Welcome back to our final poem in this eleventh season of the Well-Read Poem! In this series we have been reading poems about writers, by writers, some of them well-known, some of them not as well known. Our aim in this season is to give listeners some insight into the lives, minds, and imaginations of authors long deceased, and some understanding of what they have meant to their fellow scribes. Today's poem is “On Shakespeare, 1630” by John Milton. Poem begins at timestamp 5:17. On Shakespeare, 1630 by John Milton What needs my Shakespeare for his honoured bones, The labor of an age in pilèd stones, Or that his hallowed relics should be hid    Under a star-ypointing pyramid? Dear son of Memory, great heir of fame, What need’st thou such weak witness of thy name? Thou in our wonder and astonishment Hast built thyself a live-long monument. For whilst to th’ shame of slow-endeavouring art,    Thy easy numbers flow, and that each heart    Hath from the leaves of thy unvalued book Those Delphic lines with deep impression took,    Then thou, our fancy of itself bereaving,    Dost make us marble with too much conceiving; And so sepúlchred in such pomp dost lie, That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.

Edward Lear, a talented painter and musician, is the guest on this episode. The podcast explores Lear's impact on art and his personal struggles. They discuss his sense of humor and influence on children's literature, while also analyzing a tribute poem dedicated to Lear by W.H. Auden. The episode also explores the idea of artists having a 'side project' for joy and escape, comparing it to Lear's nonsense verse. The podcast sponsor is mentioned.

Welcome back to another season of the Well-Read Poem! In this series we will be reading six poems about writers, some of them well-known, some of them not as well known. Our aim in this season is to give listeners some insight into the lives, minds, and imaginations of authors long deceased, and some understanding of what they have meant to their fellow scribes. Today's poem is “To Walter de la Mare” by T. S. Elliot. Poem begins at timestamp 3:52. To Walter de la Mare by T. S. Eliot The children who explored the brook and found A desert island with a sandy cove (A hiding place, but very dangerous ground, For here the water buffalo may rove, The kinkajou, the mungabey, abound In the dark jungle of a mango grove, And shadowy lemurs glide from tree to tree - The guardians of some long-lost treasure-trove) Recount their exploits at the nursery tea And when the lamps are lit and curtains drawn Demand some poetry, please. Whose shall it be, At not quite time for bed?…                            Or when the lawn Is pressed by unseen feet, and ghosts return Gently at twilight, gently go at dawn, The sad intangible who grieve and yearn; When the familiar is suddenly strange Or the well known is what we yet have to learn, And two worlds meet, and intersect, and change; When cats are maddened in the moonlight dance, Dogs cower, flitter bats, and owls range At witches' sabbath of the maiden aunts; When the nocturnal traveller can arouse No sleeper by his call; or when by chance An empty face peers from an empty house; By whom, and by what means, was this designed? The whispered incantation which allows Free passage to the phantoms of the mind? By you; by those deceptive cadences Wherewith the common measure is refined; By conscious art practised with natural ease; By the delicate, invisible web you wove - The inexplicable mystery of sound.

Welcome back to another season of the Well-Read Poem! In this series we will be reading six poems about writers, some of them well-known, some of them not as well known. Our aim in this season is to give listeners some insight into the lives, minds, and imaginations of authors long deceased, and some understanding of what they have meant to their fellow scribes. Today's poem is “The Arrest of Oscar Wilde at the Cadogan Hotel” by John Betjeman. Poem begins at timestamp 3:54. The Arrest of Oscar Wilde at the Cadogan Hotel by John Betjeman He sipped at a weak hock and seltzer As he gazed at the London skies Through the Nottingham lace of the curtains Or was it his bees-winged eyes? To the right and before him Pont Street Did tower in her new built red, As hard as the morning gaslight That shone on his unmade bed, “I want some more hock in my seltzer, And Robbie, please give me your hand — Is this the end or beginning? How can I understand? “So you’ve brought me the latest Yellow Book: And Buchan has got in it now: Approval of what is approved of Is as false as a well-kept vow. “More hock, Robbie — where is the seltzer? Dear boy, pull again at the bell! They are all little better than cretins, Though this is the Cadogan Hotel. “One astrakhan coat is at Willis’s — Another one’s at the Savoy: Do fetch my morocco portmanteau, And bring them on later, dear boy.” A thump, and a murmur of voices — (”Oh why must they make such a din?”) As the door of the bedroom swung open And TWO PLAIN CLOTHES POLICEMEN came in: “Mr. Woilde, we ‘ave come for tew take yew Where felons and criminals dwell: We must ask yew tew leave with us quoietly For this is the Cadogan Hotel.” He rose, and he put down The Yellow Book. He staggered — and, terrible-eyed, He brushed past the plants on the staircase And was helped to a hansom outside.

