The Poetry Exchange

In this episode of our podcast, you will hear Alison talking about the poem that has been a friend to her: ’Restlessness' by D. H. Lawrence.Alison visited The Poetry Exchange at St Chad's College Chapel as part of Durham Book Festival in October 2015. We’re very grateful to Durham Book Festival, New Writing North and St Chad’s College for hosting The Poetry Exchange. Do visit them for further inspiration!Alison is in conversation with The Poetry Exchange team members, Fiona Lesley Bennett and Michael Schaeffer.'Restlessness' is read by Michael Schaeffer.*****Restlessnessby D. H. LawrenceAt the open door of the room I stand and look at the night, Hold my hand to catch the raindrops, that slant into sight, Arriving grey from the darkness above suddenly into the light of the room. I will escape from the hollow room, the box of light, And be out in the bewildering darkness, which is always fecund, which might Mate my hungry soul with a germ of its womb.I will go out to the night, as a man goes down to the shore To draw his net through the surf’s thin line, at the dawn before The sun warms the sea, little, lonely and sad, sifting the sobbing tide. I will sift the surf that edges the night, with my net, the four Strands of my eyes and my lips and my hands and my feet, sifting the store Of flotsam until my soul is tired or satisfied.I will catch in my eyes’ quick net The faces of all the women as they go past, Bend over them with my soul, to cherish the wet Cheeks and wet hair a moment, saying: “Is it you?” Looking earnestly under the dark umbrellas, held fast Against the wind; and if, where the lamplight blew Its rainy swill about us, she answered me With a laugh and a merry wildness that it was she Who was seeking me, and had found me at last to free Me now from the stunting bonds of my chastity, How glad I should be!Moving along in the mysterious ebb of the night Pass the men whose eyes are shut like anemones in a dark pool; Why don’t they open with vision and speak to me, what have they in sight? Why do I wander aimless among them, desirous fool? I can always linger over the huddled books on the stalls, Always gladden my amorous fingers with the touch of their leaves, Always kneel in courtship to the shelves in the doorways, where falls The shadow, always offer myself to one mistress, who always receives.But oh, it is not enough, it is all no good. There is something I want to feel in my running blood, Something I want to touch; I must hold my face to the rain, I must hold my face to the wind, and let it explain Me its life as it hurries in secret. I will trail my hands again through the drenched, cold leaves Till my hands are full of the chillness and touch of leaves, Till at length they induce me to sleep, and to forget.  Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

In this episode of our podcast, you will hear Martin talking about the poem that has been a friend to him: ’The Lake Isle of Innisfree' by W. B. Yeats.Martin visited The Poetry Exchange at The National Poetry Library at Southbank in London. We’re very grateful to The Poetry Library for hosting us. Do visit them for further inspiration!Martin is in conversation with The Poetry Exchange team members, Alastair Snell and Sarah Salway.'The Lake Isle of Innisfree' is read by Alastair Snell.*****The Lake Isle of Innisfreeby W.B. YeatsI will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee;And live alone in the bee-loud glade.And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,And evening full of the linnet’s wings.I will arise and go now, for always night and dayI hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,I hear it in the deep heart’s core. Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

