Today is the anniversary of the death in 1963 of one of the great Irish poets of the twentieth century, Louis MacNeice. Next week, across Radio Ulster, we'll be marking the centenary of MacNeice's birth on September 12, 2007.
MacNeice was born in Belfast ("to the banging of Orange drums"), though his parents were originally from Connemara in the West of Ireland. His birthplace at in Belfast is now marked with a blue plaque from the Ulster History Circle. In 1909, his family moved to Carrickfergus after his father was appointed rector of St Nicholas's Church, an Anglican parish in the town. He was educated, from the age of ten, in England. First at school in Marlborough, then at Oxford, where he met his close friend and poetic collaborator W.H. Auden (whose fame would later overshadow MacNeice). For a time he taught Classics at Birmingham and London, and soon began to earn his reputation as a prolific writer, producing many volumes of poetry and criticism. From 1941, he worked for the ³ÉÈË¿ìÊÖ, making radio programmes -- including his own radio play The Dark Tower (with music by Benjamin Britten). Most critics identify his most significant work as "Autumn Journal" (1939), a meditation on the eve of war; but I've met many contemporary poets who have memorised some of his still much loved shorter poems. Of those, my favourite is probably "Snow":
The room was suddenly rich and the great bay-window was
Spawning snow and pink rose 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.
(Snow, 1935)
The circumstances of MacNeice's death are a little bizarre. He apparently contracted viral pneumonia while exploring a cave during research for a ³ÉÈË¿ìÊÖ radio programme in 1963. (He may be the only poet to have died while making a radio programme.) MacNeice is buried in the Church of Ireland graveyard at Carrowdore in county Down (for map, see ). Look out for the snow in Derek Mahon's elegy for MacNeice, "In Carrowdore Churchyard":
Your ashes will not stir, even on this high ground,
However the wind tugs, the headstones shake.
This plot is consecrated, for your sake,
To what lies in the future tense. You lie
Past tension now, and spring is coming round
Igniting flowers on the peninsula.
Your ashes will not fly, however the rough winds burst
Through the wild brambles and the reticent trees.
All we may ask of you we have; the rest
Is not for publication, will not be heard.
Maguire, I believe, suggested a blackbird
And over your grave a phrase from Euripides.
Which suits you down to the ground, like this churchyard
With its play of shadow, its humane perspective.
Locked in the winter's fist, these hills are hard
As nails, yet soft and feminine in their turn
When fingers open and the hedges burn.
This, you implied, is how we ought to live.
The ironical, loving crush of roses against snow,
Each fragile, solving ambiguity. So
From the pneumonia of the ditch, from the ague
Of the blind poet and the bombed-out town you bring
The all-clear to the empty holes of spring,
Rinsing the choked mud, keeping the colors new.