domingo, 16 de noviembre de 2008

Plastic Hope

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 wit 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.


In the first stanza, the author clearly sets the theme of the poem: people tend to look into the future neglecting the present. That’s where the inability to enjoy life comes from. He says that we are “too eager”, enhancing the negative connotation that that involves. He also describes people negatively saying that “we pick up bad habits of expectancy”, always longing for something that we do not have and always expecting something to happen. He describes our hopes by saying “always approaching”, which means that they never actually arrive.


The poem is dominated by an image introduced in the second stanza; an extended metaphor in which our hopes are said to be “a sparkling armada –group of ships- of promises”. Ironically, the author reflects on “how slow they are and how much time they waste” when it is actually us the ones who waste our lives by means of not leaving in the present. “They leave us holding wretched stalks of disappointment”, the author uses the word stalk, which is the long narrow part of a plant that supports leaves, fruits or flowers, to represent the potential of a flower, just as we are left with only potential and no time to fulfill our wishes and desires.


“It never anchors” and “it’s no sooner present that it turns to past” mean that when we finally get what we want we realize that we still feel empty, that the hollow cannot be filled up, so another hope arises and as we live looking into the future, the present we neglect is already considered past.


In the last stanza the writer uses a metaphor comparing death with a “black-sailed unfamiliar ship” that brings “birdless sound”, making it look very eerie and sinister. Probably he is trying to tell us that today, birds do sing, but we don’t listen to them since we are too busy looking into the future. Expectancy slowly consumes us. So, we have become functionally deaf.


From my standpoint I will say that this poem deals with false hopefulness. We are always desiring things that are out of our reach and when we finally manage to get them we don’t feel complete, so we go on to another hope or desire. We are always trying to find ourselves but we can never possibly achieve that task. I suppose that that inner hollow makes us go on living senselessly. We die without having found ourselves, and that is, indeed, the saddest tragedy. Death has, ironically, become into the only way to wake up from this nightmare.

viernes, 14 de noviembre de 2008

Sickness

Sickness (by me)


Dead pseudo-life, just abyss

Silly beings, a futile mirage

Going down, steeply deep

In search of burdenless facts


A huge mass of dark matter

Tar-like fluids coming down

A sea of uncried velvety black tears

Jet-black pieces of rotten flesh

What a putrid stench they emanate!


Bruises on my skin

Stitches that no longer stand

Soon, wounds will open

Fetid clots will come out

Decaying sinews will get cut

And all my limbs will be undone


Oh burden, you bound me to life

You make everything real

And tear it all apart

You infect my brain

Pus fills my head

It twists, slithers and always remains


Existence makes me feel nauseous, the very idea of existing nauseates me, that repulsive feeling of rejection coming from me and heading to the outside is disgusting. I am alive without being aware of it, and death should not be of my concern since death is not here now, and the day it is, I will no longer exist. However, I still keep on struggling day after day to battle on, fighting in an already lost war.


No matter what, I always feel I am not myself, it’s never me. That’s the point of insanity where I come to the conclusion that I can longer tell the difference between my desires and the desires that come from the rest of the people in the outside. Sometimes I even feel that my whole being is just a vulgar copy; a badly polished mirror. I might seem authentic, but I am definitely unauthentic, nothing of what I am or have, is actually mine. There’s no me, it’s all theirs.


Perhaps the average people are able to symbolize death till a certain extent, but I hate the human condition, the weakness and lightness of beings and the finiteness of life.

martes, 11 de noviembre de 2008

Death II

Death II (by me)


Death spiraling up and down

The twisted roots of the tree of despondency

Swirling like a swarm of locusts

Across time and space

Inexorably erasing my will to live

Uninterruptedly making me die


Joy born, by and from, life

Is just a dread mask

To smother sorrow in non-realization

Turning life in a lengthy consolation


The ultimate aim of life is Death beyond Death

An aimless aim


I am quite reluctant to relinquish my focus on this topic. It could be said that it is taking everything away from me: my strength, my will to live, my ability to believe and my ability to symbolize and fantasize. It is unacceptable. I really do not understand how people manage to resign themselves to the heartless reality that surrounds them. Maybe they find something that makes up for all the suffering that the complex phenomenon of life conveys. But, in my own experience, I have always found solitude, pain and despair; the three pillars in which the foundations of my existence are based on.


I want to clarify that mine is not a pessimistic view of life, it is just a down-to-earth approach to existence.


People usually live their whole lives inhaling the pestiferous stench that from their obsessive, almost-blind optimism stems. In spite of the fact that their lives are devoid of meaning and fraught with futility and suffering, they just go on, hoping for a new dawn to come. But, when the sun never rises, days freeze and hope is lost.


I think that people are not completely aware of the ruthlessness, impartiality and ordinariness with which Death works. I really do not bother about the fact that people accept death, so much as the blithe and idiotic way they do it.