Bölümler
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Welcome to the final episode in 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 "Summer" by Christina Rossetti. Poem reading begins at timestamp 3:06 or 6:44.
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.
Summer
by Christina Rossetti
Winter is cold-hearted,
Spring is yea and nay,
Autumn is a weathercock
Blown every way:
Summer days for me
When every leaf is on its tree;
When Robin's not a beggar,
And Jenny Wren's a bride,
And larks hang singing, singing, singing,
Over the wheat-fields wide,
And anchored lilies ride,
And the pendulum spider
Swings from side to side,
And blue-black beetles transact business,
And gnats fly in a host,
And furry caterpillars hasten
That no time be lost,
And moths grow fat and thrive,
And ladybirds arrive.
Before green apples blush,
Before green nuts embrown,
Why, one day in the country
Is worth a month in town;
Is worth a day and a year
Of the dusty, musty, lag-last fashion
That days drone elsewhere. -
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. -
Eksik bölüm mü var?
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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. -
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 "July, 1964" by Donald Davie. Poem readings begin at timestamps 3:30 and 7:29.
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.
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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. -
Welcom 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 "Summer Sun" by Robert Louis Stevenson. Poem readings begin at timestamp 4:03 and 6:17.
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.
Summer Sun
by Robert Louis Stevenson
Great is the sun, and wide he goes
Through empty heaven without repose;
And in the blue and glowing days
More thick than rain he showers his rays.Though closer still the blinds we pull
To keep the shady parlour cool,
Yet he will find a chink or two
To slip his golden fingers through.The dusty attic spider-clad,
He, through the keyhole, maketh glad;
And through the broken edge of tiles,
Into the laddered hay-loft smiles.Meantime his golden face around
He bares to all the garden ground,
And sheds a warm and glittering look
Among the ivy's inmost nook.Above the hills, along the blue,
Round the bright air with footing true,
To please the child, to paint the rose,
The gardener of the World, he goes. -
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 BellayHeureux 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 pride
With 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. -
For this fifteenth season of the Well Read Poem, we want to thank Emily Williams Raible, who suggested the theme "Poems in Translation" to us*, who probably should have thought of it ourselves, but, for whatever reason, failed to do so. Be this as it may, it is a theme rich in possibilities, and we hope that it will be a source of much enjoyment to all our listeners. We will introduce 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. *By "us", we mean, of course, "me" (Thomas Banks).
Today's poem is "On His Brother's Death" by Catullus, translated by Aubrey Beardsley. Poem begins at timestamps 5:50 (in Latin) and 8:21 or 11:07 (in English).
On His Brother's Death
by Catullus, trans. by Aubrey Beardsley
By ways remote and distant waters sped,
Brother, to thy sad grave-side am I come,
That I may give the last gifts to the dead,
And vainly parley with thine ashes dumb:
Since she who now bestows and now denies
Hath ta'en thee, hapless brother, from mine eyes.
But lo! these gifts, the heirlooms of past years,
Are made sad things to grace thy coffin shell;
Take them, all drenched with a brother's tears,
And, brother, for all time, hail and farewell!Frater, Ave Atque Vale (Catullus 101)
Latin Multas per gentes et multa per aequora vectus advenio has miseras, frater, ad inferias, ut te postremo donarem munere mortis et mutam nequiquam adloquerer cinerem, quandoquidem fortuna mihi tete abstulit ipsum, heu miser indigne frater adempte mihi. Nunc tamen interea haec, prisco quae more parentum tradita sunt tristi munere ad inferias, accipe fraterno multum manantia fletu atque in perpetuum, frater, ave atque vale. -
As befits the time of year, we are reading six poems of Advent and Christmas during this fourteenth season of the Well-Read Poem. We have selected certain familiar ones, which may yet contain certain surprises in their authorship and composition history, as well as some less well-known pieces which we hope will help you better enjoy the late days of the year leading up to the great Feast of the Nativity of Christ the Lord.
Today's poem is "Christmas" by John Betjeman. Reading begins at timestamp 5:05.
Christmas
by John Betjeman
The bells of waiting Advent ring,
The Tortoise stove is lit again
And lamp-oil light across the night
Has caught the streaks of winter rain
In many a stained-glass window sheen
From Crimson Lake to Hookers Green.
The holly in the windy hedge
And round the Manor House the yew
Will soon be stripped to deck the ledge,
The altar, font and arch and pew,
So that the villagers can say
'The church looks nice' on Christmas Day.
Provincial Public Houses blaze,
Corporation tramcars clang,
On lighted tenements I gaze,
Where paper decorations hang,
And bunting in the red Town Hall
Says 'Merry Christmas to you all'.
And London shops on Christmas Eve
Are strung with silver bells and flowers
As hurrying clerks the City leave
To pigeon-haunted classic towers,
And marbled clouds go scudding by
The many-steepled London sky.
And girls in slacks remember Dad,
And oafish louts remember Mum,
And sleepless children's hearts are glad.
