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p-isforpoetry · 19 days
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"Need Of Being Versed In Country Things" by Robert Frost
The house had gone to bring again To the midnight sky a sunset glow. Now the chimney was all of the house that stood, Like a pistil after the petals go.
The barn opposed across the way, That would have joined the house in flame Had it been the will of the wind, was left To bear forsaken the place’s name.
No more it opened with all one end For teams that came by the stony road To drum on the floor with scurrying hoofs And brush the mow with the summer load.
The birds that came to it through the air At broken windows flew out and in, Their murmur more like the sigh we sigh From too much dwelling on what has been.
Yet for them the lilac renewed its leaf, And the aged elm, though touched with fire; And the dry pump flung up an awkward arm; And the fence post carried a strand of wire.
For them there was really nothing sad. But though they rejoiced in the nest they kept, One had to be versed in country things Not to believe the phoebes wept.
Source: Robert Frost reading his own poems, 1951
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p-isforpoetry · 20 days
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Sonnet 26 by William Shakespeare (read by Alex Jennings)
Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit, To thee I send this written embassage, To witness duty, not to show my wit:
Duty so great, which wit so poor as mine May make seem bare, in wanting words to show it, But that I hope some good conceit of thine In thy soul's thought, all naked, will bestow it:
Till whatsoever star that guides my moving, Points on me graciously with fair aspect, And puts apparel on my tottered loving, To show me worthy of thy sweet respect:
Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee; Till then, not show my head where thou mayst prove me.
Source: The Sonnets: William Shakespeare - Alex Jennings, 1997
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p-isforpoetry · 21 days
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Colette Bryce's "Turbines in January" performed by Jeremy Irons || Climate change poems
In 2015 actors including James Franco, Ruth Wilson, Gabriel Byrne, Maxine Peake, Jeremy Irons, Kelly Macdonald and Michael Sheen read a series of 20 original poems on the theme of climate change, curated by UK poet laureate Carol Ann Duffy.
"Turbines in January" by Colette Bryce
A thousand synonyms for wind make up your song. Those busy arms
may juggle any number of rumours going around: your Swish, for one—
they say it whisks the pool of sleep; that blades cut holes in the cloth of dreams;
that shadow-flicker makes of the sunniest day a speed-frame motion picture,
and panes of ice, which crystallize on your frozen wings, are flung when you turn
(one, it was said, had lodged like a glass fin in the roof of a camper van).
*
What’s to be done to keep your head in the clouds, your whirling one-track mind,
for the wingers and losers, raptors, plovers, gulls batted to the ground?
What’s to be done about your foot, electric root beneath an ocean floor
abuzz with armoured creatures charmed by your magnetic aura?
*
Like my brother’s distance-defying snaps, where the London Eye will rest
like a trinket in his palm or the Tower of Pisa bend to the slightest pressure
of an index finger, these turbines could be a row of daffodils
bordering a lawn, signalling the spring, as I reach my hand out
into the perspective, pluck one like a stem, raise it to my lips
like a child’s seaside windmill on a stick, and blow… Its earfolds fill and spin.
Source: Guardian Visuals, 2015
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p-isforpoetry · 1 month
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Read by the poet: "A Man Who Had Fallen Among Thieve" by e.e. cummings
a man who had fallen among thieves lay by the roadside on his back dressed in fifteenthrate ideas wearing a round jeer for a hat
fate per a somewhat more than less emancipated evening had in return for consciousness endowed him with a changeless grin
whereon a dozen staunch and leal citizens did graze at pause then fired by hypercivic zeal sought newer pastures or because
swaddled with a frozen brook of pinkest vomit out of eyes which noticed nobody he looked as if he did not care to rise
one hand did nothing on the vest its wideflung friend clenched weakly dirt while the mute trouserfly confessed a button solemnly inert.
Brushing from whom the stiffened puke i put him all into my arms and staggered banged with terror through a million billion trillion stars
Source: The Voice of the poet - E. E. Cummings, 1922
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p-isforpoetry · 1 month
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Sonnet 25 by William Shakespeare (read by Simon Callow)
Let those who are in favour with their stars Of public honour and proud titles boast, Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars, Unlook'd for joy in that I honour most.
Great princes' favourites their fair leaves spread But as the marigold at the sun's eye, And in themselves their pride lies buried, For at a frown they in their glory die.
The painful warrior famoused for fight, After a thousand victories once foil'd, Is from the book of honour razed quite, And all the rest forgot for which he toil'd:
Then happy I, that love and am beloved Where I may not remove nor be removed.
Source: William Shakespeare - Sonnets - Simon Callow
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p-isforpoetry · 1 month
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September 1, 1939 by W. H. Auden (read by Julian Glover)
I sit in one of the dives On Fifty-second Street Uncertain and afraid As the clever hopes expire Of a low dishonest decade: Waves of anger and fear Circulate over the bright And darkened lands of the earth, Obsessing our private lives; The unmentionable odour of death Offends the September night.
Accurate scholarship can Unearth the whole offence From Luther until now That has driven a culture mad, Find what occurred at Linz, What huge imago made A psychopathic god: I and the public know What all schoolchildren learn, Those to whom evil is done Do evil in return.
Exiled Thucydides knew All that a speech can say About Democracy, And what dictators do, The elderly rubbish they talk To an apathetic grave; Analysed all in his book, The enlightenment driven away, The habit-forming pain, Mismanagement and grief: We must suffer them all again.
Into this neutral air Where blind skyscrapers use Their full height to proclaim The strength of Collective Man, Each language pours its vain Competitive excuse: But who can live for long In an euphoric dream; Out of the mirror they stare, Imperialism's face And the international wrong.
Faces along the bar Cling to their average day: The lights must never go out, The music must always play, All the conventions conspire To make this fort assume The furniture of home; Lest we should see where we are, Lost in a haunted wood, Children afraid of the night Who have never been happy or good.
The windiest militant trash Important Persons shout Is not so crude as our wish: What mad Nijinsky wrote About Diaghilev Is true of the normal heart; For the error bred in the bone Of each woman and each man Craves what it cannot have, Not universal love But to be loved alone.
From the conservative dark Into the ethical life The dense commuters come, Repeating their morning vow; "I will be true to the wife, I'll concentrate more on my work," And helpless governors wake To resume their compulsory game: Who can release them now, Who can reach the deaf, Who can speak for the dumb?
All I have is a voice To undo the folded lie, The romantic lie in the brain Of the sensual man-in-the-street And the lie of Authority Whose buildings grope the sky: There is no such thing as the State And no one exists alone; Hunger allows no choice To the citizen or the police; We must love one another or die.
Defenceless under the night Our world in stupor lies; Yet, dotted everywhere, Ironic points of light Flash out wherever the Just Exchange their messages: May I, composed like them Of Eros and of dust, Beleaguered by the same Negation and despair, Show an affirming flame.
Source: The Poetry Hour
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p-isforpoetry · 2 months
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Read by the poet: "Spring Pools" by Robert Frost
These pools that, though in forests, still reflect The total sky almost without defect, And like the flowers beside them, chill and shiver, Will like the flowers beside them soon be gone, And yet not out by any brook or river, But up by roots to bring dark foliage on.
The trees that have it in their pent-up buds To darken nature and be summer woods - Let them think twice before they use their powers To blot out and drink up and sweep away These flowery waters and these watery flowers From snow that melted only yesterday.
Source: Robert Frost reading his own poems, 1951
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p-isforpoetry · 2 months
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Sonnet 24 by William Shakespeare (read by Sir John Gielgud)
Mine eye hath played the painter and hath steeled, Thy beauty's form in table of my heart; My body is the frame wherein 'tis held, And perspective that is best painter's art.
For through the painter must you see his skill, To find where your true image pictured lies, Which in my bosom's shop is hanging still, That hath his windows glazed with thine eyes.
Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done: Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me Are windows to my breast, where-through the sun Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee;
Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art, They draw but what they see, know not the heart.
Source: William Shakespeare - Sonnets, 1996
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p-isforpoetry · 2 months
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"Open the door to me oh" by Robert Burns (read by Douglas Henshall)
Oh, open the door, some pity to shew, If love it may na be, Oh; Tho' thou hast been false, I'll ever prove true, Oh, open the door to me, Oh.
