The Suicide
And this, ladies and gentlemen, whom I am not in fact
Conducting, was his office all those minutes ago,
This man you never heard of. These are the bills
In the intray, the ash in the ashtray, the grey memoranda stacked
Against him, the serried ranks of the box-files, the packed
Jury of his unanswered correspondence
Nodding under the paperweight in the breeze
From the window by which he left; and here is the cracked
Receiver that never got mended and here is the jotter
With his last doodle which might be his own digestive tract
Ulcer and all or might be the flowery maze
Through which he had wandered deliciously till he stumbled
Suddenly finally conscious of all he lacked
On a manhole under the hollyhocks. The pencil
Point had obviously broken, yet, when he left this room
By catdrop sleight-of-foot or simple vanishing act,
To those who knew him for all that mess in the street
This man with the shy smile has left behind
Something that was intact.
Commentary
Louis MacNeice was born in Northern Ireland in 1907 and died in 1964. He took a first in Greats at Oxford and later taught classics at the University of Birmingham. Though his work is spoken of in the same breath as Auden’s the main worry about his poetry is its occasional lack of depth and penetration, although in his best work there is a piercing sweetness and melancholy.
This touching poem about a colleague who killed himself is a moving record of MacNeice’s response to years of office life. The image of ‘a manhole under the hollihocks’ is an effective one for the sudden sense of a yawning void at one’s feet which extreme depression can sometimes produce. The last two lines might serve as an epitaph on MacNeice himself.
— Smitha
We’ve run one MacNeice poem before, Bagpipe Music: poem #18
For a brief biography and a number of poems see
http://members.aol.com/carrickman/macneice.htm
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From the Wondering Minstrels mailing list, 1999–2008.
Suresh Ramasubramanian · 20 August 2000
Hi all …
Is this a ‘death week’ by any chance? The next poem Thomas posts is about a young sailor drowning …
Lovely poem btw ;) I was reminded of another suicide poem - ‘Richard Cory’ by Edward Arlington Robinson (from ‘The Children of the night’)
Great when played on a guitar ….
-suresh
[now settled into my new job]
Richard Cory
By Edwin Arlington Robinson
Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.
And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
“Good-morning,” and he glittered when he walked.
And he was rich - yes, richer than a king -
And admirably schooled in every grace;
In fine we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.
So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread; And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.
- Edwin Arlington Robinson -
“ The Children Of The Night “
Jeangaczol · 21 February 2003
I have been trying to find this song for years, now that I have found it I like it, My dear mother who is long gone, inspired my love for old songs many years ago. I just remembered the music in my head (I don’t read or write music) & the first two lines of the lyric. Thank you. JEAN G.
Linksview · 10 August 2007
Hi Smitha,
I am wondering if you have any other details on the suicide poem, I am working on a collection of paintings refecting MacNeices poetry.The first thing I thought of it was the WallStreet crash, but you mention a colleague’s suicide,so perhaps it took place in London and was unrelated to the depression.I will appreciate any insight you may have, I am trying to place the view beyond the open window ….. thanks much, Patricia- Northern Ireland