AUTUMN JOURNAL by the same author THE EARTH COMPELS OUT OF THE PICTURE POEMS AUTUMN JOURNAL a poem by LOUIS MACNEICE Faber and . 8 quotes from Autumn Journal: ‘September has come, it is hersWhose vitality leaps in the autumn,Whose nature prefersTrees without leaves and a fire in. Written between August and December , Autumn Journal is still Louis MacNeice was born in Belfast in , the son of a Church of Ireland rector, later a.
|Published (Last):||15 February 2016|
|PDF File Size:||19.32 Mb|
|ePub File Size:||12.11 Mb|
|Price:||Free* [*Free Regsitration Required]|
May God, if there is one, send As much courage again and greater vision And resolve the antinomies in which we autuumn 90 Where man must -be either safe because he is negative Or free on the edge of a razor.
Not available to order from this website, please try another retailer.
Who turned out dapper little elegiac verses. The sections, alternating between political, life, local colour, the past, the inner life, are an argument MacNeice is conducting with himself.
The perfectionist stands for ever in a fog Waiting for the fog to clear; better to be vulgar 55 And use your legs and leave a blank for Hogg And put a cross for Lindsay. Cut and dried for trippers. It is the nature of 7 this poem to be neither final nor balanced. Is life rather than victuals.
At night we sleep behind stockades of frost, Nothing alive in the streets to run the gauntlet Of this unworldly cold except the lost Wisps of steam from the gratings of the sewers. We envy men of action.
And the road swings round my head like a lassoo Looping wider and wider tracts of darkness And the country succeeds the town and the country too Is damp and dark and evil. We drove round Shropshire in a bijou car — Jounal, Cleobury Mortimer, Ludlow — And the map of England was a toy bazaar And the telephone wires were idle music. Behind you in the desert stands a token.
The blue smoke rising and the brown lace sinking. We slept in linen, we cooked with wine, We paid in cash and took no notice Of how macenice train ran down the line Into the sun against the signal.
Autumn Journal Quotes by Louis MacNeice
It was the depression years. Edna Longley puts it succinctly when she says: And the North, where I was a boy, Is still the North, veneered with the grime of Glasgow, Thousands of men whom nobody will employ Standing at the corners, coughing. Eight years back about this time I came to live in this hazy city To work in a building caked with grime Teaching the classics to Midland students; Virgil, Livy, the usual round, Principal parts and the lost digamma; And to hear the prison-like lecture room resound To Homer in a Dudley accent.
O light, terror of light, hoofs and ruthless Wheels of steel and brass Dragging behind you lacerated captives Who also share your triumph as you pass. I have certain beliefs which, I hope, emerge in the course of it but which I have refused to abstract from the context.
Collected Poems T. Or the way in which language itself is being used as a weapon in the War on Auhumn
Autumn Journal Quotes
No longer thinking you or any other Essential to my life — soul-mate or dual star; All I want is an elegant and witty playmate At the perfume counter or the cocktail bar. The bloody frontier Converges on our beds Like jungle beaters closing in on their destined Trophy of pelts and heads. Anyone beside or below me; only above. I am not able, and I do not want, to abandon the world-view that I acquired in childhood.
Autumn Journal Quotes Showing of 8. I sit in my room in comfort Looking at enormous flowers — Equipment purchased with my working hours, A daily mint of perishable petals.
Still there are still the seeds of energy and choice Still alive even if forbidden, hidden, And while a man has voice He may recover music. A long poem from 2, to 3, lines written from August to December People kept cockerels, hens, even rabbits on their window balconies and he was woken by cock-crow at all hours. What is it we want really?
Full text of “Autumn Journal”
London is indeed pregnant with something throughout the poem, and it manifests itself both materially and in behaviour. But oh, not now my love, but oh my juornal, Can you not take it merely on trust that life is The only thing worth living and that dying Had better be left to take care of itself in the end? At times intractable, virulent, hypercritical, With a bitter tongue; 45 Over-shy at times, morose, defeatist, At times a token that the world is young; Given to over-statement, careless of caution, Quick to sound the chimes Of delicate intuition, at times malicious And generous at times.
Mmacneice were lots of things undone.
And you whose eyes are blue, whose ways are foam, Sleep quiet and smiling And do not hanker For a perfection which can never come. Who slouch around the world with a gesture and a brogue.
But the home is still a sanctum under the pelmets, All quiet on the Family Juornal, Farmyard noises across the fields at evening While the trucks of the Southern Railway dawdle.
The London MacNeice lived in that autumn was full of sex, cigarette smoke, drink, and music for dancing: