The Well Read Poem (Thomas Banks)

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	Date	Titre	Durée
	29 Mar 2021	S2E3: "Harp Song of the Dane Women" by Rudyard Kipling	00:08:09
Welcome to Season 2 of The Well Read Poem podcast. During this season, our host, classicist and poet Thomas Banks will be reading and interpreting six poems of history. This week's poem is "Harp Song of the Dane Women" by Rudyard Kipling. Poem begins at timestamp 5:34. Harp Song of the Dane Women By Rudyard Kipling What is a woman that you forsake her, And the hearth-fire and the home-acre, To go with the old grey Widow-maker? She has no house to lay a guest in— But one chill bed for all to rest in, That the pale suns and the stray bergs nest in. She has no strong white arms to fold you, But the ten-times-fingering weed to hold you— Out on the rocks where the tide has rolled you. Yet, when the signs of summer thicken, And the ice breaks, and the birch-buds quicken, Yearly you turn from our side, and sicken— Sicken again for the shouts and the slaughters. You steal away to the lapping waters, And look at your ship in her winter-quarters. You forget our mirth, and talk at the tables, The kine in the shed and the horse in the stables— To pitch her sides and go over her cables. Then you drive out where the storm-clouds swallow, And the sound of your oar-blades, falling hollow, Is all we have left through the months to follow. Ah, what is Woman that you forsake her, And the hearth-fire and the home-acre, To go with the old grey Widow-maker ?
	25 Apr 2022	S8E6: "Ode to a Nightingale" by John Keats	00:08:04
In this eighth season of The Well Read Poem, we are reading six poems about birds. Since antiquity, birds have supplied rich material to poets, being by turns regal, charming, absurd, delicate, dangerous, and philosophical creatures. This season is dedicated to the animal lovers in our audience, particularly to Emily Raible who suggested the subject in the first place. Today's poem is "Ode to a Nightingale" by John Keats. Poem begins at timestamp 2:23. "Ode to a Nightingale" by John Keats My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, But being too happy in thine happiness,— That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees In some melodious plot Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, Singest of summer in full-throated ease. O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth, Tasting of Flora and the country green, Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth! O for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, And purple-stained mouth; That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim: Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs, Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies; Where but to think is to be full of sorrow And leaden-eyed despairs, Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. Away! away! for I will fly to thee, Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of Poesy, Though the dull brain perplexes and retards: Already with thee! tender is the night, And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays; But here there is no light, Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves; And mid-May's eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. Darkling I listen; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy! Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain— To thy high requiem become a sod. Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! No hungry generations tread thee down; The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown: Perhaps the self-same song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, She stood in tears amid the alien corn; The same that oft-times hath Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. Forlorn! the very word is like a bell To toll me back from thee to my sole self! Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf. Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep In the next valley-glades: Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?
	19 Feb 2024	S15E2: “Marsyas” by Jose-Maria de Heredia (trans. by Thomas Banks)	00:08:40
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 pride With 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.
	09 Aug 2021	S4E6: "The Blinded Bird" by Thomas Hardy	00:10:03
Welcome to Season 4 of The Well Read Poem with poet and classicist Thomas Banks. This series of poetry readings will focus on poems having animals as the subject. Some poems will be by well known poets, while others will be by less popular poets. This week’s poem is “The Blinded Bird” by Thomas Hardy. A late Victorian author, Hardy was known for his rather pessimistic writing as well as his defense of the beautiful, innocent and weak creatures of the world. Poem begins at timestamp 7:59. Check out our sister podcast, The Literary Life Podcast, for more great discussions of literature! The Blinded Bird By Thomas Hardy So zestfully canst thou sing? And all this indignity, With God's consent, on thee! Blinded ere yet a-wing By the red-hot needle thou, I stand and wonder how So zestfully thou canst sing! Resenting not such wrong, Thy grievous pain forgot, Eternal dark thy lot, Groping thy whole life long; After that stab of fire; Enjailed in pitiless wire; Resenting not such wrong! Who hath charity? This bird. Who suffereth long and is kind, Is not provoked, though blind And alive ensepulchred? Who hopeth, endureth all things? Who thinketh no evil, but sings? Who is divine? This bird.
	05 Jul 2021	S4E1: "Auguries of Innocence" by William Blake	00:10:03
Welcome to Season 4 of The Well Read Poem with poet and classicist Thomas Banks. This series of poetry readings will focus on poems having animals as the subject. Some poems will be by well known poets, while others will be by less popular poets. This first week’s poem is by William Blake, the somewhat mystic and apocalyptic painter and poet. Thomas reads a selection from Auguries of Innocence due to its length. Poem begins at timestamp 7:12. Check out our sister podcast, The Literary Life Podcast, for more great discussions of literature! Auguries of Innocence By William Blake To see a World in a Grain of Sand And a Heaven in a Wild Flower Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand And Eternity in an hour A Robin Red breast in a Cage Puts all Heaven in a Rage A Dove house filld with Doves & Pigeons Shudders Hell thr' all its regions A dog starvd at his Masters Gate Predicts the ruin of the State A Horse misusd upon the Road Calls to Heaven for Human blood Each outcry of the hunted Hare A fibre from the Brain does tear A Skylark wounded in the wing A Cherubim does cease to sing The Game Cock clipd & armd for fight Does the Rising Sun affright Every Wolfs & Lions howl Raises from Hell a Human Soul The wild deer, wandring here & there Keeps the Human Soul from Care The Lamb misusd breeds Public Strife And yet forgives the Butchers knife The Bat that flits at close of Eve Has left the Brain that wont Believe The Owl that calls upon the Night Speaks the Unbelievers fright He who shall hurt the little Wren Shall never be belovd by Men He who the Ox to wrath has movd Shall never be by Woman lovd The wanton Boy that kills the Fly Shall feel the Spiders enmity He who torments the Chafers Sprite Weaves a Bower in endless Night The Catterpiller on the Leaf Repeats to thee thy Mothers grief Kill not the Moth nor Butterfly For the Last Judgment draweth nigh…
	03 Oct 2022	S9E6: "Loveliest of Trees" by A. E. Houseman	00:08:42
In this ninth season, we are reading six poems about the four seasons of the year. English verse especially is abundant in celebrations, odes, and meditative poems about the divisions of the year and the visible changes in nature that attend them. Over the next several weeks, we will take a look at some fine examples of seasonal poetry. Today's selection is "Loveliest of Trees" by A. E. Houseman; poem begins at timestamp 6:10. *Loveliest of Trees* by A. E. Houseman Loveliest of trees, the cherry now Is hung with bloom along the bough, And stands about the woodland ride Wearing white for Eastertide. Now, of my threescore years and ten, Twenty will not come again, And take from seventy springs a score, It only leaves me fifty more. And since to look at things in bloom Fifty springs are little room, About the woodlands I will go To see the cherry hung with snow.
	19 Sep 2022	S9E4: "To Autumn" by John Keats	00:07:24
In this ninth season, we are reading six poems about the four seasons of the year. English verse especially is abundant in celebrations, odes, and meditative poems about the divisions of the year and the visible changes in nature that attend them. Over the next several weeks, we will take a look at some fine examples of seasonal poetry. Today's selection is "To Autumn" by John Keats; poem begins at timestamp 2:34. *To Autumn* by John Keats Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run; To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease, For summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells. Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep, Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers: And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook; Or by a cyder-press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours. Where are the songs of spring? Ay, Where are they? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,— While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river sallows, borne aloft Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft; And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
	27 Sep 2021	S5E5: "Alexander" by Walter de la Mare	00:09:03
Welcome to Season 5 of The Well Read Poem with poet and classicist Thomas Banks. Throughout this season, we will be exploring the poetry of Walter de la Mare. De la Mare was a great Gothic writer and was very interested in the atmosphere of the uncanny. Poem begins at timestamp 2:33. Check out our sister podcast, The Literary Life Podcast, for more great discussions of literature! Alexander By Walter de la Mare It was the Great Alexander, Capped with a golden helm, Sate in the ages, in his floating ship, In a dead calm. Voices of sea-maids singing Wandered across the deep: The sailors labouring on their oars Rowed as in sleep. All the high pomp of Asia, Charmed by that siren lay, Out of their weary and dreaming minds Faded away. Like a bold boy sate their Captain, His glamour withered and gone, In the souls of his brooding mariners, While the song pined on. Time like a falling dew, Life like the scene of a dream Laid between slumber and slumber Only did seem. . . . O Alexander, then, In all us mortals too, Wax not so overbold On the wave dark-blue! Come the calm starry night, Who then will hear Aught save the singing Of the sea-maids clear?
	18 Sep 2023	S13E6: “The English War” by Dorothy L. Sayers	00:07:39
For the thirteenth season of the Well Read Poem, we will be reading six poems about war. War is, of course, one of the oldest subjects that has inspired the imagination of poets. The first of our great epics has at its center the war of the Greeks against the Trojans and the deadly hatreds it inspires. In times neare to our own, poets have written about war both with enthusiasm and delight, as well as skepticism and horror at its brutalities. The poems we will share this season cover the span of many centuries. Today's poem is "The English War" by Dorothy L. Sayers. Poem begins at timestamp 3:55. “The English War” by Dorothy L. Sayers Praise God, now, for an English war The grey tide and the sullen coast, The menace of the urgent hour, The single island, like a tower, Ringed with an angry host. This is the war that England knows, When all the world holds but one man King Philip of the galleons, Louis, whose light outshone the sun’s, The conquering Corsican. When Europe, like a prison door, Clangs, and the swift, enfranchised sea runs narrower than a village brook; And men who love us not, yet look To us for liberty; When no allies are left, no help to count upon from alien hands, No waverers remain to woo, No more advice to listen to, And only England stands. This is the war we always knew, When every county keeps her own, When Kent stands sentry in the lane And Fenland guards her dyke and drain, Cornwall, her cliffs of stone; When from the Cinque Ports and the Wight, From Plymouth Sound and Bristol Town, There comes a noise that breaks our sleep, Of the deep calling to the deep Where the ships go up and down. And near and far across the world Hold open wide the water-gates, And all the tall adventurers come Homeward to England, and Drake’s drum Is beaten through the Straits. This is the war that we have known And fought in every hundred years, Our sword, upon the last, steep path, Forged by the hammer of our wrath On the anvil of our fears. Send us, O God, the will and power To do as we have done before; The men that ride the sea and air are the same men their fathers were To fight the English war. And send, O God, an English peace – Some sense, some decency, perhaps Some justice, too, if we are able, With no sly jackals round our table, Cringing for blood-stained scraps; No dangerous dreams of wishful men Whose homes are safe, who never feel The flying death that swoops and stuns, The kisses of the curtseying guns Slavering their street with steel; No dream, Lord God, but vigilance, That we may keep, by might and main, Inviolate seas, inviolate skies – But if another tyrant rise, Then we shall fight again.
	11 Sep 2023	S13E5: "The Burial of Sir John Moore after Corunna" by Charles Wolfe	00:09:14
For the thirteenth season of the Well Read Poem, we will be reading six poems about war. War is, of course, one of the oldest subjects that has inspired the imagination of poets. The first of our great epics has at its center the war of the Greeks against the Trojans and the deadly hatreds it inspires. In times neare to our own, poets have written about war both with enthusiasm and delight, as well as skepticism and horror at its brutalities. The poems we will share this season cover the span of many centuries. Today's poem is "The Burial of Sir John Moore after Corunna" by Charles Wolfe. Poem begins at timestamp 4:40. “The Burial of Sir John Moore after Corunna” by Charles Wolfe Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero was buried. We buried him darkly at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning, By the struggling moonbeam's misty light And the lantern dimly burning. No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest With his martial cloak around him. Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow. We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow! Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him — But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him. But half of our heavy task was done When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing. Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory!
	01 Jul 2024	S16E5: "On the Move" by Thom Gunn	00:11:19
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.
	27 Feb 2023	S11E6: "On Shakespeare" by John Milton	00:11:25
Welcome back to our final poem in this eleventh season of the Well-Read Poem! In this series we have been reading poems about writers, by writers, some of them well-known, some of them not as well known. Our aim in this season is to give listeners some insight into the lives, minds, and imaginations of authors long deceased, and some understanding of what they have meant to their fellow scribes. Today's poem is “On Shakespeare, 1630” by John Milton. Poem begins at timestamp 5:17. On Shakespeare, 1630 by John Milton What needs my Shakespeare for his honoured bones, The labor of an age in pilèd stones, Or that his hallowed relics should be hid Under a star-ypointing pyramid? Dear son of Memory, great heir of fame, What need’st thou such weak witness of thy name? Thou in our wonder and astonishment Hast built thyself a live-long monument. For whilst to th’ shame of slow-endeavouring art, Thy easy numbers flow, and that each heart Hath from the leaves of thy unvalued book Those Delphic lines with deep impression took, Then thou, our fancy of itself bereaving, Dost make us marble with too much conceiving; And so sepúlchred in such pomp dost lie, That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.
	15 May 2023	S12E6: Idea 61, "Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part" by Michael Drayton	00:11:52
For the twelfth season of the Well-Read Poem, we are reading four poems by William Shakespeare, whose genius as a lyric poet is best appreciated in his collection of 154 sonnets. Shakespeare is of course the supreme dramatic poet of the English language; yet if only his sonnets and shorter poems had survived out of his great body of work, it is not too much to say that he may still have enjoyed a certain literary immortality, albeit of a different sort. In addition to four sonnets by Shakespeare, we will be taking a look at two sonnets by fellow Elizabethan poets, to give a sense of the popularity of this verse form in Shakespeare's day. Today's poem is Idea 61: "Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part," by Michael Drayton. Poem begins at timestamp 8:14. Idea 61: Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part by Michael Drayton Since there’s no help, come let us kiss and part. Nay, I have done, you get no more of me; And I am glad, yea glad with all my heart, That thus so cleanly I myself can free. Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows, And when we meet at any time again, Be it not seen in either of our brows That we one jot of former love retain. Now at the last gasp of Love’s latest breath, When, his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies; When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death, And Innocence is closing up his eyes— Now, if thou wouldst, when all have given him over, From death to life thou might’st him yet recover!
	21 Aug 2023	S13E2: “To Pompeius” Ode 2.7 by Horace, trans. by John Davidson	00:15:36
For the thirteenth season of the Well Read Poem, we are reading six poems about war. War is, of course, one of the oldest subjects that has inspired the imagination of poets. The first of our great epics has at its center the war of the Greeks against the Trojans and the deadly hatreds it inspires. In times neare to our own, poets have written about war both with enthusiasm and delight, as well as skepticism and horror at its brutalities. The poems we will share this season cover the span of many centuries. Today's poem is “To Pompeius” Ode 2,7 by Horace, translated by John Davidson. Poem begins at timestamp 12:55.
	30 Aug 2021	S5E1: "All That's Past" by Walter de la Mare	00:08:04
Welcome to Season 5 of The Well Read Poem with poet and classicist Thomas Banks. Throughout this season, we will be exploring the poetry of Walter de la Mare. De la Mare was a poet's poet and wrote across a variety of genres but is not as well known today as he deserves to be. Poem begins at timestamp 5:57. Check out our sister podcast, The Literary Life Podcast, for more great discussions of literature! All That's Past By Walter de la Mare VERY old are the woods; And the buds that break Out of the briar's boughs, When March winds wake, So old with their beauty are-- Oh, no man knows Through what wild centuries Roves back the rose. Very old are the brooks; And the rills that rise Where snow sleeps cold beneath The azure skies Sing such a history Of come and gone, Their every drop is as wise As Solomon. Very old are we men; Our dreams are tales Told in dim Eden By Eve's nightingales; We wake and whisper awhile, But, the day gone by, Silence and sleep like fields Of amaranth lie.
	17 Jun 2024	S16E3: "July, 1964" by Donald Davie	00:09:49
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.
	06 Dec 2021	S6E5: “A Satire Against Mankind” by John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester	00:10:34
In this sixth season of The Well Read Poem, we will read a number of examples of classic satire in verse. English poetry is particularly rich in satire, and we will take a close look at some of the best instances of literary mockery that the past several centuries have bequeathed to us. Some of these are playfully teasing, while others are deliberately savage. All of them taken together, I trust, will provide a happy introduction to the fine art of verbal annihilation. Today’s poem is a selection from “A Satire Against Mankind” by John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester. Poem begins at timestamp 3:50. Selection from “A Satire Against Mankind” by John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester Were I - who to my cost already am One of those strange, prodigious creatures, man - A spirit free to choose for my own share What sort of flesh and blood I pleased to wear, I'd be a dog, a monkey, or a bear, Or anything but that vain animal, Who is so proud of being rational. His senses are too gross; and he'll contrive A sixth, to contradict the other five; And before certain instinct will prefer Reason, which fifty times for one does err. Reason, an ignis fatuus of the mind, Which leaving light of nature, sense, behind, Pathless and dangerous wand'ring ways it takes, Through Error's fenny bogs and thorny brakes; Whilst the misguided follower climbs with pain Mountains of whimsey's, heaped in his own brain; Stumbling from thought to thought, falls headlong down, Into Doubt's boundless sea where, like to drown, Books bear him up awhile, and make him try To swim with bladders of Philosophy; In hopes still to o'ertake the escaping light; The vapour dances, in his dancing sight, Till spent, it leaves him to eternal night. Then old age and experience, hand in hand, Lead him to death, make him to understand, After a search so painful, and so long, That all his life he has been in the wrong: Huddled In dirt the reasoning engine lies, Who was so proud, so witty, and so wise.
	29 Nov 2021	S6E4: “To a Poet, Who Would Have Me Praise Certain Bad Poets, Imitator of His and Mine” by William Butler Yeats	00:08:38
In this sixth season of The Well Read Poem, we will read a number of examples of classic satire in verse. English poetry is particularly rich in satire, and we will take a close look at some of the best instances of literary mockery that the past several centuries have bequeathed to us. Some of these are playfully teasing, while others are deliberately savage. All of them taken together, I trust, will provide a happy introduction to the fine art of verbal annihilation. Today’s poem is “To a Poet, Who Would Have Me Praise Certain Bad Poets, Imitator of His and Mine” by William Butler Yeats. Poem begins at timestamp 7:01. To a Poet, Who Would Have Me Praise Certain Bad Poets, Imitator of His and Mine by William Butler Yeats YOU say, as I have often given tongue In praise of what another's said or sung, 'Twere politic to do the like by these; But was there ever dog that praised his fleas?
	07 Jun 2021	S3E5: "Epitaph on a Tyrant" by W. H. Auden	00:09:36
Welcome to Season 3 of The Well Read Poem podcast. In this third season we will explore six lyric poems by the great English modernist W. H. Auden. The study of Auden’s poetry is in many respects a study of the 20th Century itself, and of its religious, philosophical, and political concerns. Auden was one of the great chroniclers of the so-called “Age of Anxiety,” a term he coined, and a brilliant and sympathetic analyst of modern man’s fears and hopes, beliefs and unbeliefs. Poem begins at timestamp 7:58. Epitaph on a Tyrant by W. H. Auden Perfection, of a kind, was what he was after, And the poetry he invented was easy to understand; He knew human folly like the back of his hand, And was greatly interested in armies and fleets; When he laughed, respectable senators burst with laughter, And when he cried the little children died in the streets.
	22 Mar 2021	S2E2: "The Wife of Flanders" by G. K. Chesterton	00:13:11
Welcome to Season 2 of The Well Read Poem podcast. During this season, our host, classicist and poet Thomas Banks will be reading and interpreting six poems of history. This week's poem is "The Wife of Flanders" by G. K. Chesterton. Poem begins at timestamp 3:58. The Wife of Flanders by G. K. Chesterton Low and brown barns, thatched and repatched and tattered, Where I had seven sons until to-day, A little hill of hay your spur has scattered. . . . This is not Paris. You have lost your way. You, staring at your sword to find it brittle, Surprised at the surprise that was your plan, Who, shaking and breaking barriers not a little, Find never more the death-door of Sedan — Must I for more than carnage call you claimant, Paying you a penny for each son you slay? Man, the whole globe in gold were no repayment For what you have lost. And how shall I repay? What is the price of that red spark that caught me From a kind farm that never had a name? What is the price of that dead man they brought me? For other dead men do not look the same. How should I pay for one poor graven steeple Whereon you shattered what you shall not know? How should I pay you, miserable people? How should I pay you everything you owe? Unhappy, can I give you back your honour? Though I forgave, would any man forget? While all the great green land has trampled on her The treason and terror of the night we met. Not any more in vengeance or in pardon An old wife bargains for a bean that’s hers. You have no word to break: no heart to harden. Ride on and prosper. You have lost your spurs.
	23 Sep 2024	S17E4: "To a Republican Friend" by Matthew Arnold	00:11:52
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 "To a Republican Friend" by Matthew Arnold. Poem readings begin at timestamps 5:27 and 9:52. 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/.
	20 Sep 2021	S5E4: "Polonius" by Walter de la Mare	00:09:29
Welcome to Season 5 of The Well Read Poem with poet and classicist Thomas Banks. Throughout this season, we will be exploring the poetry of Walter de la Mare. De la Mare was a great Gothic writer and was very interested in the atmosphere of the uncanny. Poem begins at timestamp 7:04. Check out our sister podcast, The Literary Life Podcast, for more great discussions of literature! Polonius By Walter de la Mare There haunts in Time's bare house an active ghost, Enamoured of his name, Polonius. He moves small fingers much, and all his speech Is like a sampler of precisest words, Set in the pattern of a simpleton. His mirth floats eerily down chill corridors; His sigh — it is a sound that loves a keyhole; His tenderness a faint court-tarnished thing; His wisdom prates as from a wicker cage; His very belly is a pompous nought; His eye a page that hath forgot his errand. Yet in his bran — his spiritual bran — Lies hid a child's demure, small, silver whistle Which, to his horror, God blows, unawares, And sets men staring. It is sad to think, Might he but don indeed thin flesh and blood, And pace important to Law's inmost room, He would see, much marvelling, one immensely wise, Named Bacon, who, at sound of his youth's step, Would turn and call him Cousin — for the likeness.
	29 Aug 2022	S9E1: "The Rhodora" by Ralph Waldo Emerson	00:07:21
In this ninth season, we are going to read six poems about the four seasons of the year. English verse especially is abundant in celebrations, odes, and meditative poems about the divisions of the year and the visible changes in nature that attend them. Over the next several weeks, we will take a look at some fine examples of seasonal poetry. Today's selection is "The Rhodora" by Ralph Waldo Emerson; poem begins at timestamp 5:07. *The Rhodora* by Ralph Waldo Emerson On being asked, whence is the flower. In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes, I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods, Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook, To please the desert and the sluggish brook. The purple petals fallen in the pool Made the black water with their beauty gay; Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool, And court the flower that cheapens his array. Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why This charm is wasted on the earth and sky, Tell them, dear, that, if eyes were made for seeing, Then beauty is its own excuse for Being; Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose! I never thought to ask; I never knew; But in my simple ignorance suppose The self-same power that brought me there, brought you.
	04 Oct 2021	S5E6: "Summer Evening" by Walter de la Mare	00:08:25
Welcome to Season 5 of The Well Read Poem with poet and classicist Thomas Banks. Throughout this season, we will be exploring the poetry of Walter de la Mare. De la Mare was a great Gothic writer and was very interested in the atmosphere of the uncanny. Poem begins at timestamp 2:50. Check out our sister podcast, The Literary Life Podcast, for more great discussions of literature! Summer Evening By Walter de la Mare The sandy cat by the Farmer's chair Mews at his knee for dainty fare; Old Rover in his moss-greened house Mumbles a bone, and barks at a mouse; In the dewy fields the cattle lie Chewing the cud 'neath a fading sky; Dobbin at manger pulls his hay: Gone is another summer's day.
	12 Feb 2024	S15E1: "On His Brother's Death" by Catullus (trans. by Aubrey Beardsley)	00:12:51
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.
	21 Mar 2022	S8E1: "Les Hiboux (The Owls)" by Charles Baudelaire	00:10:35
In this eighth season of The Well Read Poem, we will be reading six poems about birds. Since antiquity, birds have supplied rich material to poets, being by turns regal, charming, absurd, delicate, dangerous, and philosophical creatures. This season is dedicated to the animal lovers in our audience, particularly to Emily Raible who suggested the subject in the first place. Today's poem is "Les Hiboux (The Owls)" by Charles Baudelaire, translated from the original French by Roy Campbell. Poem begins at timestamp 8:38. "Les Hiboux (The Owls)" by Charles Baudelaire (trans. Roy Campbell) Within the shelter of black yews The owls in ranks are ranged apart Like foreign gods, whose eyeballs dart Red fire. They meditate and muse. Without a stir they will remain Till, in its melancholy hour, Thrusting the level sun from power, The shade establishes its reign. Their attitude instructs the sage, Content with what is near at hand, To shun all motion, strife, and rage. Men, crazed with shadows that they chase, Bear, as a punishment, the brand Of having wished to change their place.
