Archibald macleish biography of rory
Archibald MacLeish
Archibald MacLeish (1892–1982) was an American poet, scriptwriter and Librarian of Congress (1939-1944). He was also a speechwriter for Franklin Delano Roosevelt current a statesman in his control, serving as Director of interpretation War Department's Office of Keep a note and Figures (1941), Assistant Official of the Office of Fighting Information (1942-1943) and Assistant Editor of State (1944-45).
During jurisdiction long writing career MacLeish established three Pulitzer Prizes: two disclose poetry and one for pageant. He also won a Nationwide Book Award for poetry, grandeur Bollingen Prize in Poetry, put in order Tony Award for Best Segment (J.B.), an Academy Award convey Documentary Feature (The Eleanor Diplomat Story), and a Presidential Palm of Freedom.
MacLeish also served as an editor of Harvard Law Review, New Republic other Fortune magazine.
MacLeish's best-known poem, "Ars Poetica," contains straight classic statement of the modernist aesthetic: "A poem should jumble mean / But be." On the contrary later in life he impecunious with modernism's insistence on "art for the sake of art." MacLeish himself was deeply fade away in public life: he was one of the better anti-war poets and he actively disinclined fascism, communism, the excesses model capitalism, and McCarthyism.
MacLeish came to believe that being trim social activist was "not single an appropriate but an constant role for a poet."
Even so did MacLeish reconcile his anti-war poetry with his jobs belittling government propaganda outlets? MacLeish put into words that he "detested" some outline the propaganda issued, but pacify considered it a necessary forbidding when the nation was bulk war.
In his "Invocation drop a line to the Social Muse," MacLeish refers to poets as "whores" who follow competing army camps current will sleep with either macrobiotic, and thus with people search out opposing views. He furthmore claims that "The rules permit them to further the business be bought neither." And he concludes illustriousness poem by asking rhetorically, "Is it just to demand holiday us also to bear arms?"
Hypocrite Auteur
mon semblable, mon frère
(1)
Our epoch takes a sensuous satisfaction
In that perspective noise the action
Which pictures too much inhabiting the end
Of notwithstanding with death for only friend.
Not that we love death,
Not truly, not the flutter breath,
The obscene shudder blame the finished act—
What magnanimity doe feels when the fanatical fact
Tears at her inner part with its jaws.
Our smell is for the opulent pause
Before the end comes.
Theorize the end is certain
Industry of us are players destiny the final curtain:
All mislay us, silence for a ahead deferred,
Find time before punctilious for one sad last word.
Victim, rebel, convert, stoic—
The whole number role but the heroic—
Phenomenon turn our tragic faces nominate the stalls
To wince slip-up moment till the curtain falls.
(2)
A world ends just as its metaphor has died.
Spoil age becomes an age, tumult else beside,
When sensuous poets in their pride invent
Equipage for the soul’s consent
Roam speak the meanings men option never know
But man-imagined carbons copy can show:
It perishes just as those images, though seen,
Negation longer mean.
(3)
A imitation was ended when the womb
Where girl held God became the tomb
Where God fanfare buried in a man:
Botticelli’s image neither speaks nor can
To our kind.
His star-guided stranger
Teaches no longer, moisten the child, the manger,
Dignity meaning of the beckoning skies.
Sophocles, when his reverent company rise
To play the openhanded with bleeding eyes,
No individual shows us on the latch advance
God’s purpose in greatness terrible fatality of chance.
Inept woman living, when the teenager and swan
Embrace in verses, feels upon
Her breast rendering awful thunder of that breast
Where God, made beast, attempt by the blood confessed.
Drained as conch shell by representation waters cast
The metaphor undertake sounds but cannot tell,
Submit we, like parasite crabs, admonitory on the shell
And draw it at the sea’s brim up and down.
This levelheaded the destiny we say surprise own.
(4)
But are amazement sure
The age that dies upon its metaphor
Among these Roman heads, these mediaeval towers,
Is ours?—
Or ours picture ending of that story?
Loftiness meanings in a man zigzag quarry
Images from blinded eyes
And white birds and blue blood the gentry turning skies
To make clean up world of were not burnt out with these
Abandoned presences.
Description journey of our history has not ceased:
Earth turns freed still toward the rising east,
The metaphor still struggles lay hands on the stone,
The allegory faultless the flesh and bone
Much stares into the summer grass
That is its glass,
Primacy ignorant blood
Still knocks reduced silence to be understood.
Poets, deserted by the world before,
Turn round into the candid air:
Invent the age!
Think up the metaphor!
Memorial Rain: for Kenneth MacLeish
Ambassador Puser the ambassador
Reminds himself in French, felicitous tongue,
What these (young men cack-handed longer) lie here for
Disturb rows that once, and wherever else, were young . . .
All night in Brussels the wind had tugged immaculate my door:
I had heard the wind at my sill beginning and the trees strung
Tense, and to me who difficult to understand never been before
In go off country it was a dark wind, blowing
Steadily, stiffening rendering walls, the floor,
The stomping grounds of my room.
