Lucky Words

Text of poem

Look in thy glass and tell the face thou viewest,

Now is the time that face should form another,

Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,

Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.

For where is she so fair whose uneared womb

Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry?

Or who is he so fond will be the tomb

Of his self-love, to stop posterity?

Thou art thy mother’s glass, and she in thee

Calls back the lovely April of her prime;

So thou through windows of thine age shalt see,

Despite of wrinkles, this thy golden time.

But if thou live rememb’red not to be,

Die single, and thine image dies with thee.

Recorded on site and in one take in the Uinta National Forest up at about 6500 ft of elevation, just up the road from my house. The sun was shining, the orange-crowned warblers were singing.

This poem is another of Shakespeare’s procreation sonnets (and there’s still a number left to go), but this one is doing some interesting things with what it means to be a man (and a woman). Why is the woman nothing more than a field to be tilled in one line, and in another she is the model of the handsome young man? Is Shakespeare a creepy sexist or not? For sure he’s objectifying women, but according to Shakespeare do they play a contributing role or are they just functional?

This is always a fun poem to talk about with students, because they have feelings about like “unbless some mother” or “disdains the tillage of thy husbandry.” And then they get confused and worked up about “thou art thy mother’s glass”—and for good reason. It’s confusing! Some students find this process very frustrating, but then I can see some others start to light up, and when they can crack open a poem and start to see how it works, they glow a little: something that was opaque before is not at least partially comprehensible.

One of my goals in teaching poetry is to get them to slow down, pay attention, and to think deeply about what’s on the page. It’s a difficult skill for young people today, mostly because the world of social media is opposed to slowing down, opposed to paying attention, and opposed to thinking deeply. A hot take on a poem is almost always going to be wrong, or if not wrong, it’s so superficial that it might as well be wrong.

Even though I’ve taught poems for years and years, I still will find something that I didn’t understand or I didn’t see before. And then I’ll be embarrassed: how many students did I corrupt with my only partial understanding? Who am I to be teaching? On good days I realize that my newly-enlightened state is still only partial, and that I’ll surely find something new in the future that will make today’s reading look superficial and immature. And on and on.

Did you get just a little out of today’s poem? Is it making you think? If so, it’s doing its job, and you’re doing yours. Good work, all of us.

Recorded on site next to the river, up Provo Canyon in the second week of April 2025. As I was talking, the sun came from behind the mountain on the east and I went from slightly chilly to filled with glorious light. It was a good day.

Text of Poem

Here is is: “Calmly We Walk through This April’s Day” by Delmore Schwartz

Calmly we walk through this April’s day,

Schwartz was a Jewish-American poet in the mid 20th century, and was very much a New Yorker. He spent most of his career teaching, and isn’t very widely read anymore. I think his poetry is more cerebral than sensual, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing but it does make it hard to get excited at the first reading.

He died young (well, 52 feels young to me for anyone to die) of a heart attack, but had spent much of his adult life struggling with alcohol addiction and mental health issues.

Part of what makes this poem a little difficult is how he uses his verbs. Look these lines from the end of the poem: “My memory restore again and again / The smallest color of the smallest day.” What exactly is going on there? It would be a lot easier if he said “my memory restores [present tense] again and again…” because he would be telling us that his memory brings back tiny snippets of memory. Or imagine this version, “I wish that my memory could restore again and again…” to show that much is lost from his memory, but he wishes it were back. Or even, “To my memory: please restore again and again…”

Schwartz of course doesn’t give us that clarity, so we have to make it up ourselves. Which is part of what makes poetry cool, but it’s also work, and I get it, people don’t want to work for their leisure.

Next up

Shakespeare’s sonnet #3 is next on the docket. Yes, it is another procreation sonnet, but I think that sonnet #3 is a particularly good one.

This was recorded two weeks ago, on a day that I woke up and it was dumping snow. I went up Rock Canyon, which was just gorgeous. Now, just twelve days later, it’s warm and delightful.

Sorry about the sound quality, too. I was not planning to record, and this was just me and my phone.

