los gases son comprensibles: postmen like doctors

postmen like doctors

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 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.

Philip Larkin

Aquí hay un buen artículo al respecto con una dignísima adaptación a nuestra lengua. Otras que he hallado no me convencen.

Y aquí, el bueno de Oliver Tearle nos ofrece una inusual combinación de conocimiento, ausencia de presunción y capacidad expositiva. Valga como muestra este botón:

‘Aubade’ is a depressing poem, although – as Stephen Fry has said in conversation with Jonathan Bate – it remains a popular poem because it reminds us that out of dark and depressing thoughts, great art can come. There is something consolatory about it, for all its bleakness. Christopher Ricks is fond of quoting Frank Kermode on the limitations of some art which is ‘too consolatory to console’, the implication being that we sometimes like our art to face uncomfortable truths and to transmute horrifying realities into great poetry. ‘Aubade’ is one such example. We may not feel consoled by the message – we’re not meant to – but we can take heart from the fact that, out of such melancholy meditation (and it was very real to Larkin, as was the getting half-drunk at night as a way of coping with it) can come a great poem like ‘Aubade’.