	04 Sep 2023	S13E4: "Into Battle" by Julian Grenfell	00:08:19
For the thirteenth season of the Well Read Poem, we will be reading six poems about war. War is, of course, one of the oldest subjects that has inspired the imagination of poets. The first of our great epics has at its center the war of the Greeks against the Trojans and the deadly hatreds it inspires. In times neare to our own, poets have written about war both with enthusiasm and delight, as well as skepticism and horror at its brutalities. The poems we will share this season cover the span of many centuries. Today's poem is "Into Battle" by Julian Grenfell. Poem begins at timestamp 3:46. “Into Battle” by Julian Grenfell The naked earth is warm with Spring, And with green grass and bursting trees Leans to the sun's gaze glorying, And quivers in the sunny breeze; And life is Colour and Warmth and Light, And a striving evermore for these; And he is dead who will not fight, And who dies fighting has increase. The fighting man shall from the sun Take warmth, and life from glowing earth; Speed with the light-foot winds to run And with the trees to newer birth; And find, when fighting shall be done, Great rest, and fulness after dearth. All the bright company of Heaven Hold him in their bright comradeship, The Dog star, and the Sisters Seven, Orion's belt and sworded hip: The woodland trees that stand together, They stand to him each one a friend; They gently speak in the windy weather; They guide to valley and ridges end. The kestrel hovering by day, And the little owls that call by night, Bid him be swift and keen as they, As keen of ear, as swift of sight. The blackbird sings to him: "Brother, brother, If this be the last song you shall sing, Sing well, for you may not sing another; Brother, sing." In dreary doubtful waiting hours, Before the brazen frenzy starts, The horses show him nobler powers; — O patient eyes, courageous hearts! And when the burning moment breaks, And all things else are out of mind, And only joy of battle takes Him by the throat and makes him blind, Through joy and blindness he shall know, Not caring much to know, that still Nor lead nor steel shall reach him, so That it be not the Destined Will. The thundering line of battle stands, And in the air Death moans and sings; But Day shall clasp him with strong hands, And Night shall fold him in soft wings.
	28 Aug 2023	S13E3: “To Lucasta, on Going to the Wars” by Richard Lovelace	00:10:08
For the thirteenth season of the Well Read Poem, we will be reading six poems about war. War is, of course, one of the oldest subjects that has inspired the imagination of poets. The first of our great epics has at its center the war of the Greeks against the Trojans and the deadly hatreds it inspires. In times neare to our own, poets have written about war both with enthusiasm and delight, as well as skepticism and horror at its brutalities. The poems we will share this season cover the span of many centuries. Today's poem is “To Lucasta, on Going to the Wars” by Richard Lovelace. Poem begins at timestamp 8:24. “To Lucasta, on Going to the Wars” by Richard Lovelace Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind, That from the nunnery Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind To war and arms I fly. True, a new mistress now I chase, The first foe in the field; And with a stronger faith embrace A sword, a horse, a shield. Yet this inconstancy is such As thou, too, shalt adore; I could not love thee, Dear, so much, Loved I not Honor more.
	24 Jan 2022	S7E3: "Mother, I cannot Mind my Wheel" by Walter Savage Landor	00:06:37
In this seventh season, we are going to read six poems about romantic love. Love may seem to be the most fundamental subject for poetry, but interestingly, it is not. When we consider the great poetic traditions of almost any people, we find that love is by no means the first matter that has inspired their poets. The poems we will read together come from several different periods in time, and I would like to examine, among other things, how the language of romance has changed in the English-speaking world over the centuries. Today's piece is "Mother, I cannot Mind my Wheel" by Walter Savage Landor. Poem begins at timestamp . Mother, I cannot Mind my Wheel BY WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR Mother, I cannot mind my wheel; My fingers ache, my lips are dry: Oh! if you felt the pain I feel! But Oh, who ever felt as I! No longer could I doubt him true; All other men may use deceit: He always said my eyes were blue, And often swore my lips were sweet.
	10 Jan 2022	S7E1: "A Farewell to Arms" by George Peele	00:10:21
In this seventh season, we are going to read six poems about romantic love. Love may seem to be the most fundamental subject for poetry, but interestingly, it is not. When we consider the great poetic traditions of almost any people, we find that love is by no means the first matter that has inspired their poets. The poems we will read together come from several different periods in time, and I would like to examine, among other things, how the language of romance has changed in the English-speaking world over the centuries. Today's piece is "A Farewell to Arms" by George Peele. Poem begins at timestamp 5:28. A Farewell to Arms by George Peele HIS golden locks Time hath to silver turn’d; O Time too swift, O swiftness never ceasing! His youth ’gainst time and age hath ever spurn’d, But spurn’d in vain; youth waneth by increasing: Beauty, strength, youth, are flowers but fading seen; Duty, faith, love, are roots, and ever green. His helmet now shall make a hive for bees; And, lovers’ sonnets turn’d to holy psalms, A man-at-arms must now serve on his knees, And feed on prayers, which are Age his alms: But though from court to cottage he depart, His Saint is sure of his unspotted heart. And when he saddest sits in homely cell, He’ll teach his swains this carol for a song,— ‘Blest be the hearts that wish my sovereign well, Curst be the souls that think her any wrong.’ Goddess, allow this aged man his right To be your beadsman now that was your knight.
	28 Nov 2022	S10E2: "Men Who March Away" by Thomas Hardy	00:07:03
In this tenth season of The Well Read Poem podcast, we are going to read six poems about the blessings and curses of labor. Work is a thing we both enjoy and dislike, and some professions are easier for poets to draw inspiration from than others. These poems come from different ages of literary history, and hopefully will leave the reader with a sense of what work has meant to different minds over the course of the centuries. Today's selection is "Men Who March Away" by Thomas Hardy; poem begins at timestamp 3:07. *Men Who March Away* by Thomas Hardy What of the faith and fire within us Men who march away Ere the barn-cocks say Night is growing gray, Leaving all that here can win us; What of the faith and fire within us Men who march away? Is it a purblind prank, O think you, Friend with the musing eye, Who watch us stepping by With doubt and dolorous sigh? Can much pondering so hoodwink you! Is it a purblind prank, O think you, Friend with the musing eye? Nay. We well see what we are doing, Though some may not see— Dalliers as they be— England's need are we; Her distress would leave us rueing: Nay. We well see what we are doing, Though some may not see! In our heart of hearts believing Victory crowns the just, And that braggarts must Surely bite the dust, Press we to the field ungrieving, In our heart of hearts believing Victory crowns the just. Hence the faith and fire within us Men who march away Ere the barn-cocks say Night is growing gray, Leaving all that here can win us; Hence the faith and fire within us Men who march away.
