Welcome back to The Daily Poem here on the Close Reeds Podcast Network.

I'm David Kern.

Today's poem is by Louis MacNeice, a British poet from Northern Ireland who lived from 1907 to

1963. He was part of what is called the Aoudon Group, which included W.H.

Auden, Steven Spender, and Cecil Day

Lewis. He was a really great poet from the post-war years, and many of his poems, like

Aoudin's poems, reflect on that period. During his time, even, he was quite popular, I understand.

Unfortunately, he died of pneumonia after being caught out on a moor in a storm in the fall of

1963, the age of 55. This poem today is called snow, and it was recommended by a listener who is

living through one of those dreaded march blizzards that so many people around the country are

enduring right now. So if you are stuck inside in a late winter, early spring blizzard,

this poem is dedicated to you. It goes like this. 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. I like this poem because it sets a scene for us, but then it slips in and out of that

scene. So it starts with something very specific. The room was suddenly rich, and the great bay window

was spawning snow and pink roses against it.

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