The Well Read Poem
Because reading is interpretation, The Well Read Poem aims to teach you how to read with understanding! Hosted by poet Thomas Banks of The House of Humane Letters, these short episodes will introduce you to both well-known and obscure poets and will focus on daily recitation, historical and intellectual background, elements of poetry, light explication, and more! Play this podcast daily and practice reciting! The next week, get a new poem. Grow in your understanding and love of poetry by learning how to read well! Brought to you by The Literary Life Podcast.
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S17E4: "To a Republican Friend" by Matthew Arnold
09/23/2024
S17E4: "To a Republican Friend" by Matthew Arnold
Welcome back to Season 17 of the Well Read Poem! This season's theme is "When Homer Nods: Bad Poetry by Good Poets." Until this season, our readings on The Well Read Poem have nearly all been drawn from the well of the great, or at least the good, waters of poetry, which would of course take a lifetime and more to exhaust. And so it has been deemed appropriate at summer's close, as we return to school and the daily round, that we should partake slightly of a few select vintages of bad poetry by otherwise accomplished poets for the sake of variety and the amusement of all. Today's selection is "To a Republican Friend" by Matthew Arnold. Poem readings begin at timestamps 5:27 and 9:52. To learn more about Thomas Banks, visit , and to listen to our flagship podcast, head to . You can also find free downloadable, printable files with all the poems read on the podcast on our poetry page at .
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S17E3: "Sonnet 11: On the Desecration Which Followed My Writing Certain Treatises" by John Milton
09/16/2024
S17E3: "Sonnet 11: On the Desecration Which Followed My Writing Certain Treatises" by John Milton
Welcome back to Season 17 of the Well Read Poem! This season's theme is "When Homer Nods: Bad Poetry by Good Poets." Until this season, our readings on The Well Read Poem have nearly all been drawn from the well of the great, or at least the good, waters of poetry, which would of course take a lifetime and more to exhaust. And so it has been deemed appropriate at summer's close, as we return to school and the daily round, that we should partake slightly of a few select vintages of bad poetry by otherwise accomplished poets for the sake of variety and the amusement of all. Today's selection is "Sonnet 11: On the Desecration Which Followed My Writing Certain Treatises" by John Milton. Poem readings begin at timestamps . To learn more about Thomas Banks, visit , and to listen to our flagship podcast, head to . You can also find free downloadable, printable files with all the poems read on the podcast on our poetry page at .
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S17E2: "The Death of King Charles II" by John Dryden
09/09/2024
S17E2: "The Death of King Charles II" by John Dryden
Welcome back to Season 17 of the Well Read Poem! This season's theme is "When Homer Nods: Bad Poetry by Good Poets." Until this season, our readings on The Well Read Poem have nearly all been drawn from the well of the great, or at least the good, waters of poetry, which would of course take a lifetime and more to exhaust. And so it has been deemed appropriate at summer's close, as we return to school and the daily round, that we should partake slightly of a few select vintages of bad poetry by otherwise accomplished poets for the sake of variety and the amusement of all. Today's selection is "The Death of King Charles II" from "Threnodia Augustalis" by John Dryden. Poem readings begin at timestamps 4:06 and 8:08. To learn more about Thomas Banks, visit , and to listen to our flagship podcast, head to . You can also find free downloadable, printable files with all the poems read on the podcast on our poetry page at .
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S17E1: "On the Jubilee of Queen Victoria" by Alfred, Lord Tennyson
09/02/2024
S17E1: "On the Jubilee of Queen Victoria" by Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Welcome back to Season 17 of the Well Read Poem! This season's theme is "When Homer Nods: Bad Poetry by Good Poets." Until this season, our readings on The Well Read Poem have nearly all been drawn from the well of the great, or at least the good, waters of poetry, which would of course take a lifetime and more to exhaust. And so it has been deemed appropriate at summer's close, as we return to school and the daily round, that we should partake slightly of a few select vintages of bad poetry by otherwise accomplished poets for the sake of variety and the amusement of all. Today's selection is "On the Jubilee of Queen Victoria" by Alfred, Lord Tennyson. Poem reading begins at timestamp 7:47. To learn more about Thomas Banks, visit , and to listen to our flagship podcast, head to . You can also find free downloadable, printable files with all the poems read on the podcast on our . On the Jubilee of Queen Victoria by Alfred, Lord Tennyson I. Fifty times the rose has flower'd and faded, Fifty times the golden harvest fallen, Since our Queen assumed the globe, the sceptre. II. She beloved for a kindliness Rare in fable or history, Queen, and Empress of India, Crown'd so long with a diadem Never worn by a worthier, Now with prosperous auguries Comes at last to the bounteous Crowning year of her Jubilee. III. Nothing of the lawless, of the despot, Nothing of the vulgar, or vainglorious, All is gracious, gentle, great and queenly. IV. You then joyfully, all of you, Set the mountain aflame to-night, Shoot your stars to the firmament, Deck your houses, illuminate All your towns for a festival, And in each let a multitude Loyal, each, to the heart of it, One full voice of allegiance, Hail the fair Ceremonial Of this year of her Jubilee. V. Queen, as true to womanhood as Queenhood, Glorying in the glories of her people, Sorrowing with the sorrows of the lowest! VI. You, that wanton in affluence, Spare not now to be bountiful, Call your poor to regale with you, All the lowly, the destitute, Make their neighborhood healthfuller, Give your gold to the hospital, Let the weary be comforted, Let the needy be banqueted, Let the maim'd in his heart rejoice At this glad Ceremonial, And this year of her Jubilee. VII. Henry's fifty years are all in shadow, Gray with distance Edward's fifty summers, Even her Grandsire's fifty half forgotten. VIII. You, the Patriot Architect, You that shape for eternity, Raise a stately memorial, Make it regally gorgeous, Some Imperial Institute, Rich in symbol, in ornament, Which may speak to the centuries, All the centuries after us, Of this great Ceremonial, And this year of her Jubilee. IX. Fifty years of ever-broadening Commerce! Fifty years of ever-brightening Science! Fifty years of ever-widening Empire! X. You, the Mighty, the Fortunate, You, the Lord-territorial, You, the Lord-manufacturer, You, the hardy, laborious, Patient children of Albion, You, Canadian, Indian, Australasian, African, All your hearts be in harmony, All your voices in unison. Singing, 'Hail to the glorious Golden year of her Jubilee!' XI. Are there thunders moaning in the distance? Are there spectres moving in the darkness? Trust the Hand of Light will lead her people, Till the thunders pass, the spectres vanish, And the Light is Victor, and the darkness Dawns into the Jubilee of the Ages.
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S16E6: "Summer" by Christina Rossetti
07/08/2024
S16E6: "Summer" by Christina Rossetti
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 , and to listen to our flagship podcast, head to . You can also find free downloadable, printable files with all the poems read on the podcast on our . 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.
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S16E5: "On the Move" by Thom Gunn
07/01/2024
S16E5: "On the Move" by Thom Gunn
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 , and to listen to our flagship podcast, head to . You can also find free downloadable, printable files with all the poems read on the podcast on our . 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.
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S16E4: "Adlestrop" by Edward Thomas
06/24/2024
S16E4: "Adlestrop" by Edward Thomas
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 , and to listen to our flagship podcast, head to . You can also find free downloadable, printable files with all the poems read on the podcast on our . 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.
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S16E3: "July, 1964" by Donald Davie
06/17/2024
S16E3: "July, 1964" by Donald Davie
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 , and to listen to our flagship podcast, head to . You can also find free downloadable, printable files with all the poems read on the podcast on our .
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S16E2: "The Lonely Hunter" by William Sharp
06/10/2024
S16E2: "The Lonely Hunter" by William Sharp
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 , and to listen to our flagship podcast, head to . You can also find free downloadable, printable files with all the poems read on the podcast on our . 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.
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S16E1: "Summer Sun" by Robert Louis Stevenson
06/03/2024
S16E1: "Summer Sun" by Robert Louis Stevenson
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 , and to listen to our flagship podcast, head to . You can also find free downloadable, printable files with all the poems read on the podcast on our . 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.
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S15E6: “Happy the Man, Who, Like Ulysses” by Joachim du Bellay trans. by Richard Wilbur
03/18/2024
S15E6: “Happy the Man, Who, Like Ulysses” by Joachim du Bellay trans. by Richard Wilbur
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 Bellay Heureux 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.
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S15E5: “Ask Not (Odes I.11)” by Horace (trans. by John Conington)
03/11/2024
S15E5: “Ask Not (Odes I.11)” by Horace (trans. by John Conington)
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.
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S15E4: "I Do Not Like Thee, Doctor Fell" by Martial, trans. by Tom Brown
03/04/2024
S15E4: "I Do Not Like Thee, Doctor Fell" by Martial, trans. by Tom 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 “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.
