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Once I am sure there's nothing going on
I step inside, letting the door thud shut.
Another church: matting, seats, and stone,
And little books; sprawlings of flowers, cut
For Sunday, brownish now; some brass and stuff
Up at the holy end; the small neat organ;
And a tense, musty, unignorable silence,
Brewed God knows how long. Hatless, I take off
My cycle-clips in awkward reverence,
Move forward, run my hand around the font.
From where I stand, the roof looks almost new-
Cleaned or restored? Someone would know: I don't.
Mounting the lectern, I peruse a few
Hectoring large-scale verses, and pronounce
"Here endeth" much more loudly than I'd meant.
The echoes snigger briefly. Back at the door
I sign the book, donate an Irish sixpence,
Reflect the place was not worth stopping for.
Yet stop I did: in fact I often do,
And always end much at a loss like this,
Wondering what to look for; wondering, too,
When churches fall completely out of use
What we shall turn them into, if we shall keep
A few cathedrals chronically on show,
Their parchment, plate, and pyx in locked cases,
And let the rest rent-free to rain and sheep.
Shall we avoid them as unlucky places?
Or, after dark, will dubious women come
To make their children touch a particular stone;
Pick simples for a cancer; or on some
Advised night see walking a dead one?
Power of some sort or other will go on
In games, in riddles, seemingly at random;
But superstition, like belief, must die,
And what remains when disbelief has gone?
Grass, weedy pavement, brambles, buttress, sky,
A shape less recognizable each week,
A purpose more obscure. I wonder who
Will be the last, the very last, to seek
This place for what it was; one of the crew
That tap and jot and know what rood-lofts were?
Some ruin-bibber, randy for antique,
Or Christmas-addict, counting on a whiff
Of gown-and-bands and organ-pipes and myrrh?
Or will he be my representative,
Bored, uninformed, knowing the ghostly silt
Dispersed, yet tending to this cross of ground
Through suburb scrub because it held unspilt
So long and equably what since is found
Only in separation -- marriage, and birth,
And death, and thoughts of these -- for whom was built
This special shell? For, though I've no idea
What this accoutred frowsty barn is worth,
It pleases me to stand in silence here;
A serious house on serious earth it is,
In whose blent air all our compulsions meet,
Are recognised, and robed as destinies.
And that much never can be obsolete,
Since someone will forever be surprising
A hunger in himself to be more serious,
And gravitating with it to this ground,
Which, he once heard, was proper to grow wise in,
If only that so many dead lie round.
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Copyright © 2003-2008 Gunnar Bengtsson, Poetry Connection. All Rights Reserved.
Larkin starts his poem after making it sure that no ceremony was going on in the Church. It connotes that Larkin himself did not like ceremonies being performed in the Churches, perhaps due to people’s unconcerned attitude towards churches, otherwise he would not have said:
“Once I’m sure here’s nothing going on”.
When Larkin says “Another church”, in line number three, it denotes that he has visited all the churches and every church of the city is empty. Perhaps, he has found some mental tranquility in the present church that is why he made his mind to stay in the Church for some time as it was his habit.
There is a beautiful blend of similar and dissimilar objects in the poem. For example in stanza number four, line number 28 “after dark” and “dubious women” and in stanza number six, line number 48 “suburb” and “scrub” respectively. The ellipses, personification, humour, rhetorical questions, transferred epithets, synaesthetic imagery and irony combined make the poem a thing of beauty.
The last stanza brings about the final and absolute conclusion. “A serious house on serious earth it is” pays tribute to churches. Everything of this world may wipe out, even “superstition, like belief, must die” but the essential uniqueness of churches can never obsolete and out dated. This final stanza not only brings about the ultimate message but it also removes the ambiguity of the poem. In the poem the poet asked his readers “And what remains when disbelief has gone?”. When everything will be annihilated, the church shall renovate humanity.
Ata-ur-Rahim from Pakistan
Ata from Pakistan