Tale Teller Poets

Preludes of Poetry and Music
by Irene Curtis

A Tale Teller Club Featured Audiobook

USA dialect from 1919

Read in English by Larry Wilson; KHand; Monika M. C.; Malka Davis; Lynda Marie Neilson; Foon
This is a collection of poems by American poet Irene Curtis.

A study and general literary and language interest book from the Tale Teller Club Library.

www.tale-teller.club
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A wonderful chapter from an LGBT classic book of poetry.

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Super collection for students, poetry lovers and insomniacs.
I am currently sourcing lots of great poems for us here on this podcast and will be doing live shows every Wednesday for some chat and words.

text
from the world's best poetry volume 7 descriptive narrative part 1. this is a librivox recording all librivox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit librivox.org recording by adrian stevens craig franklin sonia thomas peter and jason in canada what's the use of poetry and idly tuned for the loquacious throng flutter and twitter prodigal of time and little masters make a toy of song till grave men weary of the sound of ryam william watson in wordsworth's grave there is no doubt that many one might almost say most people are firmly convinced that they do not care for poetry they have no use for it they tell you either it bores them as a fantastic highflown method of saying something that to their way of thinking could be better said in plain prose or they look upon it as the sentimental nonsense of the moonstruck and lovesick young a kind of intellectual candy all very well for women and children but of no value to grown men with the serious work of the world on their shoulders it is not at all difficult to account for and indeed to sympathize with this attitude to begin with of course there is a large class outside our present considerations which does not care for poetry simply because it does not care for any literature whatsoever serious reading of any kind does not enter into its scheme of life beyond the newspapers and magazines and an occasional novel of the hour idly taken up and indifferently put aside it has no literary needs with this listless multitude we have not to concern ourselves but rather with that sufficiently heterogeneous body known as the reading public the people for whom mr carnegie builds libraries and the publishers display their wares of course among these there must necessarily be considerable percentage temperamentally unappreciative of poetry just as there are numbers of people born with no ear for music and numbers again born with no colour sense the lover of poetry is no less born than the purge himself yet as the poet is made as well as born so is his reader and there are many who really love poetry without knowing it but who think they do not care for it either because they have contracted the wrong notion of what poetry is or because they have some time or other made a bad start with the wrong kind i'm convinced that one widespread provocative of the prevailing impression of the foolishness of poetry is the mediocre magazine verse of the day in an age when we go so much to the magazines for our reading we may rely on finding there the best work being done in every branch of literature except the highest the best novelists the best historians and the best essayists right for the magazines but the best poets must be looked for in their high-priced volumes and a magazine reader must rely for his verse on lady amateurs and tuned for college boys thus he too often approaches poetry not through the great masters but through the little misses he forms his naturally contemptuous notion of poetry from feeble echoes and insipid imitations no wonder therefore that he should refuse to waste his good eyesight on anything in the shape of verse and should conceive of poetry as a mild mental dissipation for young ladies a sickly sweet meat made of molasses and moonshine if the magazine editors of the world would only bind themselves to publish noverse except the best and failing to obtain a contemporary supply of the best would fill their spare corners of space with reprints of the old fine things i'm convinced that they would do a great deal toward rectifying this widespread misconception of an art which far from being trivial and superficial is of all the arts the most serious and most vitally human i'm not saying that all poetry is...

I have been working with whispering for an artwork I am doing and have lots of these to share. I think they are really interesting with a cool energy and am releasing them for creators to use and share.