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S15E3: “The Cat” by Charles Baudelaire (trans. by Roy Campbell)
02/26/2024
S15E3: “The Cat” by Charles Baudelaire (trans. by Roy Campbell)
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.
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S15E2: “Marsyas” by Jose-Maria de Heredia (trans. by Thomas Banks)
02/19/2024
S15E2: “Marsyas” by Jose-Maria de Heredia (trans. by Thomas Banks)
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 prideWith 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.
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S15E1: "On His Brother's Death" by Catullus (trans. by Aubrey Beardsley)
02/12/2024
S15E1: "On His Brother's Death" by Catullus (trans. by Aubrey Beardsley)
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.
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S14E6: "Christmas" by John Betjeman
01/01/2024
S14E6: "Christmas" by John Betjeman
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.
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S14E5: "Noël" by Théophile Gautier
12/25/2023
S14E5: "Noël" by Théophile Gautier
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!"
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S14E4: "Good King Wenceslas" by Vaclav Svoboda, trans. by John Mason Neale
12/18/2023
S14E4: "Good King Wenceslas" by Vaclav Svoboda, trans. by John Mason Neale
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.
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S14E3: "Christmas Carol" by Sara Teasdale
12/11/2023
S14E3: "Christmas Carol" by Sara Teasdale
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.
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S14E2: "Mistletoe" by Walter de la Mare
12/04/2023
S14E2: "Mistletoe" by Walter de la Mare
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 . To find out more about from Thomas Banks, visit .
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S14E1: "The Magi" by William Butler Yeats
11/27/2023
S14E1: "The Magi" by William Butler Yeats
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.
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S13E6: “The English War” by Dorothy L. Sayers
09/18/2023
S13E6: “The English War” by Dorothy L. Sayers
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 man King 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.
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S13E5: "The Burial of Sir John Moore after Corunna" by Charles Wolfe
09/11/2023
S13E5: "The Burial of Sir John Moore after Corunna" by Charles Wolfe
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!
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S13E4: "Into Battle" by Julian Grenfell
09/04/2023
S13E4: "Into Battle" by Julian Grenfell
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 "Into Battle" by Julian Grenfell. Poem begins at timestamp 3:46. “Into Battle” by Julian Grenfell The naked earth is warm with Spring, And with green grass and bursting trees Leans to the sun's gaze glorying, And quivers in the sunny breeze; And life is Colour and Warmth and Light, And a striving evermore for these; And he is dead who will not fight, And who dies fighting has increase. The fighting man shall from the sun Take warmth, and life from glowing earth; Speed with the light-foot winds to run And with the trees to newer birth; And find, when fighting shall be done, Great rest, and fulness after dearth. All the bright company of Heaven Hold him in their bright comradeship, The Dog star, and the Sisters Seven, Orion's belt and sworded hip: The woodland trees that stand together, They stand to him each one a friend; They gently speak in the windy weather; They guide to valley and ridges end. The kestrel hovering by day, And the little owls that call by night, Bid him be swift and keen as they, As keen of ear, as swift of sight. The blackbird sings to him: "Brother, brother, If this be the last song you shall sing, Sing well, for you may not sing another; Brother, sing." In dreary doubtful waiting hours, Before the brazen frenzy starts, The horses show him nobler powers; — O patient eyes, courageous hearts! And when the burning moment breaks, And all things else are out of mind, And only joy of battle takes Him by the throat and makes him blind, Through joy and blindness he shall know, Not caring much to know, that still Nor lead nor steel shall reach him, so That it be not the Destined Will. The thundering line of battle stands, And in the air Death moans and sings; But Day shall clasp him with strong hands, And Night shall fold him in soft wings.
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S13E3: “To Lucasta, on Going to the Wars” by Richard Lovelace
08/28/2023
S13E3: “To Lucasta, on Going to the Wars” by Richard Lovelace
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 “To Lucasta, on Going to the Wars” by Richard Lovelace. Poem begins at timestamp 8:24. “To Lucasta, on Going to the Wars” by Richard Lovelace Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind, That from the nunnery Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind To war and arms I fly. True, a new mistress now I chase, The first foe in the field; And with a stronger faith embrace A sword, a horse, a shield. Yet this inconstancy is such As thou, too, shalt adore; I could not love thee, Dear, so much, Loved I not Honor more.
