Joseph Macleod

Joseph Todd Gordon Macleod (1903–1984) was a British poet, actor, playwright, theatre director, theatre historian and BBC newsreader. He also published poetry under the pseudonym Adam Drinan.

Biography Macleod was the son of Scottish parents, and was educated at Rugby School and Balliol College, Oxford. He passed his bar examinations, though never practised as a barrister, preferring a career as an actor, and also had aspirations as a poet. At Rugby he was a close friend of Adrian Stokes, and at Oxford he became a close friend of Graham Greene.

From 1927, he was an actor and producer at the experimental Cambridge Festival Theatre. In 1933 he became the theatre's director and lessee. Five of his own plays were staged there, including Overture to Cambridge (1933) and A Woman Turned to Stone (1934). Under Macleod, the theatre became famous throughout Europe for its avant-garde productions, and staging of lesser known works by great playwrights. Macleod staged some of Ezra Pound's Noh plays, and also some Ibsen and Chekhov (his company, The Cambridge Festival Players, was one of the first in the UK to stage Chekhov's play The Seagull). The theatre was forced to close due to financial difficulties in June 1935, and has remained so ever since. He was intermittently involved in theatre production after this, and in 1952 won the Arts Council Silver Medal for his play Leap in September.

The Ecliptic, Macleod's first book of poetry – a complex book divided into the signs of the zodiac – was published in 1930. It was approved for publication by T. S. Eliot at Faber and Faber after a strong recommendation from Ezra Pound, who thought highly of Macleod's abilities as a poet. A long-running correspondence was thus begun between the two poets. Macleod's first book was published alongside W. H. Auden's first book, Poems, and the Poetry (Chicago) editor Morton Dauwen Zabel hailed these two poets as "a Dawn in Britain" in his editorial. However, Macleod's next book, Foray of Centaurs, was considered "too Greek" for publication by Faber and Faber, and although this gained publication in Paris and Chicago, it was never to be published in the UK during his lifetime. Adrian Stokes received and dealt with Macleod's 'Drinan' correspondence.

Macleod moved to Florence in 1955, where he lived until his death in 1984. His work was re-discovered in the late 1990s, and Cyclic Serial Zeniths from the Flux: Selected Poems of Joseph Macleod, edited and with an introduction by Andrew Duncan, was published by Waterloo Press in 2008.

Poems From 'Cancer, or, The Crab', a section of The Ecliptic (London: Faber and Faber, 1930)

Moonpoison, mullock of sacrifice, Suffuses the veins of the eyes Till the retina, mooncoloured, Sees the sideways motion of the cretin crab Hued thus like a tortoise askew in the glaucous moonscape A flat hot boulder it Lividly in the midst of the Doldrums Sidles The lunatic unable to bear the silent course of constellations Mad and stark naked Sidles The obol on an eyeball of a man dead from elephantiasis Sidles All three across heaven with a rocking motion. The Doldrums: ‘region of calms and light baffling winds near Equator.’ But the calms are rare The winds baffling but not light And the drunken boats belonging to the Crab Club Rock hot and naked to the dunning of the moon All in the pallescent Saragosso weed And windbound, seeking distraction by the light of deliverance For What are we but the excrement of the non-existent noon? (Truth like starlight crookedly) What are we all but ‘burial grounds abhorred by the moon’? And did the Maoris die of measles? So do we. But there is no snow here, nor lilies. The night is glutinous In a broad hearth crisscross thorn clumps Smoulder: distant fireback of copse Throws back silence: glassen ashes gleam in pond The constellations which have stopped working (?) Shimmer. No dead leaf jumps. On edge of a glowworm Hangs out its state-recognized torchlamp Blocks of flowers gape dumb as windows with blinds drawn And in the centre the rugate trees Though seeming as if they go up in smoke Are held like cardboard where they are. Bluehot it is queer fuel to make the moon move. [...] We trap our goldfinch trapping our souls therewinged Sacrifice our mad gods to the madder gods: We hymn the two sons of Leda and Zeus Aegis-bearer We don’t. We drink and drivel. My poor Catullus, do stop being such a Fool. Admit that lost which as you watch is gone. O, once the days shone very bright for you, when where that girl you loved so (as no other will be) called, you came and came. And then there were odd things done and many which you wanted and she didn’t not want. Yes indeed the days shone very bright for you. But now she doesn’t want it. Don’t you either, booby. Don’t keep chasing her. Don’t live in misery, carry on, be firm, be hardened. Goodbye girl: Catullus is quite hardened, doesn’t want you, doesn’t ask, if you’re not keen – though sorry you’ll be to be not asked. Yes, poor sinner . . . what is left in life for you? Who’ll now go with you? Who’ll be attracted? Whom’ll you love now? Whom may you belong to? Whom’ll you now kiss? Whose lips’ll you nibble? - Now you, Catullus, you’ve decided to be hardened. How can I be hardened when the whole world is fluid? O Aphrodite Pandemos, your badgers rolling in the moonlit corn Corn blue-bloom-covered carpeting the wind Wind humming like distant rooks Distant rooks busy like factory whirring metal Whirring metallic starlings bizarre like cogwheels missing teeth These last grinning like the backs of old motor cars Old motor cars smelling of tragomaschality Tragomaschality denoting the triumph of self over civilisation Civilization being relative our to Greek Greek to Persian Persian to Chinese Chinese politely making borborygms to show satisfaction Satisfaction a matter of capacity Capacity not significance: otherwise with an epigram Epigrams – poems with a strabismus Strabismus being as common spiritually as optically the moon The moon tramping regular steps like a policeman past the houses of the Zodiac And the Zodiac itself, whirling and flaming sideways Circling from no point returning to no point Endlessly skidding as long as man skids, though never moving, Wavers, topples, dissolves like a sandcastle into acidity. Is there nothing more soluble, more gaseous, more imperceptible? Nothing.

Riddle-me-ree from An Old Olive Tree (Edinburgh: M. MacDonald, 1971)

I was afraid and they gave me guts. I was alone and they made me love. Round that wild heat they built a furnace and in the torment smelted me. Out of my fragments came design: I was assembled. I moved, I worked, I grew receptive. Thanks to them I have fashioned me. Who am I?