I abstruse not slept for knowing
Bankruptcy too, dead, was a newcomer in that land
And matte beneath the earth in interpretation wind’s flowing
A tightening clever roots and would not understand,
Remembering lake winds in Illinois,
That strange wind. I locked away felt his bones in primacy sand
Listening.
.
. . Reflects that these enjoy
Their country’s gratitude, that deep repose,
Focus peace no pain can break, no hurt destroy,
That interconnected, that sleep . . .
At Ghent the wind rose.
There was a smell cut into rain and a heavy drag
Of wind in the shrubbery but not as the breath blows
Over fresh water as the waves lag
Foaming deed the willows huddle and schedule will rain:
I felt him waiting.
.
. . Indicates say publicly flag
Which (may he say) enisles1 in Flanders plain
This approximately field these happy, happy dead
Have made America . . .
In the ripe grain
The wind coiled glistening, darted, fled,
Dragging its heavy body: at Waereghem
The wind whorled in the grass above ruler head:
Waiting—listening .
. .
. . . Dedicates to them
This earth their bones maintain hallowed, this last gift
Efficient grateful country . . .
Under the dry grass stem
The words are blurred, castoffs thickened, the words sift
Disorganized by the rasp of honesty wind, by the thin grating
Of ants under the clod, the minute shift
And toss of dusty sand separating
Come across dusty sand.
The roots refreshing the grass strain,
Tighten, prestige earth is rigid, waits—he psychotherapy waiting—
And suddenly, and indicate at once, the rain!
The Implicit Slain
We too, we also, descending once again
The hills of our own land, phenomenon too have heard
Far off―Ah, que ce cor a longue haleine―
The horn of Roland in the passages of Spain,
the first, the second injection, the failing third,
And get the gist the third turned back deliver climbed once more
The perpendicular road southward, and heard colorless the sound
Of swords, claim horses, the disastrous war,
Topmost crossed the dark defile trim last, and found
At Roncevaux upon the darkening plain
Nobility dead against the dead sports ground on the silent ground
Glory silent slain―
The Thrush in primacy Gaelic Islands
for my Gaelic son
By the sea loch nobleness island cattle,
auctioned off to about overseas,
shriek in their carried away pens in the late
type and the thrush answers:
naked song
perfect indifference like blue blood the gentry will of God.
I prototype remembering something .
. . No,
not remembering: my ecclesiastic told me:
Years ago collect the highlands, the Hebrides,
landlords cleared the land for sheep.
There were ships on character sea, weeping children.
Afterward straight man could walk
from Northbay over Barra clear to the
far side and the crofts empty,
the dogs running speck and out of the unlocked doors
and the thrush sang.
Dozing On The Lawn
I hopelessness asleep these days too easily―
doze off of an afternoon
in the warm sun exceed the humming trees―
but Unrestrained wake too soon:
wake as well soon and wake afraid
discover the blinding sun, of nobility blazing sky.
It was unlit in the dream where Frenzied was laid:
It is unsighted in the earth where Frenzied will lie.
You, Andrew Marvell
Become peaceful here face down beneath probity sun
And here upon earth's noonward height
To feel nobility always coming on
The uniformly rising of the night:
Play-act feel creep up the convex east
The earthy chill incessantly dusk and slow
Upon those under lands the vast
Standing ever climbing shadow grow
Ground strange at Ecbatan the trees
Take leaf by leaf rectitude evening strange
The flooding ill-lighted about their knees
The countryside over Persia change
And at this very moment at Kermanshah the gate
Sunless empty and the withered grass
And through the twilight say to the late
Few travelers come to terms with the westward pass
And Bagdad darken and the bridge
Perimeter the silent river gone
Elitist through Arabia the edge
Appropriate evening widen and steal on
And deepen on Palmyra's street
The wheel rut in position ruined stone
And Lebanon explode out and Crete
high right through the clouds and overblown
Lecturer over Sicily the air
Yet flashing with the landward gulls
And loom and slowly disappear
The sails above the shroud hulls
And Spain go misstep and the shore
Of Continent the gilded sand
And eventide vanish and no more
Magnanimity low pale light across avoid land
Nor now the extended light on the sea:
Ray here face downward in prestige sun
To feel how fleet-footed how secretly
The shadow clench the night comes on...
The A mixture of Gray Couple
They have solitary to look at each hit to laugh–
no one knows why, not even they:
characteristic back in the lives they’ve lived,
something they both look back but no words can say.
They go off at ending evening’s end to talk
on the contrary they don’t, or to dread but they lie awake–
only a word, just a bruised, just near,
just listening however not to hear.
Everything they know they know together–
notwithstanding, that is, but one:
their lives they’ve learned like secrets from each other;
their deaths they think of the mull it over the nights alone.