	15 Mar 2021	S2E1: "Constantinople" by J. C. Squire	00:10:26
Welcome to Season 2 of The Well Read Poem podcast. During this season, our host, classicist and poet Thomas Banks will be reading and interpreting six poems of history. This week's poem is "Constantinople" by J. C. Squire. Poem begins at timestamp 4:29. Constantinople by Sir John Collings Squire JUSTINIAN. Does the church stand I raised Against the unchristened East? Still do my ancient altars bear The sacrificial feast? My jewels are they bright, My marbles and my paint, Wherewith I glorified the Lord And many a martyred Saint? And does my dome still float Above the Golden Horn? And do my priests on Christmas Day Still sing that Christ was born? EUROPE. Though dust your house, Justinian, Still stands your lordliest shrine, But the dark men who walk therein, Know not of bread nor wine. They fell long since upon your stones, And made your colours dim, Their priests who pray on Christmas Day They sing no Christmas hymn. But a voice at evening goes From every climbing tower, Crying a word you never heard, A name of desert power. CONSTANTINE PALAEOLOGUS. For seven hundred years We gripped a weakening blade, Keeping the gateway of the West With none to give us aid. Till at the last they broke What Constantine had built, And by the shattered wall the blood Of Constantine was spilt. Do men remember still The manner of my death, How after all those failing years I at the last kept faith? They know it for a bygone thing True but indifferent, For many a fight has come to pass Since to the wall you went. Westward and northward, Emperor, Poured on that bloody brood, Till those must turn to save themselves Who had known not gratitude. One fought them on the Middle Sea, One at Vienna's gate, And then the kings of Christendom Watched the red tide abate. Till in the end Byzantium Heard a returning war; But still a Mehmet holds your tomb ... Keep silence ... ask no more.
	25 Jan 2021	S1E2: "To the Old Gods" by Edwin Muir	00:09:37
Because reading is interpretation, The Well Read Poem aims to teach you how to read with understanding! Hosted by poet Thomas Banks of The House of Humane Letters, these short episodes will introduce you to both well-known and obscure poets and will focus on daily recitation, historical and intellectual background, elements of poetry, light explication, and more! Play this podcast daily and practice reciting! The next week, get a new poem. Grow in your understanding and love of poetry by learning how to read well! Brought to you by The Literary Life Podcast. Poem begins at 3:28. To the Old Gods by Edwin Muir Old gods and goddesses who have lived so long Through time and never found eternity, Fettered by wasting wood and hollowing hill, You should have fled our ever-dying song, The mound, the well, and the green trysting tree. They have forgotten, yet you linger still, Goddess of caverned breast and channeled brow, And cheeks slow hollowed by millennial tears, Forests of autumns fading in your eyes, Eternity marvels at your counted years And kingdoms lost in time, and wonders how There could be thoughts so bountiful and wise As yours beneath the ever-breaking bough, And vast compassion curving like the skies.
	04 Apr 2022	S8E3: "The Oven Bird" by Robert Frost	00:09:50
In this eighth season of The Well Read Poem, we are reading six poems about birds. Since antiquity, birds have supplied rich material to poets, being by turns regal, charming, absurd, delicate, dangerous, and philosophical creatures. This season is dedicated to the animal lovers in our audience, particularly to Emily Raible who suggested the subject in the first place. Today's poem is "The Oven Bird" by Robert Frost. Poem begins at timestamp 3:42. "The Oven Bird" by Robert Frost There is a singer everyone has heard, Loud, a mid-summer and a mid-wood bird, Who makes the solid tree trunks sound again. He says that leaves are old and that for flowers Mid-summer is to spring as one to ten. He says the early petal-fall is past When pear and cherry bloom went down in showers On sunny days a moment overcast; And comes that other fall we name the fall. He says the highway dust is over all. The bird would cease and be as other birds But that he knows in singing not to sing. The question that he frames in all but words Is what to make of a diminished thing.
	13 Sep 2021	S5E3: "Breughel's Winter" by Walter de la Mare	00:08:42
Welcome to Season 5 of The Well Read Poem with poet and classicist Thomas Banks. Throughout this season, we will be exploring the poetry of Walter de la Mare. De la Mare was a great Gothic writer and was very interested in the atmosphere of the uncanny. Poem begins at timestamp 6:25. Check out our sister podcast, The Literary Life Podcast, for more great discussions of literature! Breughel's Winter By Walter de la Mare Jagg'd mountain peaks and skies ice-green Wall in the wild, cold scene below. Churches, farms, bare copse, the sea In freezing quiet of winter show; Where ink-black shapes on fields in flood Curling, skating, and sliding go. To left, a gabled tavern; a blaze; Peasants; a watching child; and lo, Muffled, mute--beneath naked trees In sharp perspective set a-row-- Trudge huntsmen, sinister spears aslant, Dogs snuffling behind them in the snow; And arrowlike, lean, athwart the air Swoops into space a crow. But flame, nor ice, nor piercing rock, Nor silence, as of a frozen sea, Nor that slant inward infinite line Of signboard, bird, and hill, and tree, Give more than subtle hint of him Who squandered here life's mystery.
	31 May 2021	S3E4: "Luther" by W. H. Auden	00:10:12
Welcome to Season 3 of The Well Read Poem podcast. In this third season we will explore six lyric poems by the great English modernist W. H. Auden. The study of Auden’s poetry is in many respects a study of the 20th Century itself, and of its religious, philosophical, and political concerns. Auden was one of the great chroniclers of the so-called “Age of Anxiety,” a term he coined, and a brilliant and sympathetic analyst of modern man’s fears and hopes, beliefs and unbeliefs. Poem begins at timestamp 8:10. Luther by W. H. Auden With conscience cocked to listen for the thunder, He saw the Devil busy in the wind, Over the chiming steeples and then under The doors of nuns and doctors who had sinned. What apparatus could stave off disaster Or cut the brambles of man's error down? Flesh was a silent dog that bites its master, World a still pond in which its children drown. The fuse of Judgement spluttered in his head: "Lord, smoke these honeyed insects from their hives. All Works, Great Men, Societies are bad. The Just shall live by Faith..." he cried in dread. And men and women of the world were glad, Who'd never cared or trembled in their lives.
	05 Sep 2022	S9E2: "Sumer is I-cumin In" by Anonymous	00:06:29
In this ninth season, we are reading six poems about the four seasons of the year. English verse especially is abundant in celebrations, odes, and meditative poems about the divisions of the year and the visible changes in nature that attend them. Over the next several weeks, we will take a look at some fine examples of seasonal poetry. Today's selection is "Sumer is i-cumin in" by an anonymous Englishman of the Middle Ages; poem begins at timestamp 1:34. *Sumer is i-cumin in* by Anonymous Sumer is i-cumin in— Lhude sing, cuccu! Groweth sed and bloweth med And springth the wude nu. Sing, cuccu! Awe bleteth after lomb, Lhouth after calve cu, Bulluc sterteth, bucke verteth— Murie sing, cuccu! Cuccu, cuccu, Wel singes thu, cuccu. Ne swik thu naver nu! Sing, cuccu, nu. Sing, cuccu. Sing, cuccu. Sing, cuccu, nu.
