The Building by Philip Larkin

‘The Building’ is a powerful poem that although seems ambiguous at first, is eventually thought provoking. The poem describes a building which assumed to be as a hospital even though we are not overtly told. Toward the end, Larkin meditates upon ideas of sickness, death as well as spirituality and religion in an attempt to make sense of the former two while maintaining a somewhat flippant and ironic tone throughout.

The building seems ‘higher than the handsomest hotel’; sarcastically described as typical of Larkin. Glass windows shine like a ‘lucent comb’ like a beckoning beacon of light, surrounded by criss-crossing streets. At the entrance arrive vehicles that are ‘not taxis’, which can assume as ambulances. The building represents technological and medical advancement ‘like a great sigh out of the last century’. However, sight can be deceiving while within lingers a ‘frightening smell’.

Like at ‘an airport lounge’, people read paperbacks, ‘ripped mags’, drink tea yet ‘tamely sit’ for a kind of arrival that seems less exciting than travel. Ordinary people have come for check-ups in ‘outdoor clothes and half-filled shopping bags’ with obvious intentions of doing other more important things. Yet they are ‘restless and resigned’ for the possibility of receiving bad news about their health. The busy nurses seem ominous, coming every few minutes to ‘fetch someone away’, during which time people are fidgety and ‘curiously neutral’.

The building is a place of ‘humans’ in which people lose individualities and form a homogeneous group of patients no matter what age. They are reduced to faceless numbers all in fear of sudden ‘abeyance’, ‘the end of choice and ‘the last of hope’; death the great leveller. Some come to ‘confess that something has gone wrong’ in reply to their doctors who reveal an ‘error of a serious sort’ in their health. However, they are just one of several people to endure illness. To house this inexhaustible supply of humans, so ‘much money’ has gone into nurturing the building   so that it may be ‘tall’ with ‘many floors’ and staff working ungodly hours. Yet, it is morbid.

People look around at others, wondering if they too will be wheeled off down a corridor of endless rooms ‘harder to return from’. The fear of death is a ‘new thing held in common’ that suppresses all hopes and makes them quiet. Outside lies the normal world – streets, pipes, traffic, children playing games, a car park and freedom. A ‘locked church’ kills any hope of divine intervention. The hospital could very well be a prison and perhaps that is why Larkin ambiguously calls it a building.

The building strips people of their identity and dresses them in ‘washed-to-rags ward clothes’. Now the world seems like the false illusion of a ‘touching dream’ – its loves and chances ‘unreal’. ‘Self protecting ignorance congeal’ the true sense of death and harsh realities realised when ‘in these corridors’. Some may evade death and leave early but ‘others not knowing it’ would have come to join the non-discriminatory ‘unseen congregations whose white rows lie set apart’.

The building’s purpose is to evoke the realisation of a ‘clean sliced cliff’ from which we shall all inevitably fall from. We may use flowers, prayers, confessions to ‘transcend the thought of dying’ but these efforts are ‘wasteful, weak, propitiatory’ unless of course the supernatural or God contravenes. Until then, the nurse beckons us like a grim reaper, summoning us to die. She offers no hope of faint maternal comfort; an idea which would match well with how we were brought into the world. Yet, the nurse approaches with frigidity; she’s doing her job, it’s a chore these days considering the ungodly hours she has to work. Nothing can placate death; it is a guarantee. Perhaps the only choice is to come to terms with this phenomena until the perception of its inescapability morphs into an acceptance of its inevitability.
© 2016 Pia Krishnankutty & springtidevoice. All Rights Reserved

The Thought Fox by Ted Hughes

‘The Thought Fox’ is one of Ted Hughes’s finest poems that holds a deep metaphor for the process of thought. Foxes are sly, stealthy creatures that are often semi-hidden and slinking around; a fitting image for the nature of thought before it enters one’s mind.

Like a ‘midnight moment’s forest’, the poet imagines his head as dark and still, devoid of thought at the moment. Yet, he has a feeling, almost a sixth sense that ‘something else is alive’. He is joined by the ‘clock’s loneliness’ and a ‘blank page’ upon which his fingers move restlessly, waiting for an idea to pen down. He sees ‘no star’ or light of inspiration as yet. ‘Deeper within the darkness’ a thought is buried under layers of his mind, edging ‘more near’ to consciousness and slowly ‘entering the loneliness’.

‘Cold, delicately as the dark snow’, the poet is witness to brief, tentative movements of the thought. The ‘fox’s nose touches twig’ as the first sign of display but the ‘two eyes’ only reveal and retreat in a tease.

From a vague idea, the thought leaves a more tangible, attainable trail of ‘neat prints in the snow’. Cautiously and ‘warily a lame shadow lags’. The thought seems incomplete but with the hope that it will gain momentum into a ‘body that is bold to come’. From a forest full of trees, the poet sees is able to see with more clarity ‘across clearings’ of his mind.

Then, the thought gains texture and colour like a luminescent glow of ‘deepening greenness’. The fox reveals itself ‘brilliantly, concentratedly’. Any frustration he felt before has become worth the patience. He now watches, detached, as the thought comes ‘about its business’ free from his control. Then, with a ‘sudden hot stink’ the thought ‘enters the dark hole’ and swamps his brain. In a moment, it engulfs his mind and he is able to write.

In comparison to wild adventure in his head, nothing has changed in reality; the ‘window is starless still’ and ‘the clock ticks’. The only difference is that the idea was successful as the page has been printed. Thoughts, imagination and even memories stumble through our minds before they reach prominence but why do they do so? The answer is so blatantly biological but Hughes is able to provide such accurate insight into our psyche through verse.

© 2016 Pia Krishnankutty & springtidevoice. All Rights Reserved


Dinga-linga-ding. People pour into our living room so quick but I don’t notice.

Phase 1
An auntie, wearing all the gold she owns, waddles like a penguin toward me. By now, I’ve heard one too many exasperations about how tall I’ve grown but I endure just another. She asks me ‘what I want to do’, to which I itched to reply ‘leave but I can’t. This is my house and my Ma has painted me like a perfect picture to display to all of you so I can’t leave but for what it’s worth, I’d sure like to’. She slaps my wrist and tells me to stop day dreaming. I tell her ‘writing’ is ‘what I want to do’. Her eyebrows. Enough said. Continue reading

#6 Bengaluru teenagers turning drug peddlers for a quick buck?

The article is about teenage drug peddlers in Bengaluru who, although are rare, very much exist. I wrote this for Bangalore Times, the features department for Times of India.

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Dear Appa

A boy writes a letter to his father.

dear appa

© 2015 Pia Krishnankutty & springtidevoice. All Rights Reserved


I was just about 16 when I first interned at a newspaper. Naturally, I was the enthu-cutlet on the block, trying to sink my teeth into any story I could get. It’s a ruthless work environment plagued by time crunching deadlines and a constant demand for versatility. You have to hunt for stories, stalk people on social media, see if their stories are worth reading. But if you show them you’re willing, nobody will turn down a good story.

Continue reading