Cauld is the blast upon my pale cheek, But caulder thy love for me, Oh: The frost that freezes the life at my heart, Is nought to my pains frae thee, Oh.
The wan Moon is setting beyond the white wave, And time is setting with me, Oh: False friends, false love, farewell! for mair I'll ne'er trouble them, nor thee, Oh.
She has open'd the door, she has open'd it wide, She sees the pale corse on the plain, Oh: My true love! she cried, and sank down by his side, Never to rise again, Oh.
Source: The works of Robert Burns, BBC
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p-isforpoetry · 2 months
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Read by the poet: "Memorabilia" by e.e. cummings
stop look &
listen Venezia*: incline thine ear you glassworks of Murano; pause
elevator nel
mezzo del cammin’ that means half- way up the Campanile, believe
thou me cocodrillo** —
mine eyes have seen the glory of
the coming of the Americans particularly the brand of marriageable nymph which is armed with large legs rancid voices Baedekers Mothers and kodaks — by night upon the Riva Schiavoni or in the felicitous vicinity of the de l’Europe Grand and Royal Danielli their numbers
are like unto the stars of Heaven…
i do signore affirm that all gondola signore day below me gondola signore gondola and above me pass loudly and gondola rapidly denizens of Omaha Altoona or what not enthusiastic cohorts from Duluth God only, gondola knows Cincingondolanati i gondola don’t — the substantial dollarbringing virgins “from the Loggia where are we angels by O yes beautiful we now pass through the look girls in the style of that's the foliage what is it didn't Ruskin says about you got the haven’t Marjorie isn't this wellcurb simply darling” — O Education: O thos cook cb- son
(O to be a metope now that triglyph's here)
Source: The Voice of the poet - E. E. Cummings, 1922
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p-isforpoetry · 2 months
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Sonnet 23 by William Shakespeare (read by Alex Jennings)
As an unperfect actor on the stage, Who with his fear is put beside his part, Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage, Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart;
So I, for fear of trust, forget to say The perfect ceremony of love's rite, And in mine own love's strength seem to decay, O'ercharged with burthen of mine own love's might.
O! let my looks be then the eloquence And dumb presagers of my speaking breast, Who plead for love, and look for recompense, More than that tongue that more hath more express'd.
O! learn to read what silent love hath writ: To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.
Source: The Sonnets: William Shakespeare - Alex Jennings, 1997
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p-isforpoetry · 2 months
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"The Children's Hour" by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (read by John Lithgow)
Between the dark and the daylight, When the night is beginning to lower, Comes a pause in the day's occupations, That is known as the Children's Hour.
I hear in the chamber above me The patter of little feet, The sound of a door that is opened, And voices soft and sweet.
From my study I see in the lamplight, Descending the broad hall stair, Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra, And Edith with golden hair.
A whisper, and then a silence: Yet I know by their merry eyes They are plotting and planning together To take me by surprise.
A sudden rush from the stairway, A sudden raid from the hall! By three doors left unguarded They enter my castle wall!
They climb up into my turret O'er the arms and back of my chair; If I try to escape, they surround me; They seem to be everywhere.
They almost devour me with kisses, Their arms about me entwine, Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine!
Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti, Because you have scaled the wall, Such an old mustache as I am Is not a match for you all!
I have you fast in my fortress, And will not let you depart, But put you down into the dungeon In the round-tower of my heart.
And there will I keep you forever, Yes, forever and a day, Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, And moulder in dust away!
Source: The Poets' Corner
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p-isforpoetry · 2 months
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Read by the poet: "Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening" by Robert Frost
Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound’s the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep.
Source: Robert Frost reading his own poems, 1951
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p-isforpoetry · 2 months
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Sonnet 22 by William Shakespeare (read by Sir John Gielgud)
My glass shall not persuade me I am old, So long as youth and thou are of one date; But when in thee time's furrows I behold, Then look I death my days should expiate.
For all that beauty that doth cover thee, Is but the seemly raiment of my heart, Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me: How can I then be elder than thou art?
O! therefore, love, be of thyself so wary As I, not for myself, but for thee will; Bearing thy heart, which I will keep so chary As tender nurse her babe from faring ill.
Presume not on thy heart when mine is slain, Thou gav'st me thine not to give back again.
