The Well Read Poem

In this 19th season of the Well Read Poem, the principal theme of the six poems selected is that of Death. We selected these poems to provide a variety of imaginative treatments of what Henry James called "The Distinguished Thing", drawing on the writings of poets of different centuries, cultures and perspectives. We hope they are enjoyable, illuminating, and not so dismal as to discolor anyone's summer. Today's selection is "The Twa Corbies" of anonymous Scottish origin. Readings begin at timestamps 4:25 and 8:45. To learn more about this podcast and host Thomas Banks, visit https://www.theliterary.life/the-well-read-poem/. The Twa Corbies Anonymous, Scottish As I was walking all alane, I heard twa corbies making a mane; The tane unto the t’other say, ‘Where sall we gang and dine the day?’ ‘In behind yon auld fail dyke, I wot there lies a new slain knight; And naebody kens that he lies there, But his hawk, his hound, and his lady fair. ‘His hound is to the hunting gane, His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame, His lady’s ta’en another mate, So we may make our dinner sweet. ‘Ye’ll sit on his white hause-bane, And I’ll pike out his bonny blue een; Wi ae lock o his gowden hair, We’ll theek our nest when it grows bare. ‘Mony an ane for him makes mane, But nane sall ken whare he is gane; Oer his white banes, when they are bare, The wind sall blaw for evermair.’

In this 19th season of the Well Read Poem, the principal theme of the six poems selected is that of Death. We selected these poems to provide a variety of imaginative treatments of what Henry James called "The Distinguished Thing", drawing on the writings of poets of different centuries, cultures and perspectives. We hope they are enjoyable, illuminating, and not so dismal as to discolor anyone's summer. Today's selection is "Ecclesiates 12" from the King James Version of the Bible. Readings begin at timestamps 5:08 and 8:55. To learn more about this podcast and host Thomas Banks, visit https://www.theliterary.life/the-well-read-poem/.

In this 19th season of the Well Read Poem, the principal theme of the six poems selected is that of Death. We selected these poems to provide a variety of imaginative treatments of what Henry James called "The Distinguished Thing", drawing on the writings of poets of different centuries, cultures and perspectives. We hope they are enjoyable, illuminating, and not so dismal as to discolor anyone's summer. Today's selection is "Elegies 11.28" by Propertius (Translated by Constance Carrier). Readings begin at timestamps 4:34 and 6:54. To learn more about this podcast and host Thomas Banks, visit https://www.theliterary.life/the-well-read-poem/.

In this 19th season of the Well Read Poem, the principal theme of the six poems selected is that of Death. We selected these poems to provide a variety of imaginative treatments of what Henry James called "The Distinguished Thing", drawing on the writings of poets of different centuries, cultures and perspectives. We hope they are enjoyable, illuminating, and not so dismal as to discolor anyone's summer. Today's selection is "On a Dead Child" by Robert Bridges. Reading begins at timestamp 4:24. To learn more about this podcast and host Thomas Banks, visit https://www.theliterary.life/the-well-read-poem/. On a Dead Child By Robert Bridges   Perfect little body, without fault or stain on thee, With promise of strength and manhood full and fair! Though cold and stark and bare, The bloom and the charm of life doth awhile remain on thee.   Thy mother’s treasure wert thou;—alas! no longer To visit her heart with wondrous joy; to be Thy father’s pride;—ah, he Must gather his faith together, and his strength make stronger.   To me, as I move thee now in the last duty, Dost thou with a turn or gesture anon respond; Startling my fancy fond With a chance attitude of the head, a freak of beauty.   Thy hand clasps, as ’twas wont, my finger, and holds it: But the grasp is the clasp of Death, heartbreaking and stiff; Yet feels to my hand as if ’Twas still thy will, thy pleasure and trust that enfolds it.   So I lay thee there, thy sunken eyelids closing,— Go lie thou there in thy coffin, thy last little bed!— Propping thy wise, sad head, Thy firm, pale hands across thy chest disposing.   So quiet! doth the change content thee?—Death, whither hath he taken thee? To a world, do I think, that rights the disaster of this? The vision of which I miss, Who weep for the body, and wish but to warm thee and awaken thee?   Ah! little at best can all our hopes avail us To lift this sorrow, or cheer us, when in the dark, Unwilling, alone we embark, And the things we have seen and have known and have heard of, fail us.

