The poem
What do they think has happened, the old fools, To make them like this? Do they somehow suppose It's more grown-up when your mouth hangs open and drools, And you keep on pissing yourself, and can't remember Who called this morning? Or that, if they only chose, They could alter things back to when they danced all night, Or went to their wedding, or sloped arms some September? Or do they fancy there's really been no change, And they've always behaved as if they were crippled or tight, Or sat through days of thin continuous dreaming Watching the light move? If they don't (and they can't), it's strange; Why aren't they screaming?
At death you break up: the bits that were you Start speeding away from each other for ever With no one to see. It's only oblivion, true: We had it before, but then it was going to end, And was all the time merging with a unique endeavour To bring to bloom the million-petalled flower Of being here. Next time you can't pretend There'll be anything else. And these are the first signs: Not knowing how, not hearing who, the power Of choosing gone. Their looks show that they're for it: Ash hair, toad hands, prune face dried into lines - How can they ignore it?
Perhaps being old is having lighted rooms Inside you head, and people in them, acting People you know, yet can't quite name; each looms Like a deep loss restored, from known doors turning, Setting down a lamp, smiling from a stair, extracting A known book from the shelves; or sometimes only The rooms themselves, chairs and a fire burning, The blown bush at the window, or the sun's Faint friendliness on the wall some lonely Rain-ceased midsummer evening. That is where they live: Not here and now, but where all happened once. This is why they give
An air of baffled absence, trying to be there Yet being here. For the rooms grow farther, leaving Incompetent cold, the constant wear and tear Of taken breath, and them crouching below Extinction's alp, the old fools, never perceiving How near it is. This must be what keeps them quiet: The peak that stays in view wherever we go For them is rising ground. Can they never tell What is dragging them back, and how it will end? Not at night? Not when the strangers come? Never, throughout The whole hideous inverted childhood? Well, We shall find out.
Ah the old fools sort of reminds me of me mum when shes been out on the piss.... such fond memories of me mother eh!........
This poem certainly touched base with my fears of ageing and death. I'm 31 years old and I've noticed that I'm getting lines around my eyes where there were no lines before. My skin looks a bit more mature then it did when I was in my 20s. I sometimes try to imagine, while standing in front of the mirror, how I'll look when I'm 60, 70, 80, and 90 if I live that long. What will I do with myself with limited mobility…
Read the whole commentThis poem certainly touched base with my fears of ageing and death. I'm 31 years old and I've noticed that I'm getting lines around my eyes where there were no lines before. My skin looks a bit more mature then it did when I was in my 20s. I sometimes try to imagine, while standing in front of the mirror, how I'll look when I'm 60, 70, 80, and 90 if I live that long. What will I do with myself with limited mobility and how will I live my life? The things that I'm interested in now such as, shopping, dressing up to look my best, fitting in with certain social settings, and being active with my children, huband and friends. That will all change when my body no longer allows it. What will be left of my life when all that is familar to me and activities that I enjoy doing, is no longer an option in my older age? Perhaps an early death, at age 60 something, would be better than facing a deteriorating body, loss of independence and losing those who are dear to me. Those who are close to my age like my husband, my brothers, and friends. Some perfer to cheat death, but living with the disadvantages that come with old age and facing the loss of loved ones could be worse, and very lonely. For instance, many of us will be placed in nursing homes, which is not a home at all. Family and friends, are not found in a nursing home. Nor do precious memories of our more youthful, active lives exist in one. Prime timers, though they may seem frail and fragile, are in fact more courageous then what some of us give them credit for. For they deal with such disavantages everyday and wake up every morning knowing that they're one day closer to death. Those who are in their 80s know that with every step they take, takes them one step closer to death. Whats worse, is that there is no escape. We are all destined to meet with death either by old age, an unexpected illness or an accident. Ageing is a part of us all and death will defeat us in the end.
The old fools realy encapsulates the fears that every one of us have surfaced at some point in our lives. The use of the phrase "the whole hideous inverted childhood" is a beautiful way of describing old age as a regression back to infancy, which shows that death is in many ways the reverse of birth. This is a rare occurance of larkin's abilties to make a very sinister subject beautiful. In the beginning of the poem…
Read the whole commentThe old fools realy encapsulates the fears that every one of us have surfaced at some point in our lives. The use of the phrase "the whole hideous inverted childhood" is a beautiful way of describing old age as a regression back to infancy, which shows that death is in many ways the reverse of birth. This is a rare occurance of larkin's abilties to make a very sinister subject beautiful. In the beginning of the poem Larkin uses a typical discription of our general perceptions of elderly poeples and their habbits/similarities. When youth is present the general feeling is that old age is a bad thing - "Why aren't they screaming?" - but they very last statement can be perceived in one of two of more ways. There is the usual cyical Larkin approach and "We shall find out" can seem very ominous and almost threatening: or a slighly lighter veiw that i like to take is that "We shall find out" could mean that we will find out that the "old fools" aren't screaming because it isn't grim and scary as we hang on to live; but instead we look forward to the adventure after we let go. You choose. Larkin's the old fools beautifully protrays these feelings and I applaud him *clap clap* for (in my opinion) one of his most brilliamt peices of work...
The old age represents the inner sanctum and ultimare painfulness in the breach of paraodxes in an abmigiuos metaphorical way