Source: William Shakespeare - Sonnets, 1996
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p-isforpoetry · 2 months
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"Paysage Moralisé" by W. H. Auden (read by Sir Alec Guinness)
Hearing of harvests rotting in the valleys, Seeing at end of street the barren mountains, Round corners coming suddenly on water, Knowing them shipwrecked who were launched for islands, We honour founders of these starving cities Whose honour is the image of our sorrow,
Which cannot see its likeness in their sorrow That brought them desperate to the brink of valleys; Dreaming of evening walks through learned cities They reined their violent horses on the mountains, Those fields like ships to castaways on islands, Visions of green to them who craved for water.
They built by rivers and at night the water Running past windows comforted their sorrow; Each in his little bed conceived of islands Where every day was dancing in the valleys And all the green trees blossomed on the mountains, Where love was innocent, being far from cities.
But dawn came back and they were still in cities; No marvellous creature rose up from the water; There was still gold and silver in the mountains But hunger was a more immediate sorrow, Although to moping villagers in valleys Some waving pilgrims were describing islands …
‘The gods,’ they promised, ‘visit us from islands, Are stalking, head-up, lovely, through our cities; Now is the time to leave your wretched valleys And sail with them across the lime-green water, Sitting at their white sides, forget your sorrow, The shadow cast across your lives by mountains.’
So many, doubtful, perished in the mountains, Climbing up crags to get a view of islands, So many, fearful, took with them their sorrow Which stayed them when they reached unhappy cities, So many, careless, dived and drowned in water, So many, wretched, would not leave their valleys.
It is our sorrow. Shall it melt? Then water Would gush, flush, green these mountains and these valleys, And we rebuild our cities, not dream of islands.
Source: Poetry Album, 1958
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p-isforpoetry · 2 months
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Read by the poet: "Poem, Or Beauty Hurts Mr. Vinal" by e.e. cummings
take it from me kiddo believe me my country, ’tis of
you, land of the Cluett Shirt Boston Garter and Spearmint Girl With The Wrigley Eyes (of you land of the Arrow Ide and Earl & Wilson Collars) of you i sing:land of Abraham Lincoln and Lydia E. Pinkham, land above all of Just Add Hot Water And Serve– from every B. V. D.
let freedom ring
amen. i do however protest, anent the un -spontaneous and otherwise scented merde which greets one (Everywhere Why) as divine poesy per that and this radically defunct periodical. i would
suggest that certain ideas gestures rhymes, like Gillette Razor Blades having been used and reused to the mystical moment of dullness emphatically are Not To Be Resharpened. (Case in point
if we are to believe these gently O sweetly melancholy trillers amid the thrillers these crepuscular violinists among my and your skyscrapers– Helen & Cleopatra were Just Too Lovely, The Snail’s On The Thorn enter Morn and God’s In His andsoforth
do you get me?) according to such supposedly indigenous throstles Art is O World O Life a formula: example, Turn Your Shirttails Into Drawers and If It Isn’t An Eastman It Isn’t A Kodak therefore my friends let us now sing each and all fortissimo A- mer i
ca, I love, You. And there’re a hun-dred-mil-lion-oth-ers, like all of you successfully if delicately gelded (or spaded) gentlemen (and ladies)– pretty
littleliverpil- heated-Nujolneeding-There’s-A-Reason americans (who tensetendoned and with upward vacant eyes, painfully perpetually crouched, quivering, upon the sternly allotted sandpile –how silently emit a tiny violetflavoured nuisance: Odor?
ono. comes out like a ribbon lies flat on the brush
Source: The Voice of the poet - E. E. Cummings, 1922
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p-isforpoetry · 2 months
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Sonnet 21 by William Shakespeare (read by Simon Callow)
So is it not with me as with that Muse, Stirred by a painted beauty to his verse, Who heaven itself for ornament doth use And every fair with his fair doth rehearse,
Making a couplement of proud compare With sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems, With April's first-born flowers, and all things rare, That heaven's air in this huge rondure hems.
O! let me, true in love, but truly write, And then believe me, my love is as fair As any mother's child, though not so bright As those gold candles fixed in heaven's air:
Let them say more that like of hearsay well; I will not praise that purpose not to sell.
Source: William Shakespeare - Sonnets - Simon Callow
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