In this episode of our podcast, you will hear Claudia talking about the poem that has been a friend to her: ’The moth' by Miroslav Holub.We are delighted to feature 'The moth' in this episode and would like to thank Bloodaxe Books for granting us permission to use the poem in this way. Do visit them for further inspiration! Claudia visited The Poetry Exchange at Greyfriars Chapel in Canterbury, as part of Wise Words Festival in September 2014. We’re very grateful to Wise Words for hosting The Poetry Exchange. Claudia is in conversation with The Poetry Exchange team members, Fiona Lesley Bennett and Michael Shaeffer.'The moth' is read by Michael Shaeffer.*****The moth by Miroslav HolubThe moth, having left its pupa in the galaxy of flower grains and pots of rancid dripping,the moth discovers in this topical darkness that it’s a kind of butterfly but it can’t believe it,it can’t believe it,it can’t believe that it’s a tiny, flying, relatively free mothand it wants to go back,but there’s no way.Freedom makes the moth tremble for ever. That is,Twenty-two hours.Miroslav Holub, Poems Before & After: Collected English Translations. Trans. Dana Hasova and David Young (Bloodaxe Books, 2006)*****Adaptation by Fiona Lesley Bennett.Czechoslovakia 1976 A man is shuttered away in a laboratoryhe stares down the lens of a microscopeinto the peppercorn eyes of a moth.At night words fall through him like particlesthat cluster and mutate in spiralling patternsNemuze uverit, nemuze uverit, nemuze uverit . Every twenty-two hoursthe moth hangs in its pupawaiting for the blood to falland for the wind and the currents. Columbia 2011 A woman is kept in a jar, the jaris kept in darkness, the darknessis blacker than her eyes. Inside herselfshe dreams she is a girl running barefootwith a net in the garden.creelo, creelo, creelo Somewherebetween thought and dream, betweendecades and hemispheres and speciesthe edge of belief beginslike a wing that trembles  and then lifts.  Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

In this episode of our podcast, you will hear John talking about the poem that has been a friend to him: ’Ars Poetica #100: I Believe' by Elizabeth Alexander.We are delighted to feature 'Ars Poetica 100: I Believe' in this episode and would like to thank Elizabeth Alexander, Faith Childs Literary Agency and Graywolf Press for granting us permission to use the poem in this way. John visited The Poetry Exchange at Greyfriars Chapel in Canterbury, as part of Wise Words Festival in September 2014. We’re very grateful to Wise Words for hosting The Poetry Exchange. Thanks also to Spread The Word for their continued support of the project.John is in conversation with The Poetry Exchange team members, Fiona Lesley Bennett and Michael Shaeffer.'Ars Poetica #100: I Believe' is read by Michael Shaeffer.*****'Ars Poetica #100: I Believe'by Elizabeth AlexanderPoetry, I tell my students,is idiosyncratic. Poetryis where we are ourselves(though Sterling Brown said“Every ‘I’ is a dramatic ‘I’”),digging in the clam flatsfor the shell that snaps,emptying the proverbial pocketbook.Poetry is what you findin the dirt in the corner,overhear on the bus, Godin the details, the only wayto get from here to there.Poetry (and now my voice is rising)is not all love, love, love,and I’m sorry the dog died.Poetry (here I hear myself loudest)is the human voice,and are we not of interest to each other?Ars Poetica #100: I Believe © 2005 by Elizabeth Alexander, first appeared in American Sublime, published by Graywolf Press, St. Paul, MN, and is used with the permission of Elizabeth Alexander. Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

In this episode of our podcast, you will hear Alice talking about the poem that has been a friend to her: ’Compost' by Dan Chelotti.We are delighted to feature 'Compost' in this episode and would like to thank Dan Chelotti, Poetry Foundation and Greying Ghost Press for granting us permission to use the poem. Follow the links to read more of Dan's disarming, beautiful work. Alice visited The Poetry Exchange at Greyfriars Chapel in Canterbury, as part of Wise Words Festival in September 2014. We’re very grateful to Wise Words for hosting The Poetry Exchange.Alice is in conversation with The Poetry Exchange team members, Fiona Lesley Bennett and Michael Shaeffer.'Compost' is read by Michael Shaeffer.*****Compost by Dan ChelottiThere is magic in decay.A dance to be doneFor the rotting, the maggot strewnPiles of flesh which pileUpon the dung-ridden earthAnd the damp that gathersAnd rusts and defiles.There is a bit of thisIn even the most zoetic soul — The dancing child’s armsFlailing to an old ska songConduct the day-old fliesAway to whatever rankNative is closest. Just todayI was walking along the riverWith my daughter in my backpackAnd I opened my emailOn my phone and DuffieHad sent me a poemCalled “Compost.” I read itTo my little girl and startedTo explain before I was threeWords in Selma startedYelling, Daddy, Daddy, snake!In the path was a snake,Belly up and still nerve-twitchingThe ghost of some passingBicycle or horse. Pretty, Selma said.Yes, I said. And underneath my yesAnother yes, the yes to my body,Just beginning to show signsOf slack, and another, my graspingIn the dark for affirming fleshThat in turn says yes, yesLet’s rot together but not untilWe’ve drained what sapIs left in these trees.And I wake in the morningAnd think of the coronerCalling to ask what colorMy father’s eyes were,And I asked, Why? Why can’tYou just look — and the coroner,Matter-of-factly says, Decay.Do you want some eggs, my love?I have a new way of preparing them.And look, look outside, I think this weatherHas the chance of holding.Source: Poetry (June 2014) Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