Free Audiobook of Rhapsody on a Windy Night Poem by T S Eliot Free Recording Downloadable Public Domain Literature. Tale Teller Club featured.

wrap city on a windy night by t.s eliot red for librivox.org by nemo

12 o'clock along the reaches of the street held in a lunar synthesis whispering lunar incantations dissolve the floors of memory and all its clear relations its divisions and precisions every street lamp that i pass beats like a fatalistic drum and through the spaces of the dark midnight shakes the memory as a madman shakes a dead geranium half past one the street lamp sputtered the street lamp muttered the street lamp said regard that woman who hesitates towards you in the light of the door which opens on her like a grin you see the border of her dress is torn and stained with sand and you see the corner of your eye twist like a crooked pin the memory throws up high and dry a crowd of twisted things a twisted branch upon the beach eaten smooth and polished as if the world gave up the secret of its skeleton stiff and white a broken spring and factory yard rust that clings to the form that the strength has left hard and curled and ready to snap half past two the street lamp said remark the cat which flattens itself in the gutter slips out its tongue and devours a morsel of rancid butter so the hand of the child automatic slipped out and pocketed a toy that was running along the key i could see nothing behind that child's eye i've seen eyes in the street trying to peer through lighted shutters and a crab one afternoon in a pool an old crab with barnacles on his back gripped the end of a stick which i held him half past three the lamp sputtered the lamp muttered in the dark the lamp hummed regard the moon la lune god raccoon she winks a feeble eye she smiles into corners she smooths the hair of the grass the moon has lost her memory a washed out smallpox cracks her face her hand twisted paper rose that smells of dust and old cologne she is alone with all the old nocturnal smells that cross and cross across her brain the reminiscence comes of sunless dry geraniums and dust and crevices smells of chestnuts in the streets and female smells and shuddered rooms and cigarettes and corridors and cocktail smells and bars the lamp said four o'clock here's the number on the door memory you have the key the little lamp spreads a ring on the stair mount the bed is open the toothbrush hangs on the wall put your shoes at the door sleep prepare for life the last twist of the knife

and a poem this recording is in the public domain



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Perfect reading with a cup of tea.

preludes by t.s eliot red for librivox.org by nemo the winter evening settles down with smell of steaks and passageways six o'clock the burnt out ends of smoky days and now a gusty shower wraps the grimy scraps of withered leaves about your feet and newspapers from vacant lots the showers beat on broken blinds and chimney pots and at the corner of the street a lonely cab horse steams and stamps and then the lighting of the lamps the morning comes to consciousness of faint stale smells of beer from the sawdust trampled street with all its muddy feet that press to early coffee stands with the other masquerades the time resumes one thinks of all the hands that are raising dingy shades and a thousand furnished rooms you tossed a blanket from the bed you lay upon your back and waited you dozed and watched the night revealing the thousand sword images of which your soul was constituted they flickered against the ceiling when all the world came back and the light crept up between the shutters and you heard the sparrows and the gutters you had such a vision of the street as a street hardly understands sitting along the bed's edge where you curled the papers from your hair or clasped the yellow soles of feet in the palms of both soiled hands his soul stretched tight across the skies that fade behind a city block are trampled by insistent feet at four and five and six o'clock and short square fingers stuffing pipes and evening newspapers and eyes assured of certain certainties the conscience of a blackened street impatient to assume the world i am moved by fancies that are curled around these images and cling the notion of some infinitely gentle infinitely suffering thing wipe your hand across your mouth and laugh the worlds revolve like ancient women gathering fuel in vacant lots

and a poem this recording is in the public domain

you

A wonderful poet who never seems to lose popularity.

portrait of a lady by t.s eliot read for librivox.org by larry wilson thou has committed fornication but that was in another country and besides the winch is dead the jew of malta one among the smoke and fog of a december afternoon you have the scene arranged itself as if it will seem to do with i have saved this afternoon for you and four wax candles in the darkened room four rings of light upon the ceiling overhead an atmosphere of juliet's tomb prepared for all the things to be said or left unsaid we have been let us say to hear the latest poll transmit the preludes through his hair and fingertips so intimate this chopin that i think his soul should be resurrected only among friends some two or three who will not touch the bloom that is rubbed and questioned in the concert room and so the conversation slips among validities and carefully caught regrets through attenuated tones of violins mingled with remote cornets and begins you do not know how much they mean to me my friends and how how rare and strange it is to find in a life composed so much so much of odds and ends for indeed i do not love it you knew you are not blind how keen you are to find a friend who has these qualities who has and gives these qualities upon which friendship lives how much it meant that i say this to you without these friendships life what koshemar among the windings of the violins and the ariats of cracked cornets inside my brain a dull tomtom begins absurdly hammering a prelude of its own capricious monotone that is at least one definite false note let us take the air in a tobacco trance admire the moments discuss the late events correct our watches by the public clocks then sit for half an hour and drink our box

