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I never felt so much Since I have felt at all The tingling smell and touch Of dogrose and sweet briar, Nettles against the wall, All sours and sweets that grow Together or apart… —“A Birthday”, by poet, novelist & translator Edwin Muir (1887–1959), born #OTD, 15 May #poem #poetry 1/10

“Edwin Muir (1887–1959) is a mysteriously neglected, gorgeous, & emotionally penetrating poet. Of all the many pieces of writing spurred by the Cold War & the threat of nuclear apocalypse… his poem ‘The Horses’ may be the most effective” — @rpinsky.bsky.social #poetry 2/10 slate.com/culture/1999...

Barely a twelvemonth after The seven days war that put the world to sleep, Late in the evening the strange horses came. By then we had made our covenant with silence, But in the first few days it was so still We listened to our breathing and were afraid… —Edwin Muir, “The Horses” #poem #poetry 3/10

The houses stir and pluck their roofs and walls Apart as if in play and fling their stones Against the sky to make a common arc And fall again. The conflagrations raise Their mountainous precipices… —Edwin Muir, “The River” #poem #poetry 5/10

“What is remarkable is that Muir did not become a social realist, like WH Auden, Cecil Day-Lewis, Stephen Spender, & other related British poets… who didn’t know anything close to what Muir knew about urban poverty” @andrewfrisardi.bsky.social on Edwin Muir 6/10 www.sacredweb.com/volume-51/th...

Old gods and goddesses who have lived so long Through time and never found eternity, Fettered by wasting wood and hollowing hill, You should have fled our ever-dying song… —Edwin Muir, “To the Old Gods” #poem #poetry 7/10