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.

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.

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.

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.