The Well Read Poem

In this eighth season of The Well Read Poem, we will be reading six poems about birds. Since antiquity, birds have supplied rich material to poets, being by turns regal, charming, absurd, delicate, dangerous, and philosophical creatures. This season is dedicated to the animal lovers in our audience, particularly to Emily Raible who suggested the subject in the first place. Today's poem is "Les Hiboux (The Owls)" by Charles Baudelaire, translated from the original French by Roy Campbell. Poem begins at timestamp 8:38. "Les Hiboux (The Owls)" by Charles Baudelaire (trans. Roy Campbell)  Within the shelter of black yews The owls in ranks are ranged apart Like foreign gods, whose eyeballs dart Red fire. They meditate and muse. Without a stir they will remain Till, in its melancholy hour, Thrusting the level sun from power, The shade establishes its reign. Their attitude instructs the sage, Content with what is near at hand, To shun all motion, strife, and rage. Men, crazed with shadows that they chase, Bear, as a punishment, the brand Of having wished to change their place.  

In this seventh season, we are reading six poems about romantic love. Love may seem to be the most fundamental subject for poetry, but interestingly, it is not. When we consider the great poetic traditions of almost any people, we find that love is by no means the first matter that has inspired their poets. The poems we will read together come from several different periods in time, and I would like to examine, among other things, how the language of romance has changed in the English-speaking world over the centuries. Today's piece is "Love Poem" by John Frederick Nims. Poem begins at timestamp 5:52. Love Poem by John Frederick Nims My clumsiest dear, whose hands shipwreck vases, At whose quick touch all glasses chip and ring, Whose palms are bulls in china, burs in linen, And have no cunning with any soft thing Except all ill-at-ease fidgeting people: The refugee uncertain at the door You make at home; deftly you steady The drunk clambering on his undulant floor. Unpredictable dear, the taxi drivers' terror, Shrinking from far headlights pale as a dime Yet leaping before apopleptic streetcars— Misfit in any space. And never on time. A wrench in clocks and the solar system. Only With words and people and love you move at ease; In traffic of wit expertly maneuver And keep us, all devotion, at your knees. Forgetting your coffee spreading on our flannel, Your lipstick grinning on our coat, So gaily in love's unbreakable heaven Our souls on glory of spilt bourbon float. Be with me, darling, early and late. Smash glasses— I will study wry music for your sake. For should your hands drop white and empty All the toys of the world would break.

In this seventh season, we are reading six poems about romantic love. Love may seem to be the most fundamental subject for poetry, but interestingly, it is not. When we consider the great poetic traditions of almost any people, we find that love is by no means the first matter that has inspired their poets. The poems we will read together come from several different periods in time, and I would like to examine, among other things, how the language of romance has changed in the English-speaking world over the centuries. Today's piece is "O Tell Me the Truth About Love" by W. H. Auden. Poem begins at timestamp 3:13. O Tell Me the Truth About Love by W. H. Auden Some say love's a little boy, And some say it's a bird, Some say it makes the world go around, Some say that's absurd, And when I asked the man next-door, Who looked as if he knew, His wife got very cross indeed, And said it wouldn't do. Does it look like a pair of pyjamas, Or the ham in a temperance hotel? Does its odour remind one of llamas, Or has it a comforting smell? Is it prickly to touch as a hedge is, Or soft as eiderdown fluff? Is it sharp or quite smooth at the edges? O tell me the truth about love. Our history books refer to it In cryptic little notes, It's quite a common topic on The Transatlantic boats; I've found the subject mentioned in Accounts of suicides, And even seen it scribbled on The backs of railway guides. Does it howl like a hungry Alsatian, Or boom like a military band? Could one give a first-rate imitation On a saw or a Steinway Grand? Is its singing at parties a riot? Does it only like Classical stuff? Will it stop when one wants to be quiet? O tell me the truth about love. I looked inside the summer-house; It wasn't over there; I tried the Thames at Maidenhead, And Brighton's bracing air. I don't know what the blackbird sang, Or what the tulip said; But it wasn't in the chicken-run, Or underneath the bed. Can it pull extraordinary faces? Is it usually sick on a swing? Does it spend all its time at the races, or fiddling with pieces of string? Has it views of its own about money? Does it think Patriotism enough? Are its stories vulgar but funny? O tell me the truth about love. When it comes, will it come without warning Just as I'm picking my nose? Will it knock on my door in the morning, Or tread in the bus on my toes? Will it come like a change in the weather? Will its greeting be courteous or rough? Will it alter my life altogether? O tell me the truth about love.

