Here’s the first of a weekly (until I lose interest) series of poetry posts.
Alliteration for the win.
This is Calliope, the muse of epic poetry.
This a calliope.
This is a poem by Louis MacNeice.
Shuttles of trains going north, going south, drawing threads of blue,
The shining of the lines of trams like swords,
Thousands of posters asserting a monopoly of the good, the beautiful, the true,
Crowds of people all in the vocative, you and you,
The haze of the morning shot with words.
Yellow sun comes white off the wet streets but bright
Chromium yellows in the gay sun’s light,
Filleted sun streaks the purple mist,
Everything is kissed and reticulated with sun
Scooped-up and cupped in the open fronts of shops
And bouncing on the traffic which never stops.
And the street fountain blown across the square
Rainbow-trellises the air and sunlight blazons
The red butcher’s and scrolls of fish on marble slabs,
Whistled bars of music crossing silver sprays
And horns of cars, touché, touché, rapiers’ retort, a moving cage,
A turning page of shine and sound, the day’s maze.
But when the sun goes out, the streets go cold, the hanging meat
And tiers of fish are colourless and merely dead,
And the hoots of cars neurotically repeat and the tiptoed feet
Of women hurry and falter whose faces are dead;
And I see in the air but not belonging there
The blown grey powder of the fountain grey as the ash
That forming on a cigarette covers the red.
No discussion question this week.