"macneice" poems - Hello Poetry

The Slow Starter (1958) - poem by Louis Macneice. A watched clock never moves, they said; Leave it alone and you'll grow up. Nor will the sulking holiday train Start sooner if you stamp your feet. He left the clock to go its way; The whistle blew, the train went gay. Do not press me so, she said; Leave me alone and I will write But not just yet, I am sure you know The problem. Do not count the days. He left the calender alone; The postman knocked, no letter came. O never force the pace, they said; Leave it alone, you have lots of time, Your kind of work is none the worse For slow maturing. Do not rush. He took their tip, he took his time, And found his time and talent gone. Oh you have had your chance, it said; Left it alone and it was one. Who said a watched clock never moves? Look at it now. Your chance was I. He turned and saw the accusing clock Race like a torrent round a rock. Louis Macneice

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Jun 17, 2016

Jun 17, 2016 at 9:06 AM UTC

bones24

Louis MacNeice (1907-1963)

The Slow Starter (1958) - poem by Louis Macneice. A watched clock never moves, they said; Leave it alone and you'll grow up. Nor will the sulking holiday train Start sooner if you stamp your feet. He left the clock to go its way; The whistle blew, the train went gay. Do not press me so, she said; Leave me alone and I will write But not just yet, I am sure you know The problem. Do not count the days. He left the calender alone; The postman knocked, no letter came. O never force the pace, they said; Leave it alone, you have lots of time, Your kind of work is none the worse For slow maturing. Do not rush. He took their tip, he took his time, And found his time and talent gone. Oh you have had your chance, it said; Left it alone and it was one. Who said a watched clock never moves? Look at it now. Your chance was I. He turned and saw the accusing clock Race like a torrent round a rock. Louis Macneice

26

September has come, It is hers whose vitality leaps in the autumn, Whose nature prefers Trees without leaves and a fire in the fire-place; So I give her this month and the next Though the whole of my year should be hers who has rendered already So many of its days intolerable or perplexed But so many more so happy; Who has left a scent on my life and left my walls Dancing over and over with her shadow, Whose hair is twined in all my waterfalls And all of London lilttered with remembered kisses. - Louis MacNeice, "Autumn Journal"

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Sep 20, 2012

Sep 20, 2012 at 3:04 PM UTC

margit-appleton

Louis MacNeice, September Has Come (From Autumn Journal)

September has come, It is hers whose vitality leaps in the autumn, Whose nature prefers Trees without leaves and a fire in the fire-place; So I give her this month and the next Though the whole of my year should be hers who has rendered already So many of its days intolerable or perplexed But so many more so happy; Who has left a scent on my life and left my walls Dancing over and over with her shadow, Whose hair is twined in all my waterfalls And all of London lilttered with remembered kisses. - Louis MacNeice, "Autumn Journal"

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Carrickfergus (1937) - poem by Louis Macneice. I was born in Belfast between the mountain and the gantries To the hooting of lost sirens and the clang of trams; Thence to Smoky Carrick in County Antrim Where the bottle-neck harbour collects the mud which jams The little boats beneath the Norman castle, The pier shining with lumps of crystal salt; The Scotch quarter was a line of residential houses But the Irish quarter was a slum for the blind and halt. The brook ran yellow from the factory stinking of chlorine, The yarn mill called it's funeral cry at noon; Our lights looked over the lough to the lights of Bangor Under the peacock aura of a drowning moon. The Norman walled this town against the country To stop his ears to the yelping of his slave And built a church in the form of a cross but denoting The list of Christ on the cross in the angle of the nave. I was the rectors son, born to the Anglican order, Banned for ever from the candles of the Irish poor; The Chichesters knelt in marble at the end of a transept With ruffs about their necks, their portion sure. The war came and a huge camp of soldiers Grew from the ground in sight of our house with long Dummies hanging from gibbets for bayonet practice And the sentry's challenge echoing all day long; A Yorkshire terrier ran in and out by the gate-lodge Barred to civilians, yapping as if taking affront; Marching at ease and singing 'Who Killed **** Robin?' The troops went out by the lodge and off to the Front. The steamer was camouflaged that took me to England- Sweat and khaki in the Carlisle train; I thought that the war would last for ever and sugar be always rationed and that never again Would the weekly papers not have photos of sandbags And my governess not make bandages from moss And people not have maps above the fireplace With flags on pins moving across and across- Across the hawthorn hedge the noise of bugles, Flares across the night, Somewhere on the lough was a prison ship for Germans, A cage across their sight. I went to school in Dorset, the world of parents Contracted into a puppet world of sons Far from the mill girls, the smell of porter, the salt-mines And the soldiers with their guns. Louis Macneice

