ‘armada’ seems to represent a glorified future. But our desires are like a ship “without anchor”. At the end of the poem, Larkin twists the ship metaphor, turning it into the ship of death. He wants his readers to see the folly of expectancy, to see that they are standing on a bluff (i.e. shaky, uncertain ground that could crumble at any moment).
It is a delicately crafted poem, written in simple language as Larkin explores the idea of wishes and disappointment, it contains a rather black humour, and with such words as “we” and “our”, the poet connects himself with the reader.
The title ‘Next, please’, makes one think of a doctor’s or dentist’s waiting room. It’s the Grim Reaper calling out to us all – our turn will come! So we’d better make the most of today. It’s a rather bleak poem that I’ve chosen to end the year, but it is also a timely reminder that we must make the most of the time we have.
Philip Larkin (1922 – 1985) is regarded as one of the greatest poets of the late 20th century. He was not a cheerful poet – in fact, he once remarked that deprivation for him was what daffodils were for Wordsworth.
Does nature inspire your love of literature? Have you ever wanted to climb mountains? Tell me what you think by leaving a comment.
You can listen to the poem being read here:
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Suzanne Williams
Yes I agree with the first comment that Larkin’s poem would certainly echo the encouragement of ‘mindfulness’ in today’s world..
Thank you Sussanah for all your wonderful ideas during 2021.Happy Christmas.
Susannah Fullerton
So glad you enjoy my newsletters, Suzanne.
May 2022 be filled with good books for us both!
Honey
When I hear POEM read aloud to me, I want it to be in Susannah Fullerton’s voice.
Helen
HERE’S A LONG REPLY – THE WORDS OF JACQUES BREL, WITH A DIFFERENT TAKE ON “NEXT” Made famous too on a recording by Scott Walker – whatever next indeed…
Naked as sin
An army towel covering my belly
Some of us blush
Somehow knees turning to jelly
Next, next
I was still just a kid
There were a hundred like me
I followed a naked body
A naked body followed me
Next, next
I was still just a kid
When my innocence was lost
In a mobile army whorehouse
Gift of the army, free of cost
Next, next
Me, I really would have liked
A little bit of tenderness
Maybe a word, a smile
An hour of happiness
But next, next
Oh, it wasn’t so tragic
The high heavens didn’t fall
But how much of that time
I hated being there at all
Next, next, next
Now I always will recall
The brothel truck, the flying flags
The queer lieutenant who slapped
Our asses as if we were fags
Next, next
I swear on the wet head
Of my first case of gonorrhea
It is his ugly voice
That I forever hear
Next, next, next
That voice that stinks of whiskey
Of corpses and of mud
It is the voice of nations
It is the thick voice of blood
Next, next, next
And since then each woman
I have taken to bed
Seems to laugh in my arms
To whisper through my head
Next, next
All the naked and the dead
Should hold each other’s hands
As they watch me scream at night
In a dream no one understands
Next, next
And when I am not screaming
In a voice grown dry and hollow
I stand on endless naked lines
Of the following and the followed
Next, next, next, next
One day I’ll cut my legs off
Or burn myself alive
Anything, I’ll do anything
To get out of line to survive
Not ever to be next
Not ever to be next
Susannah Fullerton
Oh thank you sooo much for including that wonderful poem. I have never come across it before and it is very memorable.
Isn’t it wonderful that we can keep finding marvellous new poems to enjoy, and everyone responds to them so differently.
Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.
Tony
Thanks, Susannah. A beautiful choice of poem. Of understated artistry. Thanks for another generous year of “Notes” and all the best for 2022.
Tony
Susannah Fullerton
Thanks for all your great feedback and support during the year, Tony. I hope to see you at JASA soon. Merry Christmas and may 2022 be filled with good books.
Kym Trethewey
That’s my sort of poem. Bleak and pessimistic.
Susannah Fullerton
Nice to hear from you, Kym. It is certainly a pessimistic poem, but also a really good one.
Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.
Maria
Nothing is new under the sun. Had he lived beyond 1985, PhilIp Larkin could have been the poster boy of the modern meditation movement with its rallying cry of living in the moment, though his lack of cheerfulness may have presented a few problems. I liked the poem for all its bleakness. Bleakness is as much a part of life as its opposite, though we often pretend that’s not the case. After the horrors of 2020 and 2021, I think many people have gotten a lot better at living in the moment. I have high hopes for 2022 but then I felt that way about 2021 😉
Susannah Fullerton
Our high hopes for 2022 suddenly seem rather fragile with this new variant. Let’s hope for better things.
Yes, we need pessimism and bleakness as a contrast in our world. I think it is a wonderful poem.
Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.