Episodios

  • S18E6: "A Prayer for My Daughter" by William Butler Yeats

    S18E6: "A Prayer for My Daughter" by William Butler Yeats
    Feb 10 2025
    Welcome back to Season 18 of the Well Read Poem. During this season, we are offering our listeners six poems about family life. The poems selected for this season are quite various in style and manner, and have been chosen for the light they shed on relationships between parents and children, between husbands and wives, brothers and sisters. We hope that these readings will, in their small way, add a measure of comfort and happiness to the lives of our audience during these winter months. Today's poem is "A Prayer for My Daughter" by William Butler Yeats. Poem reading begins at timestamp 5:25. To learn more about this podcast and host Thomas Banks, visit https://www.theliterary.life/the-well-read-poem/. A Prayer for My Daughter by William Butler Yeats Once more the storm is howling, and half hid Under this cradle-hood and coverlid My child sleeps on. There is no obstacle But Gregory's Wood and one bare hill Whereby the haystack and roof-levelling wind, Bred on the Atlantic, can be stayed; And for an hour I have walked and prayed Because of the great gloom that is in my mind. I have walked and prayed for this young child an hour, And heard the sea-wind scream upon the tower, And under the arches of the bridge, and scream In the elms above the flooded stream; Imagining in excited reverie That the future years had come Dancing to a frenzied drum Out of the murderous innocence of the sea. May she be granted beauty, and yet not Beauty to make a stranger's eye distraught, Or hers before a looking-glass; for such, Being made beautiful overmuch, Consider beauty a sufficient end, Lose natural kindness, and maybe The heart-revealing intimacy That chooses right, and never find a friend. Helen, being chosen, found life flat and dull, And later had much trouble from a fool; While that great Queen that rose out of the spray, Being fatherless, could have her way, Yet chose a bandy-leggèd smith for man. It's certain that fine women eat A crazy salad with their meat Whereby the Horn of Plenty is undone. In courtesy I'd have her chiefly learned; Hearts are not had as a gift, but hearts are earned By those that are not entirely beautiful. Yet many, that have played the fool For beauty's very self, has charm made wise; And many a poor man that has roved, Loved and thought himself beloved, From a glad kindness cannot take his eyes. May she become a flourishing hidden tree, That all her thoughts may like the linnet be, And have no business but dispensing round Their magnanimities of sound; Nor but in merriment begin a chase, Nor but in merriment a quarrel. Oh, may she live like some green laurel Rooted in one dear perpetual place. My mind, because the minds that I have loved, The sort of beauty that I have approved, Prosper but little, has dried up of late, Yet knows that to be choked with hate May well be of all evil chances chief. If there's no hatred in a mind Assault and battery of the wind Can never tear the linnet from the leaf. An intellectual hatred is the worst, So let her think opinions are accursed. Have I not seen the loveliest woman born Out of the mouth of Plenty's horn, Because of her opinionated mind Barter that horn and every good By quiet natures understood For an old bellows full of angry wind? Considering that, all hatred driven hence, The soul recovers radical innocence And learns at last that it is self-delighting, Self-appeasing, self-affrighting, And that its own sweet will is heaven's will, She can, though every face should scowl And every windy quarter howl Or every bellows burst, be happy still. And may her bridegroom bring her to a house Where all's accustomed, ceremonious; For arrogance and hatred are the wares Peddled in the thoroughfares. How but in custom and in ceremony Are innocence and beauty born? Ceremony's a name for the rich horn, And custom for the spreading laurel tree.
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    13 m
  • S18E5: "To My Brothers" by John Keats

    S18E5: "To My Brothers" by John Keats
    Feb 3 2025

    Welcome back to Season 18 of the Well Read Poem. During this season, we are offering our listeners six poems about family life. The poems selected for this season are quite various in style and manner, and have been chosen for the light they shed on relationships between parents and children, between husbands and wives, brothers and sisters. We hope that these readings will, in their small way, add a measure of comfort and happiness to the lives of our audience during these winter months.