And Christmas-morning bells say 'Come!'
Even to shining ones who dwell
Safe in the Dorchester Hotel.
And is it true? And is it true,
This most tremendous tale of all,
Seen in a stained-glass window's hue,
A Baby in an ox's stall?
The Maker of the stars and sea
Become a Child on earth for me?
And is it true? For if it is,
No loving fingers tying strings
Around those tissued fripperies,
The sweet and silly Christmas things,
Bath salts and inexpensive scent
And hideous tie so kindly meant,
No love that in a family dwells,
No carolling in frosty air,
Nor all the steeple-shaking bells
Can with this single Truth compare -
That God was man in Palestine
And lives today in Bread and Wine. -
As befits the time of year, we will be reading six poems of Advent and Christmas during this fourteenth season of the Well-Read Poem. We have selected certain familiar ones, which may yet contain certain surprises in their authorship and composition history, as well as some less well-known pieces which we hope will help you better enjoy the late days of the year leading up to the great Feast of the Nativity of Christ the Lord.
Today's poem is "Noël" by Théophile Gautier in translation by Agnes Lee. Reading begins at timestamps 4:33 and 6:18.
Noël (Christmas)
by Théophile Gautier, trans. by Agnes Lee
Black is the sky and white the ground.
O ring, ye bells, your carol's grace!
The Child is born! A love profound
Beams o'er Him from His Mother's face.No silken woof of costly show
Keeps off the bitter cold from Him.
But spider-webs have drooped them low,
To be His curtain soft and dim.Now trembles on the straw downspread
The Little Child, the Star beneath.
To warm Him in His holy bed,
Upon Him ox and ass do breathe.Snow hangs its fringes on the byre.
The roof stands open to the tryst
Of aureoled saints, that sweetly choir
To shepherds, "Come, behold the Christ!" -
As befits the time of year, we will be reading six poems of Advent and Christmas during this fourteenth season of the Well-Read Poem. We have selected certain familiar ones, which may yet contain certain surprises in their authorship and composition history, as well as some less well-known pieces which we hope will help you better enjoy the late days of the year leading up to the great Feast of the Nativity of Christ the Lord.
Today's poem is "Good King Wenceslas" by Vaclav Svoboda in translation by John Mason Neale. Reading begins at timestamp 6:26.
Good King Wenceslas
by Vaclav Svoboda, translation by John Mason Neale
Good King Wenceslas look’d out, On the Feast of Stephen; When the snow lay round about, Deep, and crisp, and even: Brightly shone the moon that night, Though the frost was cruel, When a poor man came in sight, Gath’ring winter fuel. “Hither page and stand by me, If thou know’st it, telling, Yonder peasant, who is he? Where and what his dwelling?” “Sire, he lives a good league hence. Underneath the mountain; Right against the forest fence, By Saint Agnes’ fountain.” “Bring me flesh,and bring me wine, Bring me pine-logs hither: Thou and I will see him dine, When we bear them thither.” Page and monarch forth they went, Forth they went together; Through the rude wind’s wild lament, And the bitter weather. “Sire, the night is darker now, And the wind blows stronger; Fails my heart, I know not how, I can go no longer.” “Mark my footsteps, good my page; Tread thou in them boldly; Thou shalt find the winter’s rage Freeze thy blood less coldly.” In his master’s steps he trod, Where the snow lay dinted; Heat was in the very sod Which the Saint had printed. Therefore, Christian men, be sure, Wealth or rank possessing, Ye who now will bless the poor, Shall yourselves find blessing. -
As befits the time of year, we will be reading six poems of Advent and Christmas during this fourteenth season of the Well-Read Poem. We have selected certain familiar ones, which may yet contain certain surprises in their authorship and composition history, as well as some less well-known pieces which we hope will help you better enjoy the late days of the year leading up to the great Feast of the Nativity of Christ the Lord.
Today's poem is "Christmas Carol" by Sara Teasdale. Reading begins at timestamps 4:08 and 7:08.
Christmas Carol
by Sara Teasdale
The kings they came from out the south, All dressed in ermine fine; They bore Him gold and chrysoprase, And gifts of precious wine. The shepherds came from out the north, Their coats were brown and old; They brought Him little new-born lambs— They had not any gold. The wise men came from out the east, And they were wrapped in white; The star that led them all the way Did glorify the night. The angels came from heaven high, And they were clad with wings; And lo, they brought a joyful song The host of heaven sings. The kings they knocked upon the door, The wise men entered in, The shepherds followed after them To hear the song begin. The angels sang through all the night Until the rising sun, But little Jesus fell asleep Before the song was done. -
As befits the time of year, we will be reading six poems of Advent and Christmas during this fourteenth season of the Well-Read Poem. We have selected certain familiar ones, which may yet contain certain surprises in their authorship and composition history, as well as some less well-known pieces which we hope will help you better enjoy the late days of the year leading up to the great Feast of the Nativity of Christ the Lord.