	02 Aug 2021	S4E5: "A Runnable Stag" by John Davidson	00:11:59
Welcome to Season 4 of The Well Read Poem with poet and classicist Thomas Banks. This series of poetry readings will focus on poems having animals as the subject. Some poems will be by well known poets, while others will be by less popular poets. This week’s poem is “A Runnable Stag” by John Davidson. Poem begins at timestamp 3:29. Check out our sister podcast, The Literary Life Podcast, for more great discussions of literature! A Runnable Stag by John Davidson When the pods went pop on the broom, green broom, And apples began to be golden-skinn'd, We harbour'd a stag in the Priory coomb, And we feather'd his trail up-wind, up-wind, We feather'd his trail up-wind- A stag of warrant, a stag, a stag, A runnable stag, a kingly crop, Brow, bay and tray and three on top, A stag, a runnable stag. Then the huntsman's horn rang yap, yap yap, And 'Forwards' we heard the harbourer shout; But 'twas only a brocket that broke a gap In the beechen underwood, driven out, From the underwood antler'd out By warrant and might of the stag, the stag, The runnable stag, whose lordly mind Was bent on sleep though beam'd and tined He stood, a runnable stag So we tufted the covert till afternoon With Tinkerman's Pup and Bell- of-the-North; And hunters were sulky and hounds out of tune Before we tufted the right stag forth, Before we tufted him forth, The stag of warrant, the wily stag, The runnable stag with his kingly crop, Brow, bay and tray and three on top, The royal and runnable stag. It was Bell-of-the-North and Tinkerman's Pup That stuck to the scent till the copse was drawn. 'Tally ho! tally ho!' and the hunt was up, The tufters whipp'd and the pack laid on, The resolute pack laid on, And the stag of warrant away at last, The runnable stag, the same, the same, His hoofs on fire, his horns like flame, A stag, a runnable stag. 'Let your gelding be: if you check or chide He stumbles at once and you're out of the hunt For three hundred gentlemen, able to ride, On hunters accustom'd to bear the brunt, Accustom'd to bear the brunt, Are after the runnable stag, the stag, The runnable stag with his kingly crop, Brow, bay and tray and three on top, The right, the runnable stag. By perilous paths in coomb and dell, The heather, the rocks, and the river-bed, The pace grew hot, for the scent lay well, And a runnable stag goes right ahead, The quarry went right ahead-- Ahead, ahead, and fast and far; His antler'd crest, his cloven hoof, Brow, bay and tray and three aloof, The stag, the runnable stag. For a matter of twenty miles and more, By the densest hedge and the highest wall, Through herds of bullocks lie baffled the lore Of harbourer, huntsman, hounds and all, Of harbourer, hounds and all The stag of warrant, the wily stag, For twenty miles, and five and five, He ran, and he never was caught alive, This stag, this runnable stag. When he turn'd at bay in the leafy gloom, In the emerald gloom where the brook ran deep He heard in the distance the rollers boom, And he saw In a vision of peaceful sleep In a wonderful vision of sleep, A stag of warrant, a stag, a stag, A runnable stag in a jewell'd bed, Under the sheltering ocean dead, A stag, a runnable stag. So a fateful hope lit up his eye, And he open'd his nostrils wide again, And he toss'd his branching antlers high As he headed the hunt down the Charlock glen, As he raced down the echoing glen For five miles more, the stag, the stag, For twenty miles, and five and five, Not to be caught now, dead or alive, The stag, the runnable stag. Three hundred gentleman, able to ride, Three hundred horses as gallant and free, Beheld him escape on the evening tide, Far out till he sank in the Severn Sea, Till he sank in the depths of the sea The stag, the buoyant stag, the stag That slept at last in a jewell'd bed Under the sheltering ocean spread, The stag, the runnable stag.
	09 Sep 2024	S17E2: "The Death of King Charles II" by John Dryden	00:11:11
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 "The Death of King Charles II" from "Threnodia Augustalis" by John Dryden. Poem readings begin at timestamps 4:06 and 8:08. 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/.
	14 Aug 2023	S13E1: "David's Lament for Saul and Jonathan", 2 Samuel 1, KJV	00:11:07
For the thirteenth season of the Well Read Poem, we will be reading six poems about war. War is, of course, one of the oldest subjects that has inspired the imagination of poets. The first of our great epics has at its center the war of the Greeks against the Trojans and the deadly hatreds it inspires. In times neare to our own, poets have written about war both with enthusiasm and delight, as well as skepticism and horror at its brutalities. The poems we will share this season cover the span of many centuries. Today's poem is "David's Lament for Saul and Jonathan," from II Samuel 1 in the King James Version. Poem begins at timestamp 8:29. David's Lament for Saul and Jonathan by David (in II Samuel 1:19-27, KJV) The beauty of Israel is slain upon thy high places: how are the mighty fallen! Tell it not in Gath, publish it not in the streets of Askelon; lest the daughters of the Philistines rejoice, lest the daughters of the uncircumcised triumph. Ye mountains of Gilboa, let there be no dew, neither let there be rain, upon you, nor fields of offerings: for there the shield of the mighty is vilely cast away, the shield of Saul, as though he had not been anointed with oil. From the blood of the slain, from the fat of the mighty, the bow of Jonathan turned not back, and the sword of Saul returned not empty. Saul and Jonathan were lovely and pleasant in their lives, and in their death they were not divided: they were swifter than eagles, they were stronger than lions. Ye daughters of Israel, weep over Saul, who clothed you in scarlet, with other delights, who put on ornaments of gold upon your apparel. How are the mighty fallen in the midst of the battle! O Jonathan, thou wast slain in thine high places. I am distressed for thee, my brother Jonathan: very pleasant hast thou been unto me: thy love to me was wonderful, passing the love of women. How are the mighty fallen, and the weapons of war perished! This podcast is a production of The Literary Life Podcast. Learn more about Thomas Banks and the classes he offers at HouseofHumaneLetters.com.