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Jun 17, 2016

Jun 17, 2016 at 8:54 AM UTC

bones24

Louis MacNeice (1907-1963)

Carrickfergus (1937) - poem by Louis Macneice. I was born in Belfast between the mountain and the gantries To the hooting of lost sirens and the clang of trams; Thence to Smoky Carrick in County Antrim Where the bottle-neck harbour collects the mud which jams The little boats beneath the Norman castle, The pier shining with lumps of crystal salt; The Scotch quarter was a line of residential houses But the Irish quarter was a slum for the blind and halt. The brook ran yellow from the factory stinking of chlorine, The yarn mill called it's funeral cry at noon; Our lights looked over the lough to the lights of Bangor Under the peacock aura of a drowning moon. The Norman walled this town against the country To stop his ears to the yelping of his slave And built a church in the form of a cross but denoting The list of Christ on the cross in the angle of the nave. I was the rectors son, born to the Anglican order, Banned for ever from the candles of the Irish poor; The Chichesters knelt in marble at the end of a transept With ruffs about their necks, their portion sure. The war came and a huge camp of soldiers Grew from the ground in sight of our house with long Dummies hanging from gibbets for bayonet practice And the sentry's challenge echoing all day long; A Yorkshire terrier ran in and out by the gate-lodge Barred to civilians, yapping as if taking affront; Marching at ease and singing 'Who Killed **** Robin?' The troops went out by the lodge and off to the Front. The steamer was camouflaged that took me to England- Sweat and khaki in the Carlisle train; I thought that the war would last for ever and sugar be always rationed and that never again Would the weekly papers not have photos of sandbags And my governess not make bandages from moss And people not have maps above the fireplace With flags on pins moving across and across- Across the hawthorn hedge the noise of bugles, Flares across the night, Somewhere on the lough was a prison ship for Germans, A cage across their sight. I went to school in Dorset, the world of parents Contracted into a puppet world of sons Far from the mill girls, the smell of porter, the salt-mines And the soldiers with their guns. Louis Macneice

46

Prayer Before Birth (1944) - Poem by Louis Macneice I am not yet born; O hear me. Let not the bloodsucking bat or the rat or the stoat or the club-footed ghoul come near me. I am not yet born, console me. I fear that the human race may with tall walls wall me, with strong drugs dope me, with wise lies lure me, on black racks rack me, in blood-baths roll me. I am not yet born; provide me With water to dandle me, grass to grow for me, trees to talk to me, sky to sing to me, birds and a white light in the back of my mind to guide me. I am not yet born; forgive me For the sins that in me the world shall commit, my words when they speak me, my thoughts when they think me, my treason engendered by traitors beyond me, my life when they ****** by means of my hands, my death when they live me. I am not yet born; rehearse me In the parts I must play and the cues I must take when old men lecture me, bureaucrats hector me, mountains frown at me, lovers laugh at me, the white waves call me to folly and the desert calls me to doom and the beggar refuses my gift and my children curse me. I am not yet born; O hear me, Let not the man who is beast or who thinks he is God come near me. I am not yet born; O fill me With strength against those who would freeze my humanity, would dragoon me into a lethal automaton, would make me a cog in a machine, a thing with one face, a thing, and against all those who would dissipate my entirety, would blow me like thistledown hither and thither or hither and thither like water held in the hands would spill me. Let them not make me a stone and let them not spill me. Otherwise **** me. Louis Macneice

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Jun 12, 2016

Jun 12, 2016 at 4:09 PM UTC

bones24

Louis MacNeice (1907-1963)

Prayer Before Birth (1944) - Poem by Louis Macneice I am not yet born; O hear me. Let not the bloodsucking bat or the rat or the stoat or the club-footed ghoul come near me. I am not yet born, console me. I fear that the human race may with tall walls wall me, with strong drugs dope me, with wise lies lure me, on black racks rack me, in blood-baths roll me. I am not yet born; provide me With water to dandle me, grass to grow for me, trees to talk to me, sky to sing to me, birds and a white light in the back of my mind to guide me. I am not yet born; forgive me For the sins that in me the world shall commit, my words when they speak me, my thoughts when they think me, my treason engendered by traitors beyond me, my life when they ****** by means of my hands, my death when they live me. I am not yet born; rehearse me In the parts I must play and the cues I must take when old men lecture me, bureaucrats hector me, mountains frown at me, lovers laugh at me, the white waves call me to folly and the desert calls me to doom and the beggar refuses my gift and my children curse me. I am not yet born; O hear me, Let not the man who is beast or who thinks he is God come near me. I am not yet born; O fill me With strength against those who would freeze my humanity, would dragoon me into a lethal automaton, would make me a cog in a machine, a thing with one face, a thing, and against all those who would dissipate my entirety, would blow me like thistledown hither and thither or hither and thither like water held in the hands would spill me. Let them not make me a stone and let them not spill me. Otherwise **** me. Louis Macneice

41

Snow (January 1935) - Poem by Louis Macneice The room was suddenly rich and the great bay-window was Spawning snow and pink roses against it Soundlessly collateral and incompatible: World is suddener than we fancy it. World is crazier and more of it than we think, Incorrigibly plural. I peel and portion A tangerine and spit the pips and feel The drunkenness of things being various. And the fire flames with a bubbling sound for world Is more spiteful and gay than one supposes – On the tongue on the eyes on the ears in the palms of one’s hands – There is more than glass between the snow and the huge roses. Louis Macneice..

