Feb 04 2009
More than Glass
Snow (by Louis MacNeice)
The room was suddenly rich and the great bay-
window was
Spawning snow and pink roses 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.
God and man. Both present and not yet. Seeing both forward and backward.
Incorrigibly plural, how the glass is a prism both ways.
I like the smell of snow, but not as much as the bugs far below it like the smell of the earth.
The picture compliments the poem perfectly. And I like that line – the drunkenness of things being various. I can just imagine the fire blazing, the comfort of the indoors and the simple pleasure of gazing outward at the snow – almost through the roses.
Owen, no. I tried, but the pencil kept slipping out of my mitten.
Carol, just thinking about what you said about the glass being a prism both ways. You really shouldn’t say things like that to me, because I will end up daydreaming for hours and then get sucked up into the vortex…when I’m supposed to be here, doing laundry…
Ann, do you know what? For some reason when I was little, I thought he was Cdn., but then I found out he is a Belfastian. Can I say that – Belfastian? Anyway, I have a lovely old school textbook called “Poems to Remember”, and that’s where I took it from.
Pia, I wish your scenario had been my day! No, we were up at 5 a.m. to get to work by 7 a.m. (Same all week, and same on Friday). It has to do with the bus strike, but that’s a long story. Maybe on the weekend we will make a little fire, and I will gaze at the snow in the backyard, and on the cedar hedges and the pine trees. If I sit on a particular spot on the sofa and look out the doors leading out to the deck, I really feel like I’m living in the country. Of course, I might also fall asleep.
the Glaswegian and Lancastrian and the very familiar Brummie……the list goes on.
I’ve come to the conclusion that I like the idea of this being a poem from a man (spitting the pits –into the fire, with both spite and glee? and, uh “drunkenness”); since it seems to be his own place, I’d guess the pink roses are his wife’s. Since there is snow everywhere, he must’ve been truly thinking of her.
I feel the drunkenness of things being various whenever I go to an Irish pub, where the world is suddener than I fancy it — there are the townies who appreciate the more affordable drink, the girls looking for guys or just to kill a weekend night, guys looking for girls, there is the bartender who is always so mysterious–what would make one want to work where he hears the same story 8 times and have to babysit inebriates– the bouncer (a grave mystery), and then there are the musicians who show up willy-nilly and collaterally make the place sweet Ireland. Sorta like pink roses against the snow.
Carol, -35 Celcius. I checked a converter, and that’s -31 Farenheit. About -40 they are equal, and then colder than that the Celcius number is smaller than the Farenheit number. Anyway, yes, we’ve had -40 here and worse, with the windchill factor. But 117 Farenheit, I’d die. In fact, I thought everybody would be pretty much dead, literally, at that temperature! And I must agree with you about bouncers; they certainly are a grave mystery.
Pia, I’m afraid I must admit to having spit out tangerine seeds, but honestly, I didn’t aim at anyone in particular, although hubby’s head as he watched the news was always a tempting bullseye.
Yes, Carol they do – and rather forlorn they look in wind and rain and sleet.
G, as I looked at “21 comments” I had to chuckle –”this is the way at the Haven” is exactly what I thought, too, lol, and I know you are waiting for mystical thoughts about “more than glass” — I took the humourous way out because it could mean so many many things.
What does it mean to you, G?
Pia, there’s a real art to it, isn’t there. I always knew you were genteel.
I think the finger food’s in Birmingham, ’cause I don’t see anything in my fridge…well, how about some Cdn. cheddar on a cracker…
Laure, my goodness, I was just thinking about you the other day. Yes, I snuck (sneaked, snacked, snucked) back quietly in December; couldn’t bear the thought of Christmas without my friends…
A good thing is that, for example, when you get a half day of sunshine like today, little yellow primroses start popping up all over the place. They remind me that the almond trees should already have bloomed, though…but there is nary a blossom in sight yet!