In this 19th season of the Well Read Poem, the principal theme of the six poems selected will be that of Death. We selected these poems to provide a variety of imaginative treatments of what Henry James called "The Distinguished Thing", drawing on the writings of poets of different centuries, cultures and perspectives. We hope they are enjoyable, illuminating, and not so dismal as to discolor anyone's summer. Today's selection is "Epitaph on the Countess of Pembroke" by William Browne. Readings begin at timestamps 9:35 and  12:15. To learn more about this podcast and host Thomas Banks, visit https://www.theliterary.life/the-well-read-poem/.

Welcome back to Season 18 of the Well Read Poem. During this season, we are offering our listeners six poems about family life. The poems selected for this season are quite various in style and manner, and have been chosen for the light they shed on relationships between parents and children, between husbands and wives, brothers and sisters. We hope that these readings will, in their small way, add a measure of comfort and happiness to the lives of our audience during these winter months. Today's poem is "A Prayer for My Daughter" by William Butler Yeats. Poem reading begins at timestamp 5:25. To learn more about this podcast and host Thomas Banks, visit https://www.theliterary.life/the-well-read-poem/. A Prayer for My Daughter by William Butler Yeats Once more the storm is howling, and half hid    Under this cradle-hood and coverlid    My child sleeps on. There is no obstacle    But Gregory's Wood and one bare hill    Whereby the haystack and roof-levelling wind,    Bred on the Atlantic, can be stayed;    And for an hour I have walked and prayed    Because of the great gloom that is in my mind.   I have walked and prayed for this young child an hour, And heard the sea-wind scream upon the tower, And under the arches of the bridge, and scream In the elms above the flooded stream; Imagining in excited reverie That the future years had come    Dancing to a frenzied drum    Out of the murderous innocence of the sea.   May she be granted beauty, and yet not    Beauty to make a stranger's eye distraught,    Or hers before a looking-glass; for such,    Being made beautiful overmuch,    Consider beauty a sufficient end,    Lose natural kindness, and maybe    The heart-revealing intimacy    That chooses right, and never find a friend.   Helen, being chosen, found life flat and dull,    And later had much trouble from a fool;    While that great Queen that rose out of the spray,    Being fatherless, could have her way,    Yet chose a bandy-leggèd smith for man.    It's certain that fine women eat    A crazy salad with their meat    Whereby the Horn of Plenty is undone.   In courtesy I'd have her chiefly learned;    Hearts are not had as a gift, but hearts are earned    By those that are not entirely beautiful.    Yet many, that have played the fool For beauty's very self, has charm made wise;    And many a poor man that has roved,    Loved and thought himself beloved,    From a glad kindness cannot take his eyes.   May she become a flourishing hidden tree,    That all her thoughts may like the linnet be,    And have no business but dispensing round    Their magnanimities of sound;    Nor but in merriment begin a chase,    Nor but in merriment a quarrel.    Oh, may she live like some green laurel    Rooted in one dear perpetual place.   My mind, because the minds that I have loved,    The sort of beauty that I have approved,    Prosper but little, has dried up of late,    Yet knows that to be choked with hate    May well be of all evil chances chief.    If there's no hatred in a mind    Assault and battery of the wind    Can never tear the linnet from the leaf.   An intellectual hatred is the worst,    So let her think opinions are accursed.    Have I not seen the loveliest woman born Out of the mouth of Plenty's horn,    Because of her opinionated mind    Barter that horn and every good    By quiet natures understood    For an old bellows full of angry wind?   Considering that, all hatred driven hence,    The soul recovers radical innocence    And learns at last that it is self-delighting, Self-appeasing, self-affrighting,    And that its own sweet will is heaven's will,    She can, though every face should scowl    And every windy quarter howl    Or every bellows burst, be happy still.   And may her bridegroom bring her to a house    Where all's accustomed, ceremonious;    For arrogance and hatred are the wares    Peddled in the thoroughfares.    How but in custom and in ceremony    Are innocence and beauty born?    Ceremony's a name for the rich horn,    And custom for the spreading laurel tree.

Welcome back to Season 18 of the Well Read Poem. During this season, we are offering our listeners six poems about family life. The poems selected for this season are quite various in style and manner, and have been chosen for the light they shed on relationships between parents and children, between husbands and wives, brothers and sisters. We hope that these readings will, in their small way, add a measure of comfort and happiness to the lives of our audience during these winter months. Today's poem is "To My Brothers" by John Keats. Poem reading begins at timestamp 7:36. To My Brothers by John Keats Small, busy flames play through the fresh laid coals,     And their faint cracklings o'er our silence creep     Like whispers of the household gods that keep A gentle empire o'er fraternal souls. And while, for rhymes, I search around the poles,     Your eyes are fix d, as in poetic sleep,     Upon the lore so voluble and deep, That aye at fall of night our care condoles. This is your birth-day Tom, and I rejoice     That thus it passes smoothly, quietly. Many such eves of gently whisp'ring noise     May we together pass, and calmly try What are this world s true joys, ere the great voice,     From its fair face, shall bid our spirits fly.

