The Well Read Poem

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 HouseofHumaneLetters.com, and to listen to our flagship podcast, head to TheLiterary.Life. You can also find free downloadable, printable files with all the poems read on the podcast on our Well Read Poem webpage.

On the 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.  

Welcome to the final episode in Season 16 of The Well Read Poem podcast! Since summer is upon us, we thought it right to present six poems written on one subject or another in some way inspired by the present season. These works are of a diversity of hands, times, and moods, and we hope that they will add something pleasant to your reading life as the days and nights grow warmer.

Today's poem is "Summer" by Christina Rossetti. Poem reading begins at timestamp 3:06 or 6:44.

To learn more about Thomas Banks, visit HouseofHumaneLetters.com, and to listen to our flagship podcast, head to TheLiterary.Life. You can also find free downloadable, printable files with all the poems read on the podcast on our Well Read Poem webpage.

Summer

by Christina Rossetti

Winter is cold-hearted,   Spring is yea and nay, Autumn is a weathercock   Blown every way: Summer days for me   When every leaf is on its tree; When Robin's not a beggar,   And Jenny Wren's a bride, And larks hang singing, singing, singing,   Over the wheat-fields wide,   And anchored lilies ride, And the pendulum spider   Swings from side to side, And blue-black beetles transact business,   And gnats fly in a host, And furry caterpillars hasten   That no time be lost, And moths grow fat and thrive, And ladybirds arrive. Before green apples blush,   Before green nuts embrown, Why, one day in the country   Is worth a month in town;   Is worth a day and a year Of the dusty, musty, lag-last fashion   That days drone elsewhere.

Welcome back to Season 16 of The Well Read Poem podcast! Since summer is upon us, we thought it right to present six poems written on one subject or another in some way inspired by the present season. These works are of a diversity of hands, times, and moods, and we hope that they will add something pleasant to your reading life as the days and nights grow warmer.

Today's poem is "On the Move" by Thom Gunn. Poem reading begins at timestamp 4:01.

To learn more about Thomas Banks, visit HouseofHumaneLetters.com, and to listen to our flagship podcast, head to TheLiterary.Life. You can also find free downloadable, printable files with all the poems read on the podcast on our Well Read Poem webpage.

On the Move

by Thom Gunn

The blue jay scuffling in the bushes follows Some hidden purpose, and the gust of birds That spurts across the field, the wheeling swallows, Has nested in the trees and undergrowth. Seeking their instinct, or their poise, or both, One moves with an uncertain violence Under the dust thrown by a baffled sense Or the dull thunder of approximate words.   On motorcycles, up the road, they come: Small, black, as flies hanging in heat, the Boys, Until the distance throws them forth, their hum Bulges to thunder held by calf and thigh. In goggles, donned impersonality, In gleaming jackets trophied with the dust, They strap in doubt – by hiding it, robust – And almost hear a meaning in their noise.   Exact conclusion of their hardiness Has no shape yet, but from known whereabouts They ride, direction where the tyres press. They scare a flight of birds across the field: Much that is natural, to the will must yield. Men manufacture both machine and soul, And use what they imperfectly control To dare a future from the taken routes.   It is a part solution, after all. One is not necessarily discord On earth; or damned because, half animal, One lacks direct instinct, because one wakes Afloat on movement that divides and breaks. One joins the movement in a valueless world, Choosing it, till, both hurler and the hurled, One moves as well, always toward, toward.   A minute holds them, who have come to go: The self-defined, astride the created will They burst away; the towns they travel through Are home for neither bird nor holiness, For birds and saints complete their purposes. At worst, one is in motion; and at best, Reaching no absolute, in which to rest, One is always nearer by not keeping still.   From Collected Poems. Copyright © 1994 by Thom Gunn. Reprinted for educational purposed only.

