English Interlude

For the next 27 days or so. . . Milwaukee. . .and so on and so forth. (See earlier note).

Today, I'm reading poems by Louis MacNeice (a contemporary of Auden's). I'd previously convinced myself this person's name was Louise, so I've learned the gender of a major poet before breakfast, at least.




Here're two sections from his poem, "The Sunlight on the Garden," written in a very peculiar form. Sestina-ish, I think.

"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

[. . .]

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."

A cynic's love poem? Or a skeptic's? Or a Bogart's? Whatever way, it works for me this morning as I recover from a cross-northeast, 15-hour drive that was marked by torrential rain and Megan-fancy.