Welcome back to Season 16 of The Well Read Poem podcast! Since summer is upon us, we thought it right to present six poems written on one subject or another in some way inspired by the present season. These works are of a diversity of hands, times, and moods, and we hope that they will add something pleasant to your reading life as the days and nights grow warmer. Today's poem is "On the Move" by Thom Gunn. Poem reading begins at timestamp 4:01. To learn more about Thomas Banks, visit HouseofHumaneLetters.com, and to listen to our flagship podcast, head to TheLiterary.Life. You can also find free downloadable, printable files with all the poems read on the podcast on our Well Read Poem webpage. On the Move by Thom Gunn The blue jay scuffling in the bushes follows Some hidden purpose, and the gust of birds That spurts across the field, the wheeling swallows, Has nested in the trees and undergrowth. Seeking their instinct, or their poise, or both, One moves with an uncertain violence Under the dust thrown by a baffled sense Or the dull thunder of approximate words.   On motorcycles, up the road, they come: Small, black, as flies hanging in heat, the Boys, Until the distance throws them forth, their hum Bulges to thunder held by calf and thigh. In goggles, donned impersonality, In gleaming jackets trophied with the dust, They strap in doubt – by hiding it, robust – And almost hear a meaning in their noise.   Exact conclusion of their hardiness Has no shape yet, but from known whereabouts They ride, direction where the tyres press. They scare a flight of birds across the field: Much that is natural, to the will must yield. Men manufacture both machine and soul, And use what they imperfectly control To dare a future from the taken routes.   It is a part solution, after all. One is not necessarily discord On earth; or damned because, half animal, One lacks direct instinct, because one wakes Afloat on movement that divides and breaks. One joins the movement in a valueless world, Choosing it, till, both hurler and the hurled, One moves as well, always toward, toward.   A minute holds them, who have come to go: The self-defined, astride the created will They burst away; the towns they travel through Are home for neither bird nor holiness, For birds and saints complete their purposes. At worst, one is in motion; and at best, Reaching no absolute, in which to rest, One is always nearer by not keeping still.   From Collected Poems. Copyright © 1994 by Thom Gunn. Reprinted for educational purposed only.

Welcome back to Season 16 of The Well Read Poem podcast! Since summer is upon us, we thought it right to present six poems written on one subject or another in some way inspired by the present season. These works are of a diversity of hands, times, and moods, and we hope that they will add something pleasant to your reading life as the days and nights grow warmer. Today's poem is "Adlestrop" by Edward Thomas. Poem readings begin at timestamps 3:07 and 6:08. To learn more about Thomas Banks, visit HouseofHumaneLetters.com, and to listen to our flagship podcast, head to TheLiterary.Life. You can also find free downloadable, printable files with all the poems read on the podcast on our Well Read Poem webpage. Adlestrop by Edward Thomas Yes. I remember Adlestrop— The name, because one afternoon Of heat the express-train drew up there Unwontedly. It was late June.   The steam hissed. Someone cleared his throat. No one left and no one came On the bare platform. What I saw Was Adlestrop—only the name   And willows, willow-herb, and grass, And meadowsweet, and haycocks dry, No whit less still and lonely fair Than the high cloudlets in the sky.   And for that minute a blackbird sang Close by, and round him, mistier, Farther and farther, all the birds Of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire.

Poet Donald Davie explores themes of death, art, and poetry in 'July, 1964'. The podcast delves into the significance of creative expression, the impact of mortality on artistic work, and the timeless value of poetry in human society.

