"I am trying to check my habits of seeing, to counter them for the sake of greater freshness. I am trying to be unfamiliar with what I'm doing." - John Cage

Thursday, November 1, 2012

30 poems in 30 days: Day One Prompt

Morning Song

I wake up at 4 am to chalky light from the moon through the high narrow window above my bed. Sometimes when you can't sleep through the night, again and again, it helps to remember you aren't alone as an unskilled sleeper.  In fact, there is a whole form in poetry dedicated to this time of day, early morning, just before sunrise.  The aubade is defined by The Poetry Foundation as a love poem or song welcoming or lamenting the arrival of the dawn, originating in medieval France.  While John Donne's "The Sun Rising" is a traditional example, I read Phillip Larkin's aubade below and felt a closer connection, especially with the first 4 lines of the last stanza. Although his poem is quite dark, see Louise Bogan's "LeaveTaking" for an aubade with a very different tone.

I'll be posting a new writing prompt each day of November to support my fundraising efforts for The Center for New Americans. Today's writing prompt is to write a welcome or a lament to the morning.  You can use Larkin's poem as a model or an antithesis of your poem.  Happy writing!

Aubade by Phillip Larkin

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 anaesthetic 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.

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