In this episode of our podcast, you will hear Tricia talking about the poem that has been a friend to her: ’Prayer' by Carol Ann Duffy.We are delighted to feature 'Prayer' in this episode and would like to thank Carol Ann Duffy for granting us permission to use her poem in this way.Tricia visited The Poetry Exchange at The National Poetry Library at Southbank Centre in August 2015. We’re very grateful to The National Poetry Library for hosting The Poetry Exchange. Do visit them for further inspiration!Tricia is in conversation with The Poetry Exchange team members, Fiona Lesley Bennett and Alistair Snell.'Prayer' is read by Fiona Lesley Bennett.*****Prayer by Carol Ann DuffySome days, although we cannot pray, a prayerutters itself. So, a woman will lifther head from the sieve of her hands and stareat the minims sung by a tree, a sudden gift.Some nights, although we are faithless, the truthenters our hearts, that small familiar pain;then a man will stand stock-still, hearing his youthin the distant Latin chanting of a train.Pray for us now. Grade 1 piano scalesconsole the lodger looking out acrossa Midlands town. Then dusk, and someone callsa child's name as though they named their loss.Darkness outside. Inside, the radio's prayer -Rockall. Malin. Dogger. Finisterre.‘Prayer’ from Mean Time by Carol Ann Duffy. Published by Picador, 2013. Copyright © Carol Ann Duffy. Reproduced by permission of the author c/o Rogers, Coleridge & White Ltd., 20 Powis Mews, London W 11 1JN Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

In this episode of our podcast, you will hear Margaret talking about the poem that has been a friend to her: ’Transfiguration' by Edwin Muir.Margaret visited The Poetry Exchange at The Chapel in St Chad's College as part of Durham Book Festival in October 2015. We’re very grateful to Durham Book Festival, New Writing North and St Chad’s College for hosting The Poetry Exchange. *****Transfiguration by Edwin MuirSo from the ground we felt that virtue branch Through all our veins till we were whole, our wrists As fresh and pure as water from a well, Our hands made new to handle holy things, The source of all our seeing rinsed and cleansed Till earth and light and water entering there Gave back to us the clear unfallen world. We would have thrown our clothes away for lightness, But that even they, though sour and travel stained, Seemed, like our flesh, made of immortal substance, And the soiled flax and wool lay light upon us Like friendly wonders, flower and flock entwined As in a morning field. Was it a vision? Or did we see that day the unseeable One glory of the everlasting world Perpetually at work, though never seen Since Eden locked the gate that’s everywhere And nowhere? Was the change in us alone, And the enormous earth still left forlorn, An exile or a prisoner? Yet the world We saw that day made this unreal, for all Was in its place. The painted animals Assembled there in gentle congregations, Or sought apart their leafy oratories, Or walked in peace, the wild and tame together, As if, also for them, the day had come. The shepherds’ hovels shone, for underneath The soot we saw the stone clean at the heart As on the starting-day. The refuse heaps Were grained with that fine dust that made the world; For he had said, ‘To the pure all things are pure.’ And when we went into the town, he with us, The lurkers under doorways, murderers, With rags tied round their feet for silence, came Out of themselves to us and were with us, And those who hide within the labyrinth Of their own loneliness and greatness came, And those entangled in their own devices, The silent and the garrulous liars, all Stepped out of their dungeons and were free. Reality or vision, this we have seen. If it had lasted but another moment It might have held for ever! But the world Rolled back into its place, and we are here, And all that radiant kingdom lies forlorn, As if it had never stirred; no human voice Is heard among its meadows, but it speaks To itself alone, alone it flowers and shines And blossoms for itself while time runs on.But he will come again, it’s said, though not Unwanted and unsummoned; for all things, Beasts of the field, and woods, and rocks, and seas, And all mankind from end to end of the earth Will call him with one voice. In our own time, Some say, or at a time when time is ripe. Then he will come, Christ the uncrucified, Christ the discrucified, his death undone, His agony unmade, his cross dismantled— Glad to be so—and the tormented wood Will cure its hurt and grow into a tree In a green springing corner of young Eden, And Judas damned take his long journey backward From darkness into light and be a child Beside his mother’s knee, and the betrayal Be quite undone and never more be done. Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