Welcome back to Season 16 of The Well Read Poem podcast! Since summer is upon us, we thought it right to present six poems written on one subject or another in some way inspired by the present season. These works are of a diversity of hands, times, and moods, and we hope that they will add something pleasant to your reading life as the days and nights grow warmer. Today's poem is "The Lonely Hunter" by William Sharp (pseudonym Fiona McLeod). Poem reading begins at timestamp 5:21. To learn more about Thomas Banks, visit HouseofHumaneLetters.com, and to listen to our flagship podcast, head to TheLiterary.Life. You can also find free downloadable, printable files with all the poems read on the podcast on our Well Read Poem webpage. The Lonely Hunter by William Sharp Green branches, green branches, I see you         beckon; I follow! Sweet is the place you guard, there in the         rowan-tree hollow. There he lies in the darkness, under the frail         white flowers, Heedless at last, in the silence, of these sweet         midsummer hours. But sweeter, it may be, the moss whereon he         is sleeping now, And sweeter the fragrant flowers that may         crown his moon-white brow: And sweeter the shady place deep in an Eden         hollow Wherein he dreams I am with him---and,         dreaming, whispers, "Follow!" Green wind from the green-gold branches,         what is the song you bring? What are all songs for me, now, who no more         care to sing? Deep in the heart of Summer, sweet is life to         me still, But my heart is a lonely hunter that hunts on         a lonely hill. Green is that hill and lonely, set far in a         shadowy place; White is the hunter's quarry, a lost-loved hu-         man face: O hunting heart, shall you find it, with arrow         of failing breath, Led o'er a green hill lonely by the shadowy         hound of Death? Green branches, green branches, you sing of         a sorrow olden, But now it is midsummer weather, earth-         young, sunripe, golden: Here I stand and I wait, here in the rowan-         tree hollow, But never a green leaf whispers, "Follow, oh,         Follow, Follow!" O never a green leaf whispers, where the         green-gold branches swing: O never a song I hear now, where one was         wont to sing Here in the heart of Summer, sweet is life to         me still, But my heart is a lonely hunter that hunts on         a lonely hill.

Join The Well Read Poem as they explore Robert Louis Stevenson's 'Summer Sun', a poem celebrating the warmth of the sun in various settings. The analysis highlights Stevenson's overlooked poetry, focusing on the structure, language, and tone of 'Summer Sun'.

For this fifteenth season of the Well Read Poem, we are reading six poems in translation, written by a variety of ancient and modern poets. We hope that our discussion of these poems will be both interesting and instructive to anyone with an interest in literary translation as an art, and that it will serve to introduce you to a few poets whose acquaintance you have yet to make.   Today's poem is “Happy the Man, Who Like Ulysses” by Joachim du Bellay translated by Richard Wilbur. Poem begins at timestamps 6:11 (in French) and 7:19 (in English). Heureux qui, comme Ulysse Joachim du Bellay Heureux qui, comme Ulysse, a fait un beau voyage, Ou comme cestuy-là qui conquit la toison, Et puis est retourné, plein d’usage et raison, Vivre entre ses parents le reste de son âge ! Quand reverrai-je, hélas, de mon petit village Fumer la cheminée, et en quelle saison Reverrai-je le clos de ma pauvre maison, Qui m’est une province, et beaucoup davantage ? Plus me plaît le séjour qu’ont bâti mes aïeux, Que des palais Romains le front audacieux, Plus que le marbre dur me plaît l’ardoise fine : Plus mon Loir gaulois, que le Tibre latin, Plus mon petit Liré, que le mont Palatin, Et plus que l’air marin la doulceur angevine. Happy the Man, Who, Like Ulysses trans. Richard Wilbur Happy the man who, journeying far and wide As Jason or Ulysses did, can then Turn homeward, seasoned in the ways of men, And claim his own, and there in peace abide!    When shall I see the chimney-smoke divide The sky above my little town: ah, when Stroll the small gardens of that house again Which is my realm and crown, and more beside?    Better I love the plain, secluded home My fathers built, than bold façades of Rome; Slate pleases me as marble cannot do;    Better than Tiber's flood my quiet Loire, Those little hills than these, and dearer far Than great sea winds the zephyrs of Anjou.

For this fifteenth season of the Well Read Poem, we are reading six poems in translation, written by a variety of ancient and modern poets. We hope that our discussion of these poems will be both interesting and instructive to anyone with an interest in literary translation as an art, and that it will serve to introduce you to a few poets whose acquaintance you have yet to make.   Today's poem is “Ask Not (Odes I.11)” by Horace, translated by John Conington. Poem begins at timestamps 8:40 (in Latin) and 9:28 (in English). Odes I.11 by Horace, trans. by John Conington Tu ne quaesieris (scire nefas) quem mihi, quem tibi finem di dederint, Leuconoe, nec Babylonios temptaris numeros. Ut melius quicquid erit pati! Seu pluris hiemes seu tribuit Iuppiter ultimam, quae nunc oppositis debilitat pumicibus mare Tyrrhenum, sapias, vina liques et spatio brevi spem longam reseces. Dum loquimur, fugerit invida aetas: carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero. Ask Not Ask not (’tis forbidden knowledge), what our destined term of years,  Mine and yours; nor scan the tables of your Babylonish seers. Better far to bear the future; my Leuconoe, like the past, Whether, Jove has many winters yet to give, or this our last; This, that makes the Tyrrhene billows spend their strength against the shore. Strain your wine and prove your wisdom; life is short; should hope be more? In the moment of our talking, envious time has ebb’d away. Seize the present; trust to-morrow e’en as little as you may.