Today's poem is "Mistletoe" by Walter de la Mare. Reading begins at timestamps 4:50 and 7:36.
Mistletoe
by Walter de la Mare
Sitting under the mistletoe (Pale-green, fairy mistletoe), One last candle burning low, All the sleepy dancers gone, Just one candle burning on, Shadows lurking everywhere: Some one came, and kissed me there. Tired I was; my head would go Nodding under the mistletoe (Pale-green, fairy mistletoe), No footsteps came, no voice, but only, Just as I sat there, sleepy, lonely, Stooped in the still and shadowy air Lips unseen—and kissed me there. This podcast is brought to you by The Literary Life Podcast. To find out more about from Thomas Banks, visit HouseofHumaneLetters.com. -
As befits the time of year, we will be reading six poems of Advent and Christmas during this fourteenth season of the Well-Read Poem. We have selected certain familiar ones, which may yet contain certain surprises in their authorship and composition history, as well as some less well-known pieces which we hope will help you better enjoy the late days of the year leading up to the great Feast of the Nativity of Christ the Lord.
Today's poem is "The Magi" by William Butler Yeats. Reading begins at timestamps 4:50 and 9:37.
The Magi
by William Butler Yeats
Now as at all times I can see in the mind's eye, In their stiff, painted clothes, the pale unsatisfied ones Appear and disappear in the blue depths of the sky With all their ancient faces like rain-beaten stones, And all their helms of silver hovering side by side, And all their eyes still fixed, hoping to find once more, Being by Calvary's turbulence unsatisfied, The uncontrollable mystery on the bestial floor. -
For the thirteenth season of the Well Read Poem, we will be reading six poems about war. War is, of course, one of the oldest subjects that has inspired the imagination of poets. The first of our great epics has at its center the war of the Greeks against the Trojans and the deadly hatreds it inspires. In times neare to our own, poets have written about war both with enthusiasm and delight, as well as skepticism and horror at its brutalities. The poems we will share this season cover the span of many centuries.
Today's poem is "The English War" by Dorothy L. Sayers. Poem begins at timestamp 3:55.
“The English War”
by Dorothy L. Sayers
Praise God, now, for an English war
The grey tide and the sullen coast,
The menace of the urgent hour,
The single island, like a tower,
Ringed with an angry host.
This is the war that England knows,
When all the world holds but one manKing Philip of the galleons,
Louis, whose light outshone the sun’s,
The conquering Corsican.
When Europe, like a prison door,
Clangs, and the swift, enfranchised sea runs narrower than a village brook;
And men who love us not, yet look
To us for liberty;
When no allies are left, no help to count upon from alien hands,
No waverers remain to woo,
No more advice to listen to,
And only England stands.This is the war we always knew,
When every county keeps her own,
When Kent stands sentry in the lane
And Fenland guards her dyke and drain, Cornwall, her cliffs of stone;
When from the Cinque Ports and the Wight,
From Plymouth Sound and Bristol Town,
There comes a noise that breaks our sleep,
Of the deep calling to the deep
Where the ships go up and down.
And near and far across the world
Hold open wide the water-gates,
And all the tall adventurers come
Homeward to England, and Drake’s drum Is beaten through the Straits.This is the war that we have known
And fought in every hundred years,
Our sword, upon the last, steep path,
Forged by the hammer of our wrath
On the anvil of our fears.
Send us, O God, the will and power
To do as we have done before;
The men that ride the sea and air are the same men their fathers were
To fight the English war.And send, O God, an English peace –
Some sense, some decency, perhaps
Some justice, too, if we are able,
With no sly jackals round our table,
Cringing for blood-stained scraps;
No dangerous dreams of wishful men
Whose homes are safe, who never feel
The flying death that swoops and stuns,
The kisses of the curtseying guns
Slavering their street with steel;
No dream, Lord God, but vigilance,
That we may keep, by might and main,
Inviolate seas, inviolate skies –
But if another tyrant rise,
Then we shall fight again. -
For the thirteenth season of the Well Read Poem, we will be reading six poems about war. War is, of course, one of the oldest subjects that has inspired the imagination of poets. The first of our great epics has at its center the war of the Greeks against the Trojans and the deadly hatreds it inspires. In times neare to our own, poets have written about war both with enthusiasm and delight, as well as skepticism and horror at its brutalities. The poems we will share this season cover the span of many centuries.
Today's poem is "The Burial of Sir John Moore after Corunna" by Charles Wolfe. Poem begins at timestamp 4:40.
“The Burial of Sir John Moore after Corunna”
by Charles Wolfe
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero was buried.We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light
And the lantern dimly burning.No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest
With his martial cloak around him.Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
And we far away on the billow!Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him —
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.But half of our heavy task was done
When the clock struck the hour for retiring;
And we heard the distant and random gun
That the foe was sullenly firing.Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,
But we left him alone with his glory! - Daha fazla göster