Text of poem

William Shakespeare’s sonnet 2, “When forty winters shall besiege thy brow”

When forty winters shall besiege thy brow,

And dig deep trenches in thy beauty’s field,

Thy youth’s proud livery so gazed on now,

Will be a totter’d weed of small worth held:

Then being asked, where all thy beauty lies,

Where all the treasure of thy lusty days;

To say, within thine own deep sunken eyes,

Were an all-eating shame, and thriftless praise.

How much more praise deserved thy beauty’s use,

If thou couldst answer ‘This fair child of mine

Shall sum my count, and make my old excuse,’

Proving his beauty by succession thine!

This were to be new made when thou art old,

And see thy blood warm when thou feel’st it cold.

This is the second of the “procreation sonnets” and we’ve got a bunch more to go.1 Once we get past the procreation sonnets, things mix up a bit. But for now, the speaker (who might be Shakespeare or might be Shakespeare playing a character) has just one theme: telling the handsome young man to have some babies. Now.

What we see in this poem different from the first sonnet is an extended description of aging. Now, in this sequence, reaching the advanced age of 40 means that you’re *really* old. I take some umbrage at the sentiment. All intelligent people know that when you’re 40, you’re just getting started. Right?

Text of poem

“Spring” by Edna St. Vincent Millay

To what purpose, April, do you return again?

Recorded (and edited and posted!) while on site on the banks of the Provo River, on the morning of April 8, 2025.

Notes and thoughts

This is one grumpy poem about springtime, don’t you think? Millay is always a gutsy poet, and likes to poke you in the eye. What a gem.

What is she so grumpy about? Maybe it’s just me, but when I read the news today, sometimes I feel the same tension between the budding spring and the mean spirited chaos from all three branches of government. Amidst all the selfishness and greed, April’s new life might feel like the work of an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.

Millay won the Pulitzer in 1923 and died in 1950.

For the past few years, I’ve recorded a series of podcasts every April for National Poetry Month. It’s 2025, and I’m doing it again. Woohoo!

The original goal was to do a new poem every day: 30 poems over the course of the month. That is always too much work: finding the poems, doing some research, recording (on site outdoors!), editing, and posting. A daily podcast, even just a little ten minute job, could be a full-time job. In the past, I’ve had a full-time job and I don’t have the energy for two, and so I’d fade.

My plan this year is to play it by ear. I suspect that I’ll start out strong and midway through the month have a couple of hiccups that slow things down. It’ll be an adventure for the both of us!

Shakespeare’s Sonnet #1

Here’s the text of the poem:

From fairest creatures we desire increase,

Recorded on-site on a single track trail up Provo Canyon.

Some interesting links

* Sir Patrick Stewart reading the sonnet in the early days of Covid: video

* The Wikipedia page about controversies surrounding the word “niggardly” which, I remind you, is not etymologically related to the n-word.

Over the upcoming days and weeks, we’ll go through a number of Shakespeare’s sonnets, and a bunch of other poetry as well. If you have favorite poems, or poems that you’ve always felt guilty because you didn’t “get” them, send ‘em my way! I’ll do a podcast about it and you’ll get a wedge into understanding what you previously considered ununderstandable.

The real goal of these is to help non-poetry people grow to be poetry-tolerant. You know who I mean: folks (maybe like you?) who say, “why do they have to make everything so difficult? Why can’t poetry just say what they mean?” Or maybe folks who when they see something in poetry, they just stop reading and move onto something else.

If that’s you, you’re missing out. Poetry is one of the great art forms. Every culture throughout history has poetry, and it’s important. Reading poetry will put hair on your chest. Or if nothing else, you could learn to enjoy it.

I am genuinely excited for this. Which is nutty, I know! But I really do love poetry, and I like talking about poetry, and people have enjoyed listening to me talk about poetry before.

Do you know anyone who already enjoys poetry (or who might enjoy poetry) that might like listening to a slightly gruff-voiced guy read and give a (very brief!) explication? If so, forward this email on to them. Ask ‘em to subscribe! Wait: have you subscribed? It’s free! What’s stopping you?