In this episode, you will hear Mary Anne talking about the poem that has been a friend to her: ’I Am Like A Rose' by D. H. Lawrence. Mary Anne visited The Poetry Exchange at Greyfriars Chapel in Canterbury as part of Wise Words Festival in September 2015. We’re very grateful to Wise Words Festival and Workers of Art for hosting and supporting The Poetry Exchange. Mary Anne is in conversation with The Poetry Exchange team members Fiona Lesley Bennett and Michael Shaeffer. 'I Am Like A Rose' is read by Fiona Bennet. ***** I Am Like A Roseby D.H. LawrenceI am myself at last; now I achieveMy very self, I, with the wonder mellow,Full of fine warmth, I issue forth in clearAnd single me, perfected from my fellow.Here I am all myself. No rose-bush heavingIts limpid sap to culmination has broughtItself more sheer and naked out of the greenIn stark-clear roses, than I to myself am brought. Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

In this first full episode of our podcast, you will hear Dominic talking about the poem that has been a friend to him: ’The Second Coming’ by W. B. Yeats. Dominic visited The Poetry Exchange at St Chad’s College Chapel, as part of Durham Book Festival in October 2015. We’re very grateful to Durham Book Festival, New Writing North and St Chad’s College for hosting The Poetry Exchange. Do visit them for further inspiration! Dominic is in conversation with The Poetry Exchange team members Fiona Lesley Bennett and Michael Shaeffer. 'The Second Coming' is read by Michael Shaeffer ***** The Second Comingby W.B. YeatsTurning and turning in the widening gyre   The falcon cannot hear the falconer;Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere   The ceremony of innocence is drowned;The best lack all conviction, while the worst   Are full of passionate intensity.Surely some revelation is at hand;Surely the Second Coming is at hand.   The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out   When a vast image out of Spiritus MundiTroubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert   A shape with lion body and the head of a man,   A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,   Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it   Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.   The darkness drops again; but now I know   That twenty centuries of stony sleepWere vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,   And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,   Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?Source: The Collected Poems of W. B. Yeats (1989) Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

Welcome to The Poetry Exchange. We explore the idea of poems as friends. Over the last two years, we've been inviting people to come and talk to us about a poem that has been a friend to them. Our new podcast will share these conversations, illuminating readers' insights into poems and the power of poetry in our everyday lives. In each podcast episode you’ll be able to listen to one person talking about a poem and how it’s been a friend to them. You'll also hear a unique reading of their chosen poem, made especially for them. For now, here's a taster - some extracts of the conversations we've been having with people about poems as friends and the place of poetry in their lives. We hope you enjoy it. Click to subscribe to receive each new podcast episode as soon as it's released. The Poetry Exchange is generously supported by Arts Council England, Workers of Art, New Writing North and Spread the Word. Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.