Welcome back to another season of the Well-Read Poem! In this series we will be reading six poems about writers, some of them well-known, some of them not as well known. Our aim in this season is to give listeners some insight into the lives, minds, and imaginations of authors long deceased, and some understanding of what they have meant to their fellow scribes. Today's poem is “On First Looking into Chapman's Homer” by John Keats, written as an hommage to the great epics of Homer as translated by George Chapman. Poem begins at timestamp 5:44. On First Looking into Chapman's Homer by John Keats Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold, And many goodly states and kingdoms seen; Round many western islands have I been Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. Oft of one wide expanse had I been told That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne; Yet did I never breathe its pure serene Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold: Then felt I like some watcher of the skies When a new planet swims into his ken; Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes He star'd at the Pacific—and all his men Look'd at each other with a wild surmise— Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

Welcome back to another season of the Well-Read Poem! In this series we will be reading six poems about writers, some of them well-known, some of them not as well known. Our aim in this season is to give listeners some insight into the lives, minds, and imaginations of authors long deceased, and some understanding of what they have meant to their fellow scribes. Today's poem is “The Lost Leader” by Robert Browning, written as a criticism of William Wordsworth. Poem begins at timestamp 6:16. The Lost Leader by Robert Browning Just for a handful of silver he left us, Just for a riband to stick in his coat— Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us, Lost all the others she lets us devote; They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver, So much was theirs who so little allowed: How all our copper had gone for his service! Rags—were they purple, his heart had been proud! We that had loved him so, followed him, honoured him, Lived in his mild and magnificent eye, Learned his great language, caught his clear accents, Made him our pattern to live and to die! Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us, Burns, Shelley, were with us,—they watch from their graves! He alone breaks from the van and the freemen, —He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves!   We shall march prospering,—not thro' his presence; Songs may inspirit us,—not from his lyre; Deeds will be done,—while he boasts his quiescence, Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire: Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more, One task more declined, one more footpath untrod, One more devils'-triumph and sorrow for angels, One wrong more to man, one more insult to God! Life's night begins: let him never come back to us! There would be doubt, hesitation and pain, Forced praise on our part—the glimmer of twilight, Never glad confident morning again! Best fight on well, for we taught him—strike gallantly, Menace our heart ere we master his own; Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait us, Pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne!  

In this tenth season of The Well Read Poem podcast, we are reading six poems about the blessings and curses of labor. Work is a thing we both enjoy and dislike, and some professions are easier for poets to draw inspiration from than others. These poems come from different ages of literary history, and hopefully will leave the reader with a sense of what work has meant to different minds over the course of the centuries. Today's selection is "The British Journalist" by Humbert Wolfe; poem begins at timestamp 2:50. The British Journalist by Humbert Wolfe You cannot hope to bribe or twist (thank God!) the British journalist. But, seeing what the man will do unbribed, there’s no occasion to.

In this tenth season of The Well Read Poem podcast, we are reading six poems about the blessings and curses of labor. Work is a thing we both enjoy and dislike, and some professions are easier for poets to draw inspiration from than others. These poems come from different ages of literary history, and hopefully will leave the reader with a sense of what work has meant to different minds over the course of the centuries. Today's selection is "The Chimney Sweeper" by William Blake; poem begins at timestamp 5:53. The Chimney Sweeper: A Little Black Thing Among the Snow by William Blake A little black thing among the snow, Crying "weep! 'weep!" in notes of woe! "Where are thy father and mother? say?" "They are both gone up to the church to pray.   Because I was happy upon the heath, And smil'd among the winter's snow, They clothed me in the clothes of death, And taught me to sing the notes of woe.   And because I am happy and dance and sing, They think they have done me no injury, And are gone to praise God and his Priest and King, Who make up a heaven of our misery."