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S13E2: “To Pompeius” Ode 2.7 by Horace, trans. by John Davidson
08/21/2023
S13E2: “To Pompeius” Ode 2.7 by Horace, trans. by John Davidson
For the thirteenth season of the Well Read Poem, we are 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 “To Pompeius” Ode 2,7 by Horace, translated by John Davidson. Poem begins at timestamp 12:55.
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S13E1: "David's Lament for Saul and Jonathan", 2 Samuel 1, KJV
08/14/2023
S13E1: "David's Lament for Saul and Jonathan", 2 Samuel 1, KJV
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 "David's Lament for Saul and Jonathan," from II Samuel 1 in the King James Version. Poem begins at timestamp 8:29. David's Lament for Saul and Jonathan by David (in II Samuel 1:19-27, KJV) The beauty of Israel is slain upon thy high places: how are the mighty fallen! Tell it not in Gath, publish it not in the streets of Askelon; lest the daughters of the Philistines rejoice, lest the daughters of the uncircumcised triumph. Ye mountains of Gilboa, let there be no dew, neither let there be rain, upon you, nor fields of offerings: for there the shield of the mighty is vilely cast away, the shield of Saul, as though he had not been anointed with oil. From the blood of the slain, from the fat of the mighty, the bow of Jonathan turned not back, and the sword of Saul returned not empty. Saul and Jonathan were lovely and pleasant in their lives, and in their death they were not divided: they were swifter than eagles, they were stronger than lions. Ye daughters of Israel, weep over Saul, who clothed you in scarlet, with other delights, who put on ornaments of gold upon your apparel. How are the mighty fallen in the midst of the battle! O Jonathan, thou wast slain in thine high places. I am distressed for thee, my brother Jonathan: very pleasant hast thou been unto me: thy love to me was wonderful, passing the love of women. How are the mighty fallen, and the weapons of war perished! This podcast is a production of . Learn more about Thomas Banks and the classes he offers at .
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S12E6: Idea 61, "Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part" by Michael Drayton
05/15/2023
S12E6: Idea 61, "Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part" by Michael Drayton
For the twelfth season of the Well-Read Poem, we are reading four poems by William Shakespeare, whose genius as a lyric poet is best appreciated in his collection of 154 sonnets. Shakespeare is of course the supreme dramatic poet of the English language; yet if only his sonnets and shorter poems had survived out of his great body of work, it is not too much to say that he may still have enjoyed a certain literary immortality, albeit of a different sort. In addition to four sonnets by Shakespeare, we will be taking a look at two sonnets by fellow Elizabethan poets, to give a sense of the popularity of this verse form in Shakespeare's day. Today's poem is Idea 61: "Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part," by Michael Drayton. Poem begins at timestamp 8:14. Idea 61: Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part by Michael Drayton Since there’s no help, come let us kiss and part. Nay, I have done, you get no more of me; And I am glad, yea glad with all my heart, That thus so cleanly I myself can free. Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows, And when we meet at any time again, Be it not seen in either of our brows That we one jot of former love retain. Now at the last gasp of Love’s latest breath, When, his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies; When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death, And Innocence is closing up his eyes— Now, if thou wouldst, when all have given him over, From death to life thou might’st him yet recover!
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S12E5: Delia 45, “Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night” by Samuel Daniel
05/08/2023
S12E5: Delia 45, “Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night” by Samuel Daniel
For the twelfth season of the Well-Read Poem, we are reading four poems by William Shakespeare, whose genius as a lyric poet is best appreciated in his collection of 154 sonnets. Shakespeare is of course the supreme dramatic poet of the English language; yet if only his sonnets and shorter poems had survived out of his great body of work, it is not too much to say that he may still have enjoyed a certain literary immortality, albeit of a different sort. In addition to four sonnets by Shakespeare, we will be taking a look at two sonnets by fellow Elizabethan poets, to give a sense of the popularity of this verse form in Shakespeare's day. Today's poem is Delia 45, "Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night," by Samuel Daniel. Poem begins at timestamp 10:47. Delia 45 by Samuel Daniel Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night, Brother to Death, in silent darkness born: Relieve my languish, and restore the light, With dark forgetting of my cares, return; And let the day be time enough to mourn The shipwreck of my ill-adventur'd youth: Let waking eyes suffice to wail their scorn, Without the torment of the night's untruth. Cease dreams, th' imagery of our day-desires, To model forth the passions of the morrow; Never let rising sun approve you liars, To add more grief to aggravate my sorrow. Still let me sleep, embracing clouds in vain; And never wake to feel the day's disdain.
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