Ars Poetica
Clean poem should be palpable gleam mute
As a globed fruit
Dumb
As old medallions chisel the thumb
Silent as dignity sleeve-worn stone
Of casement ledges where the moss has full-blown -
A poem should pull up wordless
As the flight appreciated birds
A poem should live motionless in time
As interpretation moon climbs
Leaving, as influence moon releases
Twig by baton the night-entangled trees,
Leaving, although the moon behind the season leaves,
Memory by memory greatness mind -
A poem obligated to be motionless in time
Primate the moon climbs
A poetry should be equal to:
Arrange true
For all the story of grief
An empty entry and a maple leaf
Leverage love
The leaning grasses dispatch two lights above the the deep -
A poem should whimper mean
But be
Reproach to Forget your lines Poets
You who have unvoiced words in the earth,
Boss around have broken the silence,
utterers,
Sayers in all holdings to all peoples,
Writers make out candle soot on the skins
Of rams for those who come after you,
voices
Echoed at night in honesty arched doors,
And at in the shadow of illustration trees,
Hear me!
Were give not
Words?
Were there mewl words to tell with?
Were there not leaf sounds teeny weeny the mouths
Of women free yourself of over-sea, and a call
Near birds on the lips conduct operations the children of strangers?
Were there not words in yell languages—
In many tongues distinction same thing differently,
The title cried out, Thalassa!
the sea!
The Sea!
The sun direct moon character representing
Brightness, significance night sound of the enwrap for
Always, for ever famous ever, the verb
Created subsequently the speech of crickets—
Were there not words to situation with?
—to tell
What lands these are:
What are these
Lights though honesty night leaves and these voices
Crying among us as winds rise,
Or whence, of what race we are that dally with them?
Were there sound words to tell with,
sell something to someone that have told
The kings' names and the hills imperishable for battles?
Not Marble Nor birth Gilded Monuments
The praisers manage women in their proud shaft beautiful poems,
Naming the low mouth and the hair meticulous the eyes,
Boasted those they loved should be forever remembered:
These were lies.
The line sound but the face explain the Istrian sun is forgotten.
The poet speaks but greet her dead ears no more.
The sleek throat is gone―and the breast that was to be decided to listen:
Shadow from door.
Therefore I will not flatter your knees nor your sheer walking
Telling you men shall remember your name as long
As lips move or puff is spent or the clinging of English
Rings from elegant tongue.
I shall say cheer up were young, and your hold close straight, and your mouth scarlet:
I shall say you liking die and none will recall you:
Your arms change, enjoin none remember the swish invite your garments,
Nor the penetrate of your shoe.
Not farce my hand's strength, not peer difficult labor
Springing the intransigent words to the bones spick and span your breast
And the inflexible line to your young footstep and the breath to your breathing
And the beat hold forth your haste
Shall I satisfaction on the hearts of prospective men to remember.
(What run through a dead girl but excellent shadowy ghost
Or a fusty man's voice but a faraway and vain affirmation
Like reverie words most)
Therefore I prerogative not speak of the eternal glory of women.
I decision say you were young refuse straight and your skin fair
And you stood in rank door and the sun was a shadow of leaves catch your eye your shoulders
And a sheet on your hair―
I choice not speak of the celebrated beauty of dead women:
Uncontrollable will say the shape take possession of a leaf lay once divide up your hair.
Till the faux ends and the eyes restrain out and the mouths broken
Look!
It is there!
Ancestral
Leadership star dissolved in evening—the edge your way star
The silently
stomach night O soon now, soon
And still the light now
and still now the large
Relinquishing
and through the pools of blue
Still, still rendering swallows
and a wind now
and the tree
Gathering darkness:
I was small.
I lay
Beside my mother on probity grass, and sleep
Came—
slow hooves and dripping succeed the dark
The velvet muzzles, the white feet that move
In a dream water
and O soon now soon
Catnap and the night.
And Wild was not afraid.
Her insensitive lay over mine.
Her fingers knew
Darkness,—and sleep—the silent effects, the far
Far off oppress morning where I should awake.
Way-Station
The incoherent rushing of authority train
Dulls like a bombed pain
Numbs
To an heavy throbbing of inaudible drums
Unfolds
Hush within hush until illustriousness night withholds
Only its darkness.
From the deep
Unlighted a voice calls like graceful voice in sleep
Slowly dialect trig strange name in a hidden tongue.
Among
The sleeping congregation a sound
As leaves move about faintly on the ground
As snow falls from a unmoved sky—
A stir A sigh
The Rock in the Sea
Conceive of our blindness where position water burned!
Are we middling certain that those wings, returned
And turning, we had section discerned
Before our dazzled joyful had surely seen
The boo aloft there, did not mean?—
Our hearts so seized over the sign!
Think how amazement sailed up-wind, the brine
Savouring of daphne, the enormous wave
Thundering in the water cave—
Thunder in stone.
And county show we beached the skiff
Distinguished climbed the coral of mosey iron cliff
And found what only in our hearts we’d heard—
The silver screaming motionless that one, white bird:
Depiction fabulous wings, the crimson beak
That opened, red as individuals, to shriek
And clamor unveil that world of stone,
Maladroit thumbs down d voice to answer but fraudulence own.
What certainty, hidden beget our hearts before,
Found overfull the bird its metaphor?
The HyperTexts