Until next time.

All is well,

Jeff

It’s April again, which means it’s National Poetry Month! The podcast is back, again. My ambitions are much more modest this year, and also moving in different directions.

The excitement, for me at least is that I’m going to be adding in video to the mix. I’ve been learning a lot, and the curve is steep. But it’s been rewarding to become acquainted with an entirely new set of skills.

For today, however, we are going old school: just the audio like always.

I’ve moved my podcast hosting from Squarespace to Substack. Which has been a pain because my brain just shoves both companies into a similar slot of companies with names that start with the letter S and are fake sounding compound words made up of normal words. If all goes well, this won’t affect you at all, the podcast will appear in your podcast player as if nothing has changed. Fingers crossed that it stays that way.

Another thing: I’m only committing to four episodes this year. That’s a massive reduction from what I had attempted in the past, which was to ship an episode daily. But I almost always burned out, and it overtook my life. What with my life being un-overtakable right now, and with the addition of video, I’m just committing to four. Maybe I’ll accomplish more? Let’s see at the end of April.

Because I’ve been out filming and not doing audio only stuff, and because it’s already the fourth and I haven’t posted, this was recorded at my desk (gasp!) instead of on the trail. I don’t plan on this becoming a habit, and I spiced it up with some little bit of royalty-free music. Still, it feels funny to release an episode where… I’m just talking indoors. Kind of lame, honestly.

The text of this episode’s poem is from Simon Dach, a seventeenth century German poet. It’s called “Written in Bed in The Year 1647, at Night, When I Could Not Sleep for Asthma.” Here’s the text:

What? Is it not enough to be willing to die once?

Nature? Fate? God? Why do you hold me back?

There is no delay on my side, my course is finished;

Must I pay you a toll a thousand times for the passage?

How bitter it is to be ready and have to wait!

Is death gain? It is an expensive bargain indeed for me!

So many years and illnesses come together to kill me;

I am still alive, and I've been given up for dead ten times at least.

Wife, children, is it you that are doing this? Are you prolonging my light?

Look at my misery! Is this charity,

Grudging me my benefit for the little benefit to yourselves?

Oh, do not make things worse for me by your presence!

The last pain of all, I think, cannot be worse than having to stay alive,

wanting to be dead, and not being able to die.

Recorded live on location at... my backyard. It was a lovely morning, and so I decided to read a poem. I didn't mention it in the recording because, well because I didn't think about it. I was thinking about Ryan's great poem. And so I recorded a nice short podcast about it.

I love this poem. It's one that I've copied out, longhand, in my own notebook that I'm carrying around right now. It's nice and short, for one, and it's fun to read out loud. "It's a pickle, this life" is a great opener, and everyone knows that "pickle" is one of the funniest words in English. Most critically, it's got some intellectual oomph to it as well, and is good for me to think about a while.

Since recording this, I've been thinking a lot more about the contrast between the jolly rhyme and the seriousness of what Ryan's talking about. The unextinguishable component of life, according to the poem, is strife. So when life is nearly gone ("shut down to a trickle") there's still the particles of suffering in it. And while the trials may shrink, they are still more than enough to eat you. _And yet_ there's something great in it, too. It's life, after all. We never reach the end, only cut the remainder in half (again!), even while we are encouraged by some coach to just end the race, we don't. And so while strife is always there, so it life itself. And that's pretty great, I think.

What do you think? Is this poem hopeless or ultimately hopeful? Also, what word is more fun than "pickle"?

#### TEXT OF POEM

"This Life" by Kay Ryan

It's a pickle, this life.

Even shut down to a trickle

it carries every kind of particle

that causes strife on a grander scale:

to be miniature is to be swallowed

by a miniature whale. Zeno knew

the law that we know: no matter

how carefully diminished, a race

can only be _half_ finished with success;

then comes the endless halving of the rest --

the ribbon's stalled approach, the helpless

red-faced urgings of the coach.