In this seventh season, we are going to read six poems about romantic love. Love may seem to be the most fundamental subject for poetry, but interestingly, it is not. When we consider the great poetic traditions of almost any people, we find that love is by no means the first matter that has inspired their poets. The poems we will read together come from several different periods in time, and I would like to examine, among other things, how the language of romance has changed in the English-speaking world over the centuries. Today's piece is "Remember Me" by Christina Rossetti. Poem begins at timestamp 6:04. Remember Me by Christina Rossetti   Remember me when I am gone away,          Gone far away into the silent land;          When you can no more hold me by the hand, Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay. Remember me when no more day by day          You tell me of our future that you plann'd:          Only remember me; you understand It will be late to counsel then or pray. Yet if you should forget me for a while          And afterwards remember, do not grieve:          For if the darkness and corruption leave          A vestige of the thoughts that once I had, Better by far you should forget and smile          Than that you should remember and be sad.

In this seventh season, we are going to read six poems about romantic love. Love may seem to be the most fundamental subject for poetry, but interestingly, it is not. When we consider the great poetic traditions of almost any people, we find that love is by no means the first matter that has inspired their poets. The poems we will read together come from several different periods in time, and I would like to examine, among other things, how the language of romance has changed in the English-speaking world over the centuries. Today's piece is "Mother, I cannot Mind my Wheel" by Walter Savage Landor. Poem begins at timestamp  . Mother, I cannot Mind my Wheel BY WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR   Mother, I cannot mind my wheel; My fingers ache, my lips are dry: Oh! if you felt the pain I feel! But Oh, who ever felt as I!   No longer could I doubt him true; All other men may use deceit: He always said my eyes were blue, And often swore my lips were sweet.

In this seventh season, we are going to read six poems about romantic love. Love may seem to be the most fundamental subject for poetry, but interestingly, it is not. When we consider the great poetic traditions of almost any people, we find that love is by no means the first matter that has inspired their poets. The poems we will read together come from several different periods in time, and I would like to examine, among other things, how the language of romance has changed in the English-speaking world over the centuries. Today's piece is "Sonnet 130: My Mistress' Eyes Are Nothing Like the Sun" by William Shakespeare. Poem begins at timestamp 5:13. Sonnet 130: My Mistress' Eyes Are Nothing Like the Sun by William Shakespeare My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun; Coral is far more red than her lips' red; If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun; If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head. I have seen roses damasked, red and white, But no such roses see I in her cheeks; And in some perfumes is there more delight Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks. I love to hear her speak, yet well I know That music hath a far more pleasing sound; I grant I never saw a goddess go; My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground.    And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare    As any she belied with false compare.

In this seventh season, we are going to read six poems about romantic love. Love may seem to be the most fundamental subject for poetry, but interestingly, it is not. When we consider the great poetic traditions of almost any people, we find that love is by no means the first matter that has inspired their poets. The poems we will read together come from several different periods in time, and I would like to examine, among other things, how the language of romance has changed in the English-speaking world over the centuries. Today's piece is "A Farewell to Arms" by George Peele. Poem begins at timestamp 5:28. A Farewell to Arms by George Peele HIS golden locks Time hath to silver turn’d;     O Time too swift, O swiftness never ceasing! His youth ’gainst time and age hath ever spurn’d,     But spurn’d in vain; youth waneth by increasing: Beauty, strength, youth, are flowers but fading seen; Duty, faith, love, are roots, and ever green. His helmet now shall make a hive for bees;     And, lovers’ sonnets turn’d to holy psalms, A man-at-arms must now serve on his knees,     And feed on prayers, which are Age his alms: But though from court to cottage he depart, His Saint is sure of his unspotted heart. And when he saddest sits in homely cell,     He’ll teach his swains this carol for a song,— ‘Blest be the hearts that wish my sovereign well,     Curst be the souls that think her any wrong.’ Goddess, allow this aged man his right To be your beadsman now that was your knight.