Welcome back to Season 16 of The Well Read Poem podcast! Since summer is upon us, we thought it right to present six poems written on one subject or another in some way inspired by the present season. These works are of a diversity of hands, times, and moods, and we hope that they will add something pleasant to your reading life as the days and nights grow warmer.

Today's poem is "Adlestrop" by Edward Thomas. Poem readings begin at timestamps 3:07 and 6:08.

To learn more about Thomas Banks, visit HouseofHumaneLetters.com, and to listen to our flagship podcast, head to TheLiterary.Life. You can also find free downloadable, printable files with all the poems read on the podcast on our Well Read Poem webpage.

Adlestrop

by Edward Thomas

Yes. I remember Adlestrop— The name, because one afternoon Of heat the express-train drew up there Unwontedly. It was late June.   The steam hissed. Someone cleared his throat. No one left and no one came On the bare platform. What I saw Was Adlestrop—only the name   And willows, willow-herb, and grass, And meadowsweet, and haycocks dry, No whit less still and lonely fair Than the high cloudlets in the sky.   And for that minute a blackbird sang Close by, and round him, mistier, Farther and farther, all the birds Of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire.

Welcome back to Season 16 of The Well Read Poem podcast! Since summer is upon us, we thought it right to present six poems written on one subject or another in some way inspired by the present season. These works are of a diversity of hands, times, and moods, and we hope that they will add something pleasant to your reading life as the days and nights grow warmer.

Today's poem is "July, 1964" by Donald Davie. Poem readings begin at timestamps 3:30 and 7:29.

To learn more about Thomas Banks, visit HouseofHumaneLetters.com, and to listen to our flagship podcast, head to TheLiterary.Life. You can also find free downloadable, printable files with all the poems read on the podcast on our Well Read Poem webpage.

 

 

Welcome back to Season 16 of The Well Read Poem podcast! Since summer is upon us, we thought it right to present six poems written on one subject or another in some way inspired by the present season. These works are of a diversity of hands, times, and moods, and we hope that they will add something pleasant to your reading life as the days and nights grow warmer.

Today's poem is "The Lonely Hunter" by William Sharp (pseudonym Fiona McLeod). Poem reading begins at timestamp 5:21.

To learn more about Thomas Banks, visit HouseofHumaneLetters.com, and to listen to our flagship podcast, head to TheLiterary.Life. You can also find free downloadable, printable files with all the poems read on the podcast on our Well Read Poem webpage.

The Lonely Hunter

by William Sharp

Green branches, green branches, I see you         beckon; I follow! Sweet is the place you guard, there in the         rowan-tree hollow. There he lies in the darkness, under the frail         white flowers, Heedless at last, in the silence, of these sweet         midsummer hours. But sweeter, it may be, the moss whereon he         is sleeping now, And sweeter the fragrant flowers that may         crown his moon-white brow: And sweeter the shady place deep in an Eden         hollow Wherein he dreams I am with him---and,         dreaming, whispers, "Follow!" Green wind from the green-gold branches,         what is the song you bring? What are all songs for me, now, who no more         care to sing? Deep in the heart of Summer, sweet is life to         me still, But my heart is a lonely hunter that hunts on         a lonely hill. Green is that hill and lonely, set far in a         shadowy place; White is the hunter's quarry, a lost-loved hu-         man face: O hunting heart, shall you find it, with arrow         of failing breath, Led o'er a green hill lonely by the shadowy         hound of Death? Green branches, green branches, you sing of         a sorrow olden, But now it is midsummer weather, earth-         young, sunripe, golden: Here I stand and I wait, here in the rowan-         tree hollow, But never a green leaf whispers, "Follow, oh,         Follow, Follow!" O never a green leaf whispers, where the         green-gold branches swing: O never a song I hear now, where one was         wont to sing Here in the heart of Summer, sweet is life to         me still, But my heart is a lonely hunter that hunts on         a lonely hill.

Welcom to Season 16 of The Well Read Poem podcast! Since summer is upon us, we thought it right to present six poems written on one subject or another in some way inspired by the present season. These works are of a diversity of hands, times, and moods, and we hope that they will add something pleasant to your reading life as the days and nights grow warmer.