    Today's poem is "To My Brothers" by John Keats. Poem reading begins at timestamp 7:36.

    To My Brothers

    by John Keats

    Small, busy flames play through the fresh laid coals,
    And their faint cracklings o'er our silence creep
    Like whispers of the household gods that keep
    A gentle empire o'er fraternal souls.
    And while, for rhymes, I search around the poles,
    Your eyes are fix d, as in poetic sleep,
    Upon the lore so voluble and deep,
    That aye at fall of night our care condoles.
    This is your birth-day Tom, and I rejoice
    That thus it passes smoothly, quietly.
    Many such eves of gently whisp'ring noise
    May we together pass, and calmly try
    What are this world s true joys, ere the great voice,
    From its fair face, shall bid our spirits fly.
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    11 m
  • S18E4: "Satire 6, Book 1" by Horace (trans. by John Conington)

    S18E4: "Satire 6, Book 1" by Horace (trans. by John Conington)
    Jan 27 2025
    Welcome back to Season 18 of the Well Read Poem. During this season, we are offering our listeners six poems about family life. The poems selected for this season are quite various in style and manner, and have been chosen for the light they shed on relationships between parents and children, between husbands and wives, brothers and sisters. We hope that these readings will, in their small way, add a measure of comfort and happiness to the lives of our audience during these winter months. Today's poem is "Satire 6, Book 1" by Horace translated by John Conington. Poem reading begins at timestamp 5:13. Satire 6, from Book 1 Non quia, Mæcenas. by Horace, trans. John Conington THAT if, Mæcenas, none, though ne'er so blue His Tusco-Lydian blood, surpasses you? What if your grandfathers, on either hand, Father's and mother's, were in high command? Not therefore do you curl the lip of scorn At nobodies, like me, of freedman born: Far other rule is yours, of rank or birth To raise no question, so there be but worth, Convinced, and truly too, that wights unknown, Ere Servius' rise set freedmen on the throne, Despite their ancestors, not seldom came To high employment, honours, and fair fame, While great Lævinus, scion of the race That pulled down Tarquin from his pride of place, Has ne'er been valued at a poor half-crown E'en in the eyes of that wise judge, the town, That muddy source of dignity, which sees No virtue but in busts and lineal trees. Well, but for us; what thoughts should ours be, say, Removed from vulgar judgments miles away? Grant that Lævinus yet would be preferred To low-born Decius by the common herd, That censor Appius, just because I came From freedman's loins, would obelize my name— And serve me right; for 'twas my restless pride Kept me from sleeping in my own poor hide. But Glory, like a conqueror, drags behind Her glittering car the souls of all mankind; Nor less the lowly than the noble feels The onward roll of those victorious wheels. Come, tell me, Tillius, have you cause to thank The stars that gave you power, restored you rank? Ill-will, scarce audible in low estate, Gives tongue, and opens loudly, now you're great. Poor fools! they take the stripe, draw on the shoe, And hear folks asking, "Who's that fellow? who?" Just as a man with Barrus's disease, His one sole care a lady's eye to please, Whene'er he walks abroad, sets on the fair To con him over, leg, face, teeth, and hair; So he that undertakes to hold in charge Town, country, temples, all the realm at large, Gives all the world a title to enquire The antecedents of his dam or sire. "What? you to twist men's necks or scourge them, you, The son of Syrus, Dama, none knows who?" "Aye, but I sit before my colleague; he Ranks with my worthy father, not with me." And think you, on the strength of this, to rise A Paullus or Messala in our eyes? Talk of your colleague! he's a man of parts: Suppose three funerals jostle with ten carts All in the forum, still you'll hear his voice Through horn and clarion: that commends our choice. Now on myself, the freedman's son, I touch, The freedman's son, by all contemned as such, Once, when a legion followed my command, Now, when Maecenas takes me by the hand. But this and that are different: some stern judge My military rank with cause might grudge, But not your friendship, studious as you've been To choose good men, not pushing, base, or mean. In truth, to luck I care not to pretend, For 'twas not luck that mark'd me for your friend: Virgil at first, that faithful heart and true, And Varius after, named my name to you. Brought to your presence, stammeringly I told (For modesty forbade me to be bold) No vaunting tale of ancestry of pride, Of good broad acres and sleek nags to ride, But simple truth: a few brief words you say, As is your wont, and wish me a good day. Then, nine months after, graciously you send, Desire my company, and hail me friend. O, 'tis no common fortune, when one earns A friend's regard, who man from man discerns, Not by mere accident of lofty birth But by unsullied life, and inborn worth! Yet, if my nature, otherwise correct, But with some few and trifling faults is flecked, Just as a spot or mole might be to blame Upon some body else of comely frame, If none can call me miserly and mean Or tax my life with practices unclean, If I have lived unstained and unreproved (Forgive self-praise), if loving and beloved, I owe it to my father, who, though poor, Passed by the village school at his own door, The school where great tall urchins in a row, Sons of great tall centurions, used to go, With slate and satchel on their backs, to pay Their monthly quota punctual to the day, And took his boy to Rome, to learn the arts Which knight or senator to HIS imparts. Whoe'er had seen me, neat and more than neat, With slaves behind me, in the crowded street, Had surely thought a fortune fair and large, Two generations old, sustained the charge. Himself the true tried ...
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    15 m
  • S18E3: "To My Mother" by Robert Louis Stevenson