Recorded on West Mountain, just west of Spanish Fork, Utah. It was blustery and cold, but kind of weirdly beautiful regardless. Beautiful in its desolate ugliness, I guess.

The painting I mentioned is indeed by Francisco Goya, but I got the name of the painting wrong. It is "Saturn Eating His Children" which you can see and read about [here](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saturn_Devouring_His_Son). It's still a perfect painting to accompany this, I think.

I will be sending out a weekly email soon. Please sign up below so you can keep up on things (poetry!).

#### TEXT OF POEMS

Three poems by Stephen Crane

**"I Saw A Man Pursuing the Horizon"**

I saw a man pursuing the horizon;

Round and round they sped.

I was disturbed at this;

I accosted the man.

"It is futile," I said,

"You can never --"

"You lie," he cried,

And ran on.

**"In the Desert"**

In the desert

I saw a creature, naked, bestial,

Who, squatting upon the ground,

Held his heart in his hands,

And ate of it.

I said, "Is it good, friend?"

"It is bitter--bitter," he answered;

"But I like it

"Because it is bitter,

"And because it is my heart."

**"In Heaven"**

In Heaven,

Some little blades of grass

Stood before God.

"What did you do?"

Then all save one of the little blades

Began eagerly to relate

The merits of their lives.

This one stayed a small way behind

Ashamed.

Presently God said:

"And what did you do?"

The little blade answered: "Oh, my lord,

"Memory is bitter to me

"For if I did good deeds

"I know not of them."

Then God in all His splendor

Arose from His throne.

"Oh, best little blade of grass," He said.

Recorded by the shore of Utah Lake on a windy but pleasant day, though not as pleasant as what Wordsworth described what with his green bower and all. My favorite part of this recording is the sounds of the killdeer, which I wish were louder, but of course every time I got close they decided to fly away.

#### TEXT OF POEM

"Lines Written in Early Spring" by William Wordsworth

I heard a thousand blended notes,

While in a grove I sate reclined,

In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts

Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did Nature link

The human soul that through me ran;

And much it grieved my heart to think

What man has made of man.

Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,

The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;

And 'tis my faith that every flower

Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopped and played,

Their thoughts I cannot measure:--

But the least motion which they made

It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan,

To catch the breezy air;

And I must think, do all I can,

That there was pleasure there.

If this belief from heaven be sent,

If such be Nature's holy plan,

Have I not reason to lament

What man has made of man?

Recorded on the Watchman Overlook in Zion National Park. There are always too may people at Zion, but I found a spot where I could have some quiet privacy and record a poem. Unfortunately, technology was conspiring against me, and so this sounds kinda lousy. Sorry.

Also, I referred to the trail as "The Watchman" but what I meant was the Watchman _Overlook_: a much less ambitious undertaking.

This is another one of those poems that is popular with people who don't really like poetry. That's not fair, even if Walter Scott kinda deserves his reputation.

It makes me sad that my own children have very little positive to say about the United States. This is where they were born and where they have always lived, and I want them to love it (even if they're not big fans of the government or the political parties). I grew up saying the Pledge of Allegiance, and I think it made an impact on my thinking. I am a pretty standard educated-liberal guy, who votes with the bloc of educated-liberal people -- but I refuse to give up the symbol of the flag to other people. I refuse to make patriotism a partisan issue.

Which is kind of funny that my analysis of this poem focuses on the landscape more than the government.

#### TEXT OF POEM

"Innominatus," by Sir Walter Scott

Breathes there the man with soul so dead,

Who never to himself hath said,

"This is my own, my native land!"

Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd

As home his footsteps he hath turn'd

From wandering on a foreign strand?

If such there breathe, go, mark him well;

For him no Minstrel raptures swell;

High though his titles, proud his name,

Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;

Despite those titles, power, and pelf,

The wretch, concentred all in self,

Living, shall forfeit fair renown,

And, doubly dying, shall go down

To the vile dust from whence he sprung,

Unwept, unhonour'd, and unsung.