Today's poem is "Summer Sun" by Robert Louis Stevenson. Poem readings begin at timestamp 4:03 and 6:17.

To learn more about Thomas Banks, visit HouseofHumaneLetters.com, and to listen to our flagship podcast, head to TheLiterary.Life. You can also find free downloadable, printable files with all the poems read on the podcast on our Well Read Poem webpage.

Summer Sun 

by Robert Louis Stevenson

Great is the sun, and wide he goes Through empty heaven without repose; And in the blue and glowing days More thick than rain he showers his rays.

Though closer still the blinds we pull To keep the shady parlour cool, Yet he will find a chink or two To slip his golden fingers through.

The dusty attic spider-clad, He, through the keyhole, maketh glad; And through the broken edge of tiles, Into the laddered hay-loft smiles.

Meantime his golden face around He bares to all the garden ground, And sheds a warm and glittering look Among the ivy's inmost nook.

Above the hills, along the blue, Round the bright air with footing true, To please the child, to paint the rose, The gardener of the World, he goes.

 

For this fifteenth season of the Well Read Poem, we are reading six poems in translation, written by a variety of ancient and modern poets. We hope that our discussion of these poems will be both interesting and instructive to anyone with an interest in literary translation as an art, and that it will serve to introduce you to a few poets whose acquaintance you have yet to make.  

Today's poem is “Happy the Man, Who Like Ulysses” by Joachim du Bellay translated by Richard Wilbur. Poem begins at timestamps 6:11 (in French) and 7:19 (in English).

Heureux qui, comme Ulysse Joachim du 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.

For this fifteenth season of the Well Read Poem, we are reading six poems in translation, written by a variety of ancient and modern poets. We hope that our discussion of these poems will be both interesting and instructive to anyone with an interest in literary translation as an art, and that it will serve to introduce you to a few poets whose acquaintance you have yet to make.  

Today's poem is “Ask Not (Odes I.11)” by Horace, translated by John Conington. Poem begins at timestamps 8:40 (in Latin) and 9:28 (in English).

Odes I.11

by Horace, trans. by John Conington

Tu ne quaesieris (scire nefas) quem mihi, quem tibi finem di dederint, Leuconoe, nec Babylonios temptaris numeros. Ut melius quicquid erit pati! Seu pluris hiemes seu tribuit Iuppiter ultimam, quae nunc oppositis debilitat pumicibus mare Tyrrhenum, sapias, vina liques et spatio brevi spem longam reseces. Dum loquimur, fugerit invida aetas: carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero.

Ask Not

Ask not (’tis forbidden knowledge), what our destined term of years,  Mine and yours; nor scan the tables of your Babylonish seers. Better far to bear the future; my Leuconoe, like the past, Whether, Jove has many winters yet to give, or this our last; This, that makes the Tyrrhene billows spend their strength against the shore. Strain your wine and prove your wisdom; life is short; should hope be more? In the moment of our talking, envious time has ebb’d away. Seize the present; trust to-morrow e’en as little as you may.

For this fifteenth season of the Well Read Poem, we are reading six poems in translation, written by a variety of ancient and modern poets. We hope that our discussion of these poems will be both interesting and instructive to anyone with an interest in literary translation as an art, and that it will serve to introduce you to a few poets whose acquaintance you have yet to make.  

Today's poem is “I Do Not Like Thee, Doctor Fell” by Martial, translated by Tom Brown. Poem begins at timestamp 7:25.

Non amo te, Sabidi

by Martial, trans. Tom Brown

Non amo te, Sabidi, nec possum dicere – quare; Hoc tantum possum dicere, non amo te.

I Do Not Like Thee, Doctor Fell

I do not like thee, Doctor Fell, The reason why I cannot tell; But this I know, and know full well, I do not like thee, Dr Fell.