The Well Read Poem

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!"

In this tenth season of The Well Read Poem podcast, we are going to read 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 "Men Who March Away" by Thomas Hardy; poem begins at timestamp 3:07. Men Who March Away by Thomas Hardy What of the faith and fire within us Men who march away Ere the barn-cocks say Night is growing gray, Leaving all that here can win us; What of the faith and fire within us Men who march away?   Is it a purblind prank, O think you, Friend with the musing eye, Who watch us stepping by With doubt and dolorous sigh? Can much pondering so hoodwink you! Is it a purblind prank, O think you, Friend with the musing eye?   Nay. We well see what we are doing, Though some may not see— Dalliers as they be— England's need are we; Her distress would leave us rueing: Nay. We well see what we are doing, Though some may not see!   In our heart of hearts believing Victory crowns the just, And that braggarts must Surely bite the dust, Press we to the field ungrieving, In our heart of hearts believing Victory crowns the just.   Hence the faith and fire within us Men who march away Ere the barn-cocks say Night is growing gray, Leaving all that here can win us; Hence the faith and fire within us Men who march away.

In this tenth season of The Well Read Poem podcast, we are going to read 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 "Fanfare for the Makers" by Louis MacNeice; poem begins at timestamp  5:02. Fanfare for the Makers by Louis MacNeice A cloud of witnesses. To whom? To what? To the small fire that never leaves the sky. To the great fire that boils the daily pot. To all the things we are not remembered by, Which we remember and bless. To all the things That will not notice when we die, Yet lend the passing moment words and wings. So fanfare for the Makers: who compose A book of words or deeds who runs may write As many who do run, as a family grows At times like sunflowers turning towards the light. As sometimes in the blackout and the raids One joke composed an island in the night. As sometimes one man’s kindness pervades A room or house or village, as sometimes Merely to tighten screws or sharpen blades Can catch a meaning, as to hear the chimes At midnight means to share them, as one man In old age plants an avenue of limes And before they bloom can smell them, before they span The road can walk beneath the perfected arch, The merest green print when the lives began Of those who walk there with him, as in default Of coffee men grind acorns, as in despite Of all assaults conscripts counter assault, As mothers sit up late night after night Moulding a life, as miners day by day Descend blind shafts, as a boy may flaunt his kite In an empty nonchalant sky, as anglers play Their fish, as workers work and can take pride In spending sweat before they draw their pay. As horsemen fashion horses while they ride, As climbers climb a peak because it is there, As life can be confirmed even in suicide: To make is such. Let us make. And set the weather fair.

In this ninth season, we are reading six poems about the four seasons of the year. English verse especially is abundant in celebrations, odes, and meditative poems about the divisions of the year and the visible changes in nature that attend them. Over the next several weeks, we will take a look at some fine examples of seasonal poetry. Today's selection is "Loveliest of Trees" by A. E. Houseman; poem begins at timestamp 6:10. Loveliest of Trees by A. E. Houseman Loveliest of trees, the cherry now Is hung with bloom along the bough, And stands about the woodland ride Wearing white for Eastertide. Now, of my threescore years and ten, Twenty will not come again, And take from seventy springs a score, It only leaves me fifty more. And since to look at things in bloom Fifty springs are little room, About the woodlands I will go To see the cherry hung with snow.