	15 Nov 2021	S6E2: "Atticus" by Alexander Pope	00:16:11
In this sixth season of The Well Read Poem, we will read a number of examples of classic satire in verse. English poetry is particularly rich in satire, and we will take a close look at some of the best instances of literary mockery that the past several centuries have bequeathed to us. Some of these are playfully teasing, while others are deliberately savage. All of them taken together, I trust, will provide a happy introduction to the fine art of verbal annihilation. Today’s poem is a portrait piece by the preeminent neoclassical poet, Alexander Pope. Poem begins at timestamp 13:38. Atticus by Alexander Pope Peace to all such! but were there one whose fire True genius kindles, and fair fame inspires; Blest with each talent, and each art to please, And born to write, converse, and live with ease Should such a man, too fond to rule alone, Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne, View him with scornful, yet with jealous eyes, And hate for arts that caused himself to rise; Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer, And, without sneering, teach the rest to sneer; Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike, Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike; Alike reserved to blame, or to commend, A timorous foe, and a suspicious friend; Dreading e'en fools, by flatterers besieged, And so obliging, that he ne'er obliged; Like Cato, give his little senate laws, And sit attentive to his own applause: While wits and Templars every sentence raise. And wonder with a foolish face of praise-- Who but must laugh, if such a man there be? Who would not weep, if Atticus were he?
	01 Jan 2024	S14E6: "Christmas" by John Betjeman	00:12:01
As befits the time of year, we are reading six poems of Advent and Christmas during this fourteenth season of the Well-Read Poem. We have selected certain familiar ones, which may yet contain certain surprises in their authorship and composition history, as well as some less well-known pieces which we hope will help you better enjoy the late days of the year leading up to the great Feast of the Nativity of Christ the Lord. Today's poem is "Christmas" by John Betjeman. Reading begins at timestamp 5:05. Christmas by John Betjeman The bells of waiting Advent ring, The Tortoise stove is lit again And lamp-oil light across the night Has caught the streaks of winter rain In many a stained-glass window sheen From Crimson Lake to Hookers Green. The holly in the windy hedge And round the Manor House the yew Will soon be stripped to deck the ledge, The altar, font and arch and pew, So that the villagers can say 'The church looks nice' on Christmas Day. Provincial Public Houses blaze, Corporation tramcars clang, On lighted tenements I gaze, Where paper decorations hang, And bunting in the red Town Hall Says 'Merry Christmas to you all'. And London shops on Christmas Eve Are strung with silver bells and flowers As hurrying clerks the City leave To pigeon-haunted classic towers, And marbled clouds go scudding by The many-steepled London sky. And girls in slacks remember Dad, And oafish louts remember Mum, And sleepless children's hearts are glad. And Christmas-morning bells say 'Come!' Even to shining ones who dwell Safe in the Dorchester Hotel. And is it true? And is it true, This most tremendous tale of all, Seen in a stained-glass window's hue, A Baby in an ox's stall? The Maker of the stars and sea Become a Child on earth for me? And is it true? For if it is, No loving fingers tying strings Around those tissued fripperies, The sweet and silly Christmas things, Bath salts and inexpensive scent And hideous tie so kindly meant, No love that in a family dwells, No carolling in frosty air, Nor all the steeple-shaking bells Can with this single Truth compare - That God was man in Palestine And lives today in Bread and Wine.
	10 Apr 2023	S12E1: Sonnet 1, "From fairest creatures we desire increase" by William Shakespeare	00:11:42
For the twelfth season of the Well-Read Poem, we will be reading four poems by William Shakespeare, whose genius as a lyric poet is best appreciated in his collection of 154 sonnets. Shakespeare is of course the supreme dramatic poet of the English language; yet if only his sonnets and shorter poems had survived out of his great body of work, it is not too much to say that he may still have enjoyed a certain literary immortality, albeit of a different sort. In addition to four sonnets by Shakespeare, we will be taking a look at two sonnets by fellow Elizabethan poets, to give a sense of the popularity of this poet form in Shakespeare's day. For more information and to register for the Literary Life Online Conference, visit houseofhumaneletters.com. Today's poem is Sonnet 1, "From fairest creatures we desire increase." Poem begins at timestamp 9:35. Sonnet I by William Shakespeare From fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty’s rose might never die, But, as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory. But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed’st thy light’s flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world’s fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, mak’st waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be— To eat the world’s due, by the grave and thee.
	08 May 2023	S12E5: Delia 45, “Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night” by Samuel Daniel	00:12:50
For the twelfth season of the Well-Read Poem, we are reading four poems by William Shakespeare, whose genius as a lyric poet is best appreciated in his collection of 154 sonnets. Shakespeare is of course the supreme dramatic poet of the English language; yet if only his sonnets and shorter poems had survived out of his great body of work, it is not too much to say that he may still have enjoyed a certain literary immortality, albeit of a different sort. In addition to four sonnets by Shakespeare, we will be taking a look at two sonnets by fellow Elizabethan poets, to give a sense of the popularity of this verse form in Shakespeare's day. Today's poem is Delia 45, "Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night," by Samuel Daniel. Poem begins at timestamp 10:47. Delia 45 by Samuel Daniel Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night, Brother to Death, in silent darkness born: Relieve my languish, and restore the light, With dark forgetting of my cares, return; And let the day be time enough to mourn The shipwreck of my ill-adventur'd youth: Let waking eyes suffice to wail their scorn, Without the torment of the night's untruth. Cease dreams, th' imagery of our day-desires, To model forth the passions of the morrow; Never let rising sun approve you liars, To add more grief to aggravate my sorrow. Still let me sleep, embracing clouds in vain; And never wake to feel the day's disdain.
	12 Sep 2022	S9E3: "Bed in Summer" by Robert Louis Stevenson	00:08:14
In this ninth season, we are reading six poems about the four seasons of the year. English verse especially is abundant in celebrations, odes, and meditative poems about the divisions of the year and the visible changes in nature that attend them. Over the next several weeks, we will take a look at some fine examples of seasonal poetry. Today's selection is Robert Louis Stevenson's "Bed in Summer"; poem begins at timestamp 5:55. *Bed in Summer* by Robert Louis Stevenson In winter I get up at night And dress by yellow candle-light. In summer, quite the other way, I have to go to bed by day. I have to go to bed and see The birds still hopping on the tree, Or hear the grown-up people's feet Still going past me in the street. And does it not seem hard to you, When all the sky is clear and blue, And I should like so much to play, To have to go to bed by day?
	30 Jan 2023	S11E2: “On First Looking into Chapman's Homer” by John Keats	00:08:13
Welcome back to another season of the