In this tenth season of The Well Read Poem podcast, we are reading six poems about the blessings and curses of labor. Work is a thing we both enjoy and dislike, and some professions are easier for poets to draw inspiration from than others. These poems come from different ages of literary history, and hopefully will leave the reader with a sense of what work has meant to different minds over the course of the centuries. Today's selection is "Surgeons must be very careful" by Emily Dickinson; poem begins at timestamp 6:28. Surgeons must be very careful by Emily Dickinson Surgeons must be very careful When they take the knife! Underneath their fine incisions Stirs the Culprit - Life!

In this tenth season of The Well Read Poem podcast, we are reading six poems about the blessings and curses of labor. Work is a thing we both enjoy and dislike, and some professions are easier for poets to draw inspiration from than others. These poems come from different ages of literary history, and hopefully will leave the reader with a sense of what work has meant to different minds over the course of the centuries. Today's selection is "The Song of the Shirt" by Thomas Hood; poem begins at timestamp 4:25. The Song of the Shirt by Thomas Hood With fingers weary and worn,       With eyelids heavy and red,     A Woman sat, in unwomanly rags,       Plying her needle and thread—         Stitch! stitch! stitch!     In poverty, hunger, and dirt,     And still with the voice of dolorous pitch     She sang the "Song of the Shirt!"     "Work! Work! Work!   While the cock is crowing aloof!     And work—work—work,   Till the stars shine through the roof!   It's O! to be a slave     Along with the barbarous Turk,   Where woman has never a soul to save   If this is Christian work!     "Work—work—work   Till the brain begins to swim,     Work—work—work   Till the eyes are heavy and dim!   Seam, and gusset, and band,     Band, and gusset, and seam,   Till over the buttons I fall asleep,     And sew them on in a dream!     "O, Men with Sisters dear!     O, Men! with Mothers and Wives!   It is not linen you're wearing out,     But human creatures' lives!       Stitch—stitch—stitch,   In poverty, hunger, and dirt,   Sewing at once, with a double thread,   A Shroud as well as a Shirt.     "But why do I talk of Death!     That Phantom of grisly bone,   I hardly fear his terrible shape,     It seems so like my own—     It seems so like my own,     Because of the fasts I keep;   O God! that bread should be so dear,     And flesh and blood so cheap!     "Work—work—work!     My labour never flags;   And what are its wages? A bed of straw,     A crust of bread—and rags.   That shatter'd roof,—and this naked floor—     A table—a broken chair—   And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank     For sometimes falling there!     "Work—work—work!   From weary chime to chime,     Work—work—work—   As prisoners work for crime!     Band, and gusset, and seam,     Seam, and gusset, and band,   Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumb'd,     As well as the weary hand.     "Work—work—work,   In the dull December light,     And work—work—work,   When the weather is warm and bright—   While underneath the eaves     The brooding swallows cling,   As if to show me their sunny backs     And twit me with the spring.     "O, but to breathe the breath   Of the cowslip and primrose sweet!—     With the sky above my head,   And the grass beneath my feet;   For only one short hour     To feel as I used to feel,   Before I knew the woes of want     And the walk that costs a meal!     "O, but for one short hour!       A respite however brief!   No blessed leisure for Love or Hope,     But only time for Grief!   A little weeping would ease my heart,     But in their briny bed   My tears must stop, for every drop     Hinders needle and thread!     "Seam, and gusset, and band,   Band, and gusset, and seam,       Work, work, work,   Like the Engine that works by Steam!   A mere machine of iron and wood     That toils for Mammon's sake—   Without a brain to ponder and craze     Or a heart to feel—and break!"       —With fingers weary and worn,     With eyelids heavy and red,   A Woman sat, in unwomanly rags,     Plying her needle and thread—       Stitch! stitch! stitch!     In poverty, hunger, and dirt,   And still with a voice of dolorous pitch,—   Would that its tone could reach the Rich!—   She sang this "Song of the Shirt!"