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.

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And now the woodpigeon starts again denying The values of the town And a car having crossed the hill accelerates, changes Up, having just changed down.

However reserved nacneice was in company, his life and his feelings are in the foreground of his verse. Men and women, each like a closed door.

And walk out promptly through the open door. And we thought the dark. It is the nature of this poem to be neither final nor balanced. And for a thousand years they went on talking.

Education gives us too many labels And cliches, cuts too many Gordian knots; 48 Trains us to keep the roads nor reconnoitre Any of the beauty-spots or danger-spots. Section VIII opens with a graphic description of a quotidian complacency, himself in the starring role eight years previously. And the street-children play on the wet Pavement — hopscotch or marbles; And each rich family boasts a sagging tennis-net On a spongy lawn beside a dripping shrubbery. And the sirens cry in the dark morning And the lights go out and the town is still And the sky is pregnant with ill-will And the bombs come foxing the fated victim.

I am aware that there are over-statements in this poem — e. And striking red or green matches to light these loose Cigarettes of black tobacco I need you badly — The age-old woman apt for all misuse Whose soul is out of the picture. In his unfinished autobiography, The Strings are False ,MacNeice—not unaware of this aspect—gives this trip an entire, vivid chapter: With narrow wands of blue.

Nothing is self-sufficient, pleasure implies hunger But hunger implies hope: But I was writing what I have called a Journal. Or that is how it seems to me as I listen To a hooter call at six And then a woodpigeon calls and stops but the wind continues Playing its dirge in the trees, playing its tricks.


He needed another way to engage the world around him, and engage he did: The neon lights on the medieval wall. Which it was assumed that they “would always be; On that assumption terms began and ended; And now, in A. Outworn modes of thought as well as of behaviour contribute to laissez-faire. And we sat in trains all night With the windows shut among civil guards and peasants And tried to play piquet by a tiny light And tried to sleep bolt upright; And cursed the Spanish rain And cursed their cigarettes which came to pieces And caught heavy colds in Cordova and in vain Waited for the right light for taking photos.

The bloody frontier Converges on our beds Like jungle beaters closing in on their destined Trophy of pelts and heads. Following the track from the gallows back to the town. It is written throughout in an elastic kind of quatrain. He fulfils his pact with the reader, with the poem, and certainly with me. Light which is time, belfry of booming sunlight, The ropes run up and down, The whole town shakes with the peal of living people Who break and build the town.

And now I relapse to sleep, to dreams perhaps and reaction Where I shall play the gangster or the sheikh, Kill for the love of killing, make the world my sofa, Unzip the women and insult the meek.

Autumn Journal

I cannot see their faces Walking in file, slowly in file; They have no shoes on their feet, the knobs of their ankles Catch the moonlight as they pass the stile And cross the moor among the skeletons of bog-oak Following the track from the gallows back to the town; Each has the end of a rope around his neck.

What is it we want really?

His first book of poems, Blind Fireworksappeared inand he subsequently worked as a translator, literary critic, playwright, autobiographer, BBC producer and feature writer. The fact remains that Eliot was right about Autumn Journal. So Dover to Dunkerque: We slept in linen, we cooked with wine. One deals with—again—the past, which casts its spectre, and the second with the present.

And I think of Persephone gone down to dark. It was all so unimaginably different. We slept in linen, we cooked with wine, We paid in cash and took no notice Of how the train ran down the line Into the sun against the signal.


Full text of “Autumn Journal”

And the spinster sitting in a deck-chair picking up stitches. To-day they were building in Oxford Street, the mortar Pleasant to smell, But now it seems futility, imbecility, To be building shops when nobody can tell What will happen next. So reading the memoirs of Maud Gonne, Daughter of an English mother and a soldier father, I note how a single purpose can be founded on A jumble of opposites: Offhand, macnece times hysterical, abrupt, You are one I always shall remember, Whom cant can never corrupt Nor argument disinherit.

How I enjoy this bout of cynical self-indulgence, Of glittering and hard-boiled make-believe; The cynic is a creature of over-statements But an overstatement is something to achieve.

Retrieved from ” https: May God, if there is one, send As much courage again and greater vision And resolve the antinomies in which we liye 90 Where man must -be either safe because he is negative Or free on the edge of a razor. For this reason I shall probably be called a trimmer by some and a sentimental extremist by others. This comparison seems worth mentioning in connection with Autumn Journal because of the dangers inherent in a misreading based on our own changing cultural focus points.

When we are out of love, how were we ever in it? It is the nature of 7 this poem to be neither final nor balanced.

Autumn Journal – Wikipedia

In fact, on February 7 thEliot wrote to MacNeice with his own analysis that this was the strength of the poem: It was the depression years. It is the child I mean, Born prematurely, strangled; Dad was off the scene, He would have made no difference.

And now the dairy cart comes clopping slowly — Milk at the doors — And factory workers are on their way to factories And charwomen to chores.