    S18E3: "To My Mother" by Robert Louis Stevenson
    Jan 20 2025

    Welcome back to Season 18 of the Well Read Poem. During this season, we are offering our listeners six poems about family life. The poems selected for this season are quite various in style and manner, and have been chosen for the light they shed on relationships between parents and children, between husbands and wives, brothers and sisters. We hope that these readings will, in their small way, add a measure of comfort and happiness to the lives of our audience during these winter months.

    Today's poem is "To My Mother" by Robert Louis Stevenson. Poem reading begins at timestamp 5:17.

    To My Mother

    by Robert Louis Stevenson

    You too, my mother, read my rhymes
    For love of unforgotten times,
    And you may chance to hear once more
    The little feet along the floor.
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    8 m
  • S18E2: "Forefathers" by Edmund Blunden

    S18E2: "Forefathers" by Edmund Blunden
    Jan 13 2025

    Welcome back to Season 18 of the Well Read Poem. During this season, we are offering our listeners six poems about family life. The poems selected for this season are quite various in style and manner, and have been chosen for the light they shed on relationships between parents and children, between husbands and wives, brothers and sisters. We hope that these readings will, in their small way, add a measure of comfort and happiness to the lives of our audience during these winter months.

    Today's poem is "Forefathers" by Edmund Blunden. Poem reading begins at timestamp .

    Forefathers

    by Edmund Blunden

    Here they went with smock and crook,
    Toiled in the sun, lolled in the shade,
    Here they mudded out the brook
    And here their hatchet cleared the glade:
    Harvest-supper woke their wit,
    Huntsmen's moon their wooings lit.

    From this church they led their brides,
    From this church themselves were led
    Shoulder-high; on these waysides
    Sat to take their beer and bread.
    Names are gone - what men they were
    These their cottages declare.

    Names are vanished, save the few
    In the old brown Bible scrawled;
    These were men of pith and thew,
    Whom the city never called;
    Scarce could read or hold a quill,
    Built the barn, the forge, the mill.

    On the green they watched their sons
    Playing till too dark to see,
    As their fathers watched them once,
    As my father once watched me;
    While the bat and beetle flew
    On the warm air webbed with dew.

    Unrecorded, unrenowned,
    Men from whom my ways begin,
    Here I know you by your ground
    But I know you not within -
    There is silence, there survives
    Not a moment of your lives.

