'Deception' by Philip Larkin
It took me ages (and the purchase of a separate volume online) to realize that unlike his other slim volumes of poetry (Whitsun Weddings, High Windows etc), Larkin uses a line from a poem rather than the title of one of the poems for the title of the book. This then is from 'The Less Deceived' and I had it all along in 'Collected Poems' that Teresa got me in 1988.
It needs no introduction really - about being careful what you wish for. I had always thought my Dad had made this one in a rare discussion about growing up, but I discover it was Shaw:
There are two great tragedies in life. The first is to lose lose your heart's desire.
The second is to gain it.
DECEPTIONS
'Of course I was drugged, and so heavily I did not regain my consciousness till the next morning I was horrified to discover that I had been ruined, and for some days I was unconsolable, and cried like a child to be killed or sent back to my aunt.' Mayhew, London Labour and the London Poor.
Even so distant, I can taste the grief,
Bitter and sharp with stalks, he made you gulp.
The sun's occasional print, the brisk brief
Worry of wheels along the street outside
Where bridal London bows the other way,
And light, unanswerable and tall and wide
Forbids the scar to heal, and drives
Shame out of hiding. All the unhurried day
Your mind lay open like a drawer of knives.
Slums, years have buried you. I would not dare
Console you if I could. What can be said,
Except that suffering is exact, but where
Desire takes charge, readings will grow erratic?
For you were less deceived, out on that bed,
Than he was, stumbling up the breathless stair
To burst into fulfilment's desolate attic
It needs no introduction really - about being careful what you wish for. I had always thought my Dad had made this one in a rare discussion about growing up, but I discover it was Shaw:
There are two great tragedies in life. The first is to lose lose your heart's desire.
The second is to gain it.
DECEPTIONS
'Of course I was drugged, and so heavily I did not regain my consciousness till the next morning I was horrified to discover that I had been ruined, and for some days I was unconsolable, and cried like a child to be killed or sent back to my aunt.' Mayhew, London Labour and the London Poor.
Even so distant, I can taste the grief,
Bitter and sharp with stalks, he made you gulp.
The sun's occasional print, the brisk brief
Worry of wheels along the street outside
Where bridal London bows the other way,
And light, unanswerable and tall and wide
Forbids the scar to heal, and drives
Shame out of hiding. All the unhurried day
Your mind lay open like a drawer of knives.
Slums, years have buried you. I would not dare
Console you if I could. What can be said,
Except that suffering is exact, but where
Desire takes charge, readings will grow erratic?
For you were less deceived, out on that bed,
Than he was, stumbling up the breathless stair
To burst into fulfilment's desolate attic
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