In this sixth season of The Well Read Poem, we will read a number of examples of classic satire in verse. English poetry is particularly rich in satire, and we will take a close look at some of the best instances of literary mockery that the past several centuries have bequeathed to us. Some of these are playfully teasing, while others are deliberately savage. All of them taken together, I trust, will provide a happy introduction to the fine art of verbal annihilation. Today’s poem is "A Sonnet (Two Voices Are There)" by James Kenneth Stephenson. Poem begins at timestamp 3:51. A Sonnet (Two Voices Are There) by James Kenneth Stephenson Two voices are there: one is of the deep; It learns the storm-cloud's thunderous melody, Now roars, now murmurs with the changing sea, Now bird-like pipes, now closes soft in sleep: And one is of an old half-witted sheep Which bleats articulate monotony, And indicates that two and one are three, That grass is green, lakes damp, and mountains steep: And, Wordsworth, both are thine: at certain times Forth from the heart of thy melodious rhymes, The form and pressure of high thoughts will burst: At other times -- good Lord! I'd rather be Quite unacquainted with the A.B.C. Than write such hopeless rubbish as thy worst.

In this sixth season of The Well Read Poem, we will read a number of examples of classic satire in verse. English poetry is particularly rich in satire, and we will take a close look at some of the best instances of literary mockery that the past several centuries have bequeathed to us. Some of these are playfully teasing, while others are deliberately savage. All of them taken together, I trust, will provide a happy introduction to the fine art of verbal annihilation. Today’s poem is  a selection from “A Satire Against Mankind” by John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester. Poem begins at timestamp 3:50. Selection from “A Satire Against Mankind”  by John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester Were I - who to my cost already am One of those strange, prodigious creatures, man -  A spirit free to choose for my own share What sort of flesh and blood I pleased to wear,  I'd be a dog, a monkey, or a bear, Or anything but that vain animal, Who is so proud of being rational. His senses are too gross; and he'll contrive  A sixth, to contradict the other five; And before certain instinct will prefer  Reason, which fifty times for one does err.  Reason, an ignis fatuus of the mind, Which leaving light of nature, sense, behind, Pathless and dangerous wand'ring ways it takes,  Through Error's fenny bogs and thorny brakes; Whilst the misguided follower climbs with pain  Mountains of whimsey's, heaped in his own brain;  Stumbling from thought to thought, falls headlong down,  Into Doubt's boundless sea where, like to drown, Books bear him up awhile, and make him try  To swim with bladders of Philosophy; In hopes still to o'ertake the escaping light;  The vapour dances, in his dancing sight, Till spent, it leaves him to eternal night.  Then old age and experience, hand in hand,  Lead him to death, make him to understand,  After a search so painful, and so long, That all his life he has been in the wrong: Huddled In dirt the reasoning engine lies, Who was so proud, so witty, and so wise.

In this sixth season of The Well Read Poem, we will read a number of examples of classic satire in verse. English poetry is particularly rich in satire, and we will take a close look at some of the best instances of literary mockery that the past several centuries have bequeathed to us. Some of these are playfully teasing, while others are deliberately savage. All of them taken together, I trust, will provide a happy introduction to the fine art of verbal annihilation. Today’s poem is “To a Poet, Who Would Have Me Praise Certain Bad Poets, Imitator of His and Mine” by William Butler Yeats. Poem begins at timestamp 7:01. To a Poet, Who Would Have Me Praise Certain Bad Poets, Imitator of His and Mine by William Butler Yeats YOU say, as I have often given tongue In praise of what another's said or sung, 'Twere politic to do the like by these; But was there ever dog that praised his fleas?