For this fifteenth season of the Well Read Poem, we are reading six poems in translation, written by a variety of ancient and modern poets. We hope that our discussion of these poems will be both interesting and instructive to anyone with an interest in literary translation as an art, and that it will serve to introduce you to a few poets whose acquaintance you have yet to make.   Today's poem is “I Do Not Like Thee, Doctor Fell” by Martial, translated by Tom Brown. Poem begins at timestamp 7:25. Non amo te, Sabidi by Martial, trans. Tom Brown Non amo te, Sabidi, nec possum dicere – quare; Hoc tantum possum dicere, non amo te. I Do Not Like Thee, Doctor Fell I do not like thee, Doctor Fell, The reason why I cannot tell; But this I know, and know full well, I do not like thee, Dr Fell.

For this fifteenth season of the Well Read Poem, we are reading six poems in translation, written by a variety of ancient and modern poets. We hope that our discussion of these poems will be both interesting and instructive to anyone with an interest in literary translation as an art, and that it will serve to introduce you to a few poets whose acquaintance you have yet to make.   Today's poem is “The Cat” by Charles Baudelaire translated by Roy Campbell. Poem begins at timestamps 2:46 (in French) and 4:49 (in English). Le Chat by Charles Baudelaire, trans. Roy Campbell Viens, mon beau chat, sur mon coeur amoureux; Retiens les griffes de ta patte, Et laisse-moi plonger dans tes beaux yeux, Mêlés de métal et d'agate. Lorsque mes doigts caressent à loisir Ta tête et ton dos élastique, Et que ma main s'enivre du plaisir De palper ton corps électrique, Je vois ma femme en esprit. Son regard, Comme le tien, aimable bête Profond et froid, coupe et fend comme un dard, Et, des pieds jusques à la tête, Un air subtil, un dangereux parfum Nagent autour de son corps brun. The Cat  Come, my fine cat, against my loving heart; Sheathe your sharp claws, and settle. And let my eyes into your pupils dart Where agate sparks with metal. Now while my fingertips caress at leisure Your head and wiry curves, And that my hand's elated with the pleasure Of your electric nerves, I think about my woman — how her glances Like yours, dear beast, deep-down And cold, can cut and wound one as with lances; Then, too, she has that vagrant And subtle air of danger that makes fragrant Her body, lithe and brown.

For this fifteenth season of the Well Read Poem, we are reading six poems in translation, written by a variety of ancient and modern poets. We hope that our discussion of these poems will be both interesting and instructive to anyone with an interest in literary translation as an art, and that it will serve to introduce you to a few poets whose acquaintance you have yet to make.   Today's poem is “Marsyas” by Jose-Maria de Heredia translated by Thomas Banks. Poem begins at timestamps 3:21 (in French) and 4:50 (in English). Marsyas by Jose-Maria de Heredia, trans. by Thomas Banks Your voice once charmed these trees whose burning wood Has scorched your skin and bone, and the red stain Of your spilled life flows slowly to the plain In mountain brooks dyed crimson with your blood. Jealous Apollo full of heavenly prideWith iron rod shattered your reeds that long Made lions peaceful and taught birds their song: With Phrygia’s singer Phrygian song has died. Nothing remains of you except the dry Remnant of flesh Apollo in his hate Left on a yew-branch hanging; No pained cry Or tender gift of song opposed your fate. Your flute is heard no more; hung on the trees Your flayed skin is the plaything of the breeze. Marsyas by Jose-Maria de Heredia Les pins du bois natal que charmait ton haleine N’ont pas brûlé ta chair, ô malheureux ! Tes os Sont dissous, et ton sang s’écoule avec les eaux Que les monts de Phrygie épanchent vers la plaine. Le jaloux Citharède, orgueil du ciel hellène, De son plectre de fer a brisé tes roseaux Qui, domptant les lions, enseignaient les oiseaux ; Il ne reste plus rien du chanteur de Célène. Rien qu’un lambeau sanglant qui flotte au tronc de l’if Auquel on l’a lié pour l’écorcher tout vif. Ô Dieu cruel ! Ô cris ! Voix lamentable et tendre ! Non, vous n’entendrez plus, sous un doigt trop savant, La flûte soupirer aux rives du Méandre... Car la peau du Satyre est le jouet du vent.