    Like the bee that now is blown
    Honey-heavy on my hand,
    From his toppling tansy-throne
    In the green tempestuous land -
    I'm in clover now, nor know
    Who made honey long ago.
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    12 m
  • S18E1: "My Sister's Sleep" by Dante Rosetti

    S18E1: "My Sister's Sleep" by Dante Rosetti
    Jan 6 2025

    During this season, we thought it appropriate to offer our listeners six poems about family life. The poems selected for this season are quite various in style and manner, and have been chosen for the light they shed on relationships between parents and children, between husbands and wives, brothers and sisters. We hope that these readings will, in their small way, add a measure of comfort and happiness to the lives of our audience during these winter months.

    Today's poem is "My Sister's Sleep" by Dante Rosetti. Poem reading begins at timestamp 4:13.

    My Sister's Sleep

    by Dante Rosetti

    She fell asleep on Christmas Eve: At length the long-ungranted shade Of weary eyelids overweigh'd The pain nought else might yet relieve. Our mother, who had lean'd all day Over the bed from chime to chime, Then rais'd herself for the first time, And as she sat her down, did pray. Her little work-table was spread With work to finish. For the glare Made by her candle, she had care To work some distance from the bed. Without, there was a cold moon up, Of winter radiance sheer and thin; The hollow halo it was in Was like an icy crystal cup. Through the small room, with subtle sound Of flame, by vents the fireshine drove And redden'd. In its dim alcove The mirror shed a clearness round. I had been sitting up some nights, And my tired mind felt weak and blank; Like a sharp strengthening wine it drank The stillness and the broken lights. Twelve struck. That sound, by dwindling years Heard in each hour, crept off; and then The ruffled silence spread again, Like water that a pebble stirs. Our mother rose from where she sat: Her needles, as she laid them down, Met lightly, and her silken gown Settled: no other noise than that. "Glory unto the Newly Born!" So, as said angels, she did say; Because we were in Christmas Day, Though it would still be long till morn. Just then in the room over us There was a pushing back of chairs, As some who had sat unawares So late, now heard the hour, and rose. With anxious softly-stepping haste Our mother went where Margaret lay, Fearing the sounds o'erhead—should they Have broken her long watch'd-for rest! She stoop'd an instant, calm, and turn'd; But suddenly turn'd back again; And all her features seem'd in pain With woe, and her eyes gaz'd and yearn'd. For my part, I but hid my face, And held my breath, and spoke no word: There was none spoken; but I heard The silence for a little space. Our mother bow'd herself and wept: And both my arms fell, and I said, "God knows I knew that she was dead." And there, all white, my sister slept. Then kneeling, upon Christmas morn A little after twelve o'clock We said, ere the first quarter struck, "Christ's blessing on the newly born!"
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    13 m
  • S17E6: "The Dissolution of the Monasteries" by William Wordsworth

    S17E6: "The Dissolution of the Monasteries" by William Wordsworth
    Oct 7 2024

    Welcome the final poem in 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 Dissolution of the Monasteries" by William Wordsworth. Poem readings begin at timestamps 4:40 and 8:32.

    To learn more about Thomas Banks, visit https://houseofhumaneletters.com, and to listen to our flagship podcast, head to https://www.theliterary.life. You can also find free downloadable, printable files with all the poems read on the podcast on our poetry page at https://www.theliterary.life/the-well-read-poem/.
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    11 m
  • S17E5: "Poem of a Proposition of Nakedness" by Walt Whitman

    S17E5: "Poem of a Proposition of Nakedness" by Walt Whitman
    Sep 30 2024

    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 "Poem of a Proposition of Nakedness" by Walt Whitman. Poem reading begins at timestamp 2:51.

    To learn more about Thomas Banks, visit https://houseofhumaneletters.com, and to listen to our flagship podcast, head to https://www.theliterary.life. You can also find free downloadable, printable files with all the poems read on the podcast on our poetry page at https://www.theliterary.life/the-well-read-poem/.
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    12 m
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