#louis macneice

[shy-girl04]

Unknown credit

Excerpt from…

Meeting Point

Time was away and she was here

And life no longer what it was,

The bell was silent in the air

And all the room one glow because

Time was away and she was here.

Louis MacNeice

[dandelionoftheday]

Dandelions

Incorrigible, brash,

They brighten the cinder path of my childhood,

Unsubtle, the opposite of primroses,

But, unlike primroses, capable

Of growing anywhere, railway track, pierhead,

Like our extrovert friends who never

Make us fall in love, yet fill

The primroseless roseless gaps.

from Nature Notes by Louis MacNeice (1907–1963)

[davidhudson]

T. S. Eliot, September 26, 1888 – January 4, 1965.

Mark Gerson, The Faber Poets, 1960: Louis MacNeice, Ted Hughes, T. S. Eliot, W. H. Auden, and Stephen Spender.

[natequarter]

Hole in the Sky, Louis Macneice

[apoemaday]

Sunlight on the Garden

by Louis MacNeice

The sunlight on the garden Hardens and grows cold, We cannot cage the minute Within its nets of gold; When all is told We cannot beg for pardon.

Our freedom as free lances Advances towards its end; The earth compels, upon it Sonnets and birds descend; And soon, my friend, We shall have no time for dances.

The sky was good for flying Defying the church bells And every evil iron Siren and what it tells: The earth compels, We are dying, Egypt, dying

And not expecting pardon, Hardened in heart anew, But glad to have sat under Thunder and rain with you, And grateful too For sunlight on the garden.

[20th-century-personalities]

The Faber poets (Louis MacNeice; Ted Hughes; TS Eliot; WH Auden; Stephen Spender) at a party thrown by the publishers on 23 June 1960.

[theslimysquid]

Leap of Faith

Inspiration comes at a cost,

Grasping at thoughts before they are lost.

Before the mind has time to think,

The world's best seller is gone with a blink.

For some it is a game of chess,

Planning your moves and leaving no mess.

For others it flows like a fountain,

But for me, it's like I'm climbing a mountain.

A beginning, middle and an end,

A book - that’s what they recommend.

Lost in the pages you will get,

With plot-holes that will make you fret

It’s hard to find the words to say,

But my goal "is to become a writer someday."

Yet saying those words I know I'm wrong,

As I have been a writer all along.

‘What have you written?’ I hear you ask.

A lot of things, it’s quite a task.

My inspiration stops and starts,

A bit like life and all its parts.

But none of it has ever been read,

It stays with me inside my head.

Until today I took a leap,

That my poetry attempt does not make you weep.

In the hometown where I’m from,

An author I hope to become.

For now I’m done, I’ve said my piece,

But I'm nothing compared to Louis MacNiece

[evidently-endless]

From ‘Ode’ by Louis MacNeice