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Jun 12, 2016

Jun 12, 2016 at 4:08 PM UTC

bones24

Louis MacNeice (1907-1963)

Snow (January 1935) - Poem by Louis Macneice The room was suddenly rich and the great bay-window was Spawning snow and pink roses against it Soundlessly collateral and incompatible: World is suddener than we fancy it. World is crazier and more of it than we think, Incorrigibly plural. I peel and portion A tangerine and spit the pips and feel The drunkenness of things being various. And the fire flames with a bubbling sound for world Is more spiteful and gay than one supposes – On the tongue on the eyes on the ears in the palms of one’s hands – There is more than glass between the snow and the huge roses. Louis Macneice..

14

Autobiography (september 1940) - Poem by Louis MacNeice In my childhood trees were green And there was plenty to be seen. Come back early or never come. My father made the walls resound, He wore his collar the wrong way round. Come back early or never come. My mother wore a yellow dress; Gentle, gently, gentleness. Come back early or never come. When I was five the black dreams came; Nothing after was quite the same. Come back early or never come. The dark was talking to the dead; The lamp was dark beside my bed. Come back early or never come. When I woke they did not care; Nobody, nobody was there. Come back early or never come. When my silent terror cried, Nobody, nobody replied. Come back early or never come. I got up; the chilly sun Saw me walk away alone. Come back early or never come.. Louis Macneice.

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Jun 12, 2016

Jun 12, 2016 at 4:07 PM UTC

bones24

Louis MacNeice (1907-1963)

26

NISI...become. . . ABSOLUTE early summer falls across the lawn...the trees the bars of a cage sunlight and shadow our jailers our own good selves and we the prisoners of this summer's day "Shall I compare thee to.." I laugh to myself no...I guess not we forever imprisoned in sunlight and shadow an image made real memory holds us here trapped in this conceit sentenced to be who we could never be and so we sat until sunlight relinquished its hold over the world and so we sat until darkness swallowed us whole only our voices visible only our vices invisible as always each the murderer of the other now no longer man & wife I glimpse my face in a fish knife the decree nisi still tucked behind the ormolu clock the divorce still eats at my soul this piece of paper mocking me and now the decree absolute we sit down to our last supper the cat devours ( I don't tell you that ) the fresh trout the fresh trout all dressed up in its dish like a sacrifice I shoo the cat away it snarls at me "Ticktock!" laughs the clock ormoluly the cat looks at me with disdain...scorn licks lovingly its ***** I cut the cat-chewed bit away serve up with a too rich sauce the unseen incident not noticeable and so after all I still serve you before me you smile your smile say we should have "...maybe stayed together after all..?" too late now I think to recall the people we used to be we different people now "Time doesn't heal..!" I think "...Time's a heel!" I secretly smile I pass the port a crumb of Stilton still stuck charmingly upon her chin "The sunlight on the garden hardens and grows cold." I quote MacNeice to the parrot "We can not catch its minutes..." the parrot continues and I finish "...within its nets of gold." memory still holds me prisoner in that garden I watch her taxi pull away the taxi turns the corner blinks a right turn and is gone back in the kitchen I let the cat finish my untouched trout I flambé the decrees both nisi and absolute watch us go up in smoke

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Sep 14, 2017

Sep 14, 2017 at 5:09 AM UTC

donall-dempsey

NISI...become. . . ABSOLUTE

NISI...become. . . ABSOLUTE early summer falls across the lawn...the trees the bars of a cage sunlight and shadow our jailers our own good selves and we the prisoners of this summer's day "Shall I compare thee to.." I laugh to myself no...I guess not we forever imprisoned in sunlight and shadow an image made real memory holds us here trapped in this conceit sentenced to be who we could never be and so we sat until sunlight relinquished its hold over the world and so we sat until darkness swallowed us whole only our voices visible only our vices invisible as always each the murderer of the other now no longer man & wife I glimpse my face in a fish knife the decree nisi still tucked behind the ormolu clock the divorce still eats at my soul this piece of paper mocking me and now the decree absolute we sit down to our last supper the cat devours ( I don't tell you that ) the fresh trout the fresh trout all dressed up in its dish like a sacrifice I shoo the cat away it snarls at me "Ticktock!" laughs the clock ormoluly the cat looks at me with disdain...scorn licks lovingly its ***** I cut the cat-chewed bit away serve up with a too rich sauce the unseen incident not noticeable and so after all I still serve you before me you smile your smile say we should have "...maybe stayed together after all..?" too late now I think to recall the people we used to be we different people now "Time doesn't heal..!" I think "...Time's a heel!" I secretly smile I pass the port a crumb of Stilton still stuck charmingly upon her chin "The sunlight on the garden hardens and grows cold." I quote MacNeice to the parrot "We can not catch its minutes..." the parrot continues and I finish "...within its nets of gold." memory still holds me prisoner in that garden I watch her taxi pull away the taxi turns the corner blinks a right turn and is gone back in the kitchen I let the cat finish my untouched trout I flambé the decrees both nisi and absolute watch us go up in smoke

88

the ancient greeks would call asia's mysticism nothing more than a tautology... tao: the tao that can be named, is not the eternal tao... i see one tao: the best way you can help the world, is to forget the world, and let the world to forget you... like some Irish poet once wrote; who was it? ah! louis macneice in ehyeh asher ehyeh... *in der beginn und der ende der nur dezent definition ist tautologie: mann ist mann, frau frau, und baum baum, und welt... welt...* which is the basic principle of asiatic "mysticism"... der ding dass ist, ist... und der ding dass nicht ist: ist nein-ist, aber nicht: nein! watching Swedish drama i took to understand the difference between nein and nicht: and nichts... circus of nouns... Asiatic mysticism - tautology... nein ist nicht ein absolut nein: the Asiatic folk spiced it all up with an addition of adjectives... nichts mehr... how can i have an opinion about England, not being an Englishman? sidenote... i'm no migrant exotica, i am not luxury: given that i am economic... hence my desire to hide in German, whenever i can, while entertaining the use of English... i can't have an opinion about England, because i am not an Englishman and the Englishman's opinion is worth: jack-shit... out of curiosity, i watch, and... too apprehensive about waiting i forget to wait... wenn da eine nachleben: ich hoffen zu spreschen deutsche... i was born in Poland... so... what do sie denken my meinung of England är, given that i'm not an Englishman and i'd föredra to speak Deutsche after death, than be plagued by this acquired tongue? i don't have an opinion worthy of it being designated as having accommodation to encompass said land, i'm only here in passing: i wish! but for not being a pompous brat, my servitude is that of the natives... of which i am not... hence my minor ploys of escapism in german... somehow... a few words in German alleviates the burden of seeing the natives buckle before whoever reigns... but being white, i could almost pass off as a Brit... i can, and do... and then on occassion: i don't.

0

Jan 14, 2019

Jan 14, 2019 at 8:28 PM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

ode to louis macneice

the ancient greeks would call asia's mysticism nothing more than a tautology... tao: the tao that can be named, is not the eternal tao... i see one tao: the best way you can help the world, is to forget the world, and let the world to forget you... like some Irish poet once wrote; who was it? ah! louis macneice in ehyeh asher ehyeh... *in der beginn und der ende der nur dezent definition ist tautologie: mann ist mann, frau frau, und baum baum, und welt... welt...* which is the basic principle of asiatic "mysticism"... der ding dass ist, ist... und der ding dass nicht ist: ist nein-ist, aber nicht: nein! watching Swedish drama i took to understand the difference between nein and nicht: and nichts... circus of nouns... Asiatic mysticism - tautology... nein ist nicht ein absolut nein: the Asiatic folk spiced it all up with an addition of adjectives... nichts mehr... how can i have an opinion about England, not being an Englishman? sidenote... i'm no migrant exotica, i am not luxury: given that i am economic... hence my desire to hide in German, whenever i can, while entertaining the use of English... i can't have an opinion about England, because i am not an Englishman and the Englishman's opinion is worth: jack-shit... out of curiosity, i watch, and... too apprehensive about waiting i forget to wait... wenn da eine nachleben: ich hoffen zu spreschen deutsche... i was born in Poland... so... what do sie denken my meinung of England är, given that i'm not an Englishman and i'd föredra to speak Deutsche after death, than be plagued by this acquired tongue? i don't have an opinion worthy of it being designated as having accommodation to encompass said land, i'm only here in passing: i wish! but for not being a pompous brat, my servitude is that of the natives... of which i am not... hence my minor ploys of escapism in german... somehow... a few words in German alleviates the burden of seeing the natives buckle before whoever reigns... but being white, i could almost pass off as a Brit... i can, and do... and then on occassion: i don't.

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