two

now that lilacs are in bloom she has a bowl of lilacs in her room and twists one in her fingers while she talks oh my friend you do not know you do not know what life is you should hold it in your hands slowly twisting the latic stalks you let it flow from you you let it flow and youth is cruel and has no remorse and smiles at situations which it cannot see i smile of course and go on drinking tea yet with these april sunsets that somehow recall my buried life and paris in the spring i feel immeasurably at peace and find the world to be wonderful and youthful after all the voice returns like the insistent out of tune of a broken violin on an august afternoon i am always sure that you understand my feelings always sure that you feel sure that across the gulf you reach your hand you are invulnerable you have no achilles heel you will go on and when you have prevailed you can say at this point many a one has failed but what have i but what have i my friend to give you what can you receive from me only the friendship and the sympathy of one about to reach her journey's end i shall sit here serving tea to friends i take my hat how can i make a cowardly amends for what she has said to me you will see me in the morning in the park reading the comics and the sporting page particularly our remark in english countess goes upon the stage a greek was murdered at a polish dance another bank defaulter has confessed i keep my countenance i remain self-possessed except when a street piano mechanical and tired reiterates some worn out common song with the smell of hyacinths across the garden recalling things that other people have desired are these ideas right or wrong three the october night comes down returning as before except for a slight sensation of being ill at ease i mount the stairs and turn the handle of the door and i feel as if i had mounted on my hands and knees and so you are going abroad and when do you return but that's a useless question you hardly know when you are coming back you will find so much to learn a smile falls heavily among the bric-a-brac perhaps you can write to me my self-possession flares up for a second this is as i had...

There is not a poem TS Eliot wrote that I don't adore so I am biased in any comment here. The readings are short enough to kick start your day and inspire your own writing.

sweeney among the nightingales by t.s eliot led for libertybox.org by whanau jahangiri

happy next weeny spreads his knees getting his arms hang down to laugh the zebra stripes along his jaw swelling to immaculate giraffe the circles of the stormy moon slide westward toward the river plate death and the raven drift above and sweeney guards the hornad gate gloomy orion and the dog are the veiled and hush the shrunken seas the person in the spanish cape tries to sit and see in his knees slips and pulls the tablecloth overturns the coffee cup reorganized upon the floor she yawns and draws stocking up the silent man in mocha brown sprawls at the window sill and gapes the waiter brings in oranges bananas figs and hot house grapes the silent vertebrate in brown contracts and concentrates withdrawals rachel nay rabinowicz tears at the graves with murderous pass she and the lady in that cave are suspect thought to be in league therefore the man with heavy eyes declines the gambit shows fatigue leaves the room and reappears outside the window leaning in branches of wisteria circumscribe a golden grain

the host with someone in this thing converses at the door apart the nightingales are singing near the convent of the sacred heart and sang within the bloody wood when agamemnon cried aloud and let their liquid droppings fall to stain the stiff-dishoned shroud

end of pawn this recording is in the public domain

tags
poetry, philosophy, love, youth, wisdom, deception, loyalty, danger, infatuation, mentor, recitals, spotify-poets, live-readings, words-of-love, hope, poetry, tale-tellers, tale-teller-club, tale-teller-kids, verse,100%free, free-words, free-verse, free-spoken-word, free-poetry, classics, english-literature, audiobooks, free-books, adult-books, fiction, library, tale-teller, tale-teller-library, tale-teller-club, sarnia-de-la-mare, frsa, societyofarts, learning, learningonline, books, bookworms, educational, history, gender-studies, public-domain, free-downloads, podcast-poetry, word-smiths, spoken-word, readings, read-out-loud, talking-books, intrigue,
#poetry #spotifypoets #podcasts #rhymes #prose #free #verses #poets #prose #classics