Welcome back to Season 18 of the Well Read Poem. During this season, we are offering our listeners six poems about family life. The poems selected for this season are quite various in style and manner, and have been chosen for the light they shed on relationships between parents and children, between husbands and wives, brothers and sisters. We hope that these readings will, in their small way, add a measure of comfort and happiness to the lives of our audience during these winter months. Today's poem is "Satire 6, Book 1" by Horace translated by John Conington. Poem reading begins at timestamp 5:13. Satire 6, from Book 1  Non quia, Mæcenas. by Horace, trans. John Conington THAT if, Mæcenas, none, though ne'er so blue His Tusco-Lydian blood, surpasses you? What if your grandfathers, on either hand, Father's and mother's, were in high command? Not therefore do you curl the lip of scorn At nobodies, like me, of freedman born: Far other rule is yours, of rank or birth To raise no question, so there be but worth, Convinced, and truly too, that wights unknown, Ere Servius' rise set freedmen on the throne, Despite their ancestors, not seldom came To high employment, honours, and fair fame, While great Lævinus, scion of the race That pulled down Tarquin from his pride of place, Has ne'er been valued at a poor half-crown E'en in the eyes of that wise judge, the town, That muddy source of dignity, which sees No virtue but in busts and lineal trees. Well, but for us; what thoughts should ours be, say, Removed from vulgar judgments miles away? Grant that Lævinus yet would be preferred To low-born Decius by the common herd, That censor Appius, just because I came From freedman's loins, would obelize my name— And serve me right; for 'twas my restless pride Kept me from sleeping in my own poor hide. But Glory, like a conqueror, drags behind Her glittering car the souls of all mankind; Nor less the lowly than the noble feels The onward roll of those victorious wheels. Come, tell me, Tillius, have you cause to thank The stars that gave you power, restored you rank? Ill-will, scarce audible in low estate, Gives tongue, and opens loudly, now you're great. Poor fools! they take the stripe, draw on the shoe, And hear folks asking, "Who's that fellow? who?" Just as a man with Barrus's disease, His one sole care a lady's eye to please, Whene'er he walks abroad, sets on the fair To con him over, leg, face, teeth, and hair; So he that undertakes to hold in charge Town, country, temples, all the realm at large, Gives all the world a title to enquire The antecedents of his dam or sire. "What? you to twist men's necks or scourge them, you, The son of Syrus, Dama, none knows who?" "Aye, but I sit before my colleague; he Ranks with my worthy father, not with me." And think you, on the strength of this, to rise A Paullus or Messala in our eyes? Talk of your colleague! he's a man of parts: Suppose three funerals jostle with ten carts All in the forum, still you'll hear his voice Through horn and clarion: that commends our choice. Now on myself, the freedman's son, I touch, The freedman's son, by all contemned as such, Once, when a legion followed my command, Now, when Maecenas takes me by the hand. But this and that are different: some stern judge My military rank with cause might grudge, But not your friendship, studious as you've been To choose good men, not pushing, base, or mean. In truth, to luck I care not to pretend, For 'twas not luck that mark'd me for your friend: Virgil at first, that faithful heart and true, And Varius after, named my name to you. Brought to your presence, stammeringly I told (For modesty forbade me to be bold) No vaunting tale of ancestry of pride, Of good broad acres and sleek nags to ride, But simple truth: a few brief words you say, As is your wont, and wish me a good day. Then, nine months after, graciously you send, Desire my company, and hail me friend. O, 'tis no common fortune, when one earns A friend's regard, who man from man discerns, Not by mere accident of lofty birth But by unsullied life, and inborn worth! Yet, if my nature, otherwise correct, But with some few and trifling faults is flecked, Just as a spot or mole might be to blame Upon some body else of comely frame, If none can call me miserly and mean Or tax my life with practices unclean, If I have lived unstained and unreproved (Forgive self-praise), if loving and beloved, I owe it to my father, who, though poor, Passed by the village school at his own door, The school where great tall urchins in a row, Sons of great tall centurions, used to go, With slate and satchel on their backs, to pay Their monthly quota punctual to the day, And took his boy to Rome, to learn the arts Which knight or senator to HIS imparts. Whoe'er had seen me, neat and more than neat, With slaves behind me, in the crowded street, Had surely thought a fortune fair and large, Two generations old, sustained the charge. Himself the true tried guardian of his son, Whene'er I went to class, he still made one. Why lengthen out the tale? he kept me chaste, Which is the crown of virtue, undisgraced In deed and name: he feared not lest one day The world should talk of money thrown away, If after all I plied some trade for hire, Like him, a tax-collector, or a crier: Nor had I murmured: as it is, the score Of gratitude and praise is all the more. No: while my head's unturned, I ne'er shall need To blush for that dear father, or to plead As men oft plead, 'tis Nature's fault, not mine, I came not of a better, worthier line. Not thus I speak, not thus I feel: the plea Might serve another, but 'twere base in me. Should Fate this moment bid me to go back O'er all my length of years, my life retrack To its first hour, and pick out such descent As man might wish for e'en to pride's content, I should rest satisfied with mine, nor choose New parents, decked with senatorial shoes, Mad, most would think me, sane, as you'll allow, To waive a load ne'er thrust on me till now. More gear 'twould make me get without delay, More bows there'd be to make, more calls to pay, A friend or two must still be at my side, That all alone I might not drive or ride, More nags would want their corn, more grooms their meat, And waggons must be bought, to save their feet. Now on my bobtailed mule I jog at ease, As far as e'en Tarentum, if I please, A wallet for my things behind me tied, Which galls his crupper, as I gall his side, And no one rates my meanness, as they rate Yours, noble Tillius, when you ride in state On the Tiburtine road, five slaves en suite, Wineholder and et-ceteras all complete. 'Tis thus my life is happier, man of pride, Than yours and that of half the world beside. When the whim leads, I saunter forth alone, Ask how are herbs, and what is flour a stone, Lounge through the Circus with its crowd of liars, Or in the Forum, when the sun retires, Talk to a soothsayer, then go home to seek My frugal meal of fritter, vetch, and leek: Three youngsters serve the food: a slab of white Contains two cups, one ladle, clean and bright: Next, a cheap basin ranges on the shelf, With jug and saucer of Campanian delf: Then off to bed, where I can close my eyes Not thinking how with morning I must rise And face grim Marsyas, who is known to swear Young Novius' looks are what he cannot bear. I lie a-bed till ten: then stroll a bit, Or read or write, if in a silent fit, And rub myself with oil, not taken whence Natta takes his, at some poor lamp's expense. So to the field and ball; but when the sun Bids me go bathe, the field and ball I shun: Then eat a temperate luncheon, just to stay A sinking stomach till the close of day, Kill time in-doors, and so forth. Here you see A careless life, from stir and striving free, Happier (O be that flattering unction mine!) Than if three quæstors figured in my line.

Dive into the heartfelt sentiments of Robert Louis Stevenson as the discussion unpacks 'To My Mother.' Discover how simplicity can hold profound emotional depth, revealing the complexities of childhood and familial love. The exploration also touches on Stevenson's own upbringing, particularly the influence of his nurse, which shaped his poetic voice. This poignant reflection offers a cozy reminder of the bonds that unite us, making it a perfect listen for the winter months.

Welcome back to Season 18 of the Well Read Poem. During this season, we are offering our listeners six poems about family life. The poems selected for this season are quite various in style and manner, and have been chosen for the light they shed on relationships between parents and children, between husbands and wives, brothers and sisters. We hope that these readings will, in their small way, add a measure of comfort and happiness to the lives of our audience during these winter months. Today's poem is "Forefathers" by Edmund Blunden. Poem reading begins at timestamp . Forefathers by Edmund Blunden Here they went with smock and crook, Toiled in the sun, lolled in the shade, Here they mudded out the brook And here their hatchet cleared the glade: Harvest-supper woke their wit, Huntsmen's moon their wooings lit. From this church they led their brides, From this church themselves were led Shoulder-high; on these waysides Sat to take their beer and bread. Names are gone - what men they were These their cottages declare. Names are vanished, save the few In the old brown Bible scrawled; These were men of pith and thew, Whom the city never called; Scarce could read or hold a quill, Built the barn, the forge, the mill. On the green they watched their sons Playing till too dark to see, As their fathers watched them once, As my father once watched me; While the bat and beetle flew On the warm air webbed with dew. Unrecorded, unrenowned, Men from whom my ways begin, Here I know you by your ground But I know you not within - There is silence, there survives Not a moment of your lives. Like the bee that now is blown Honey-heavy on my hand, From his toppling tansy-throne In the green tempestuous land - I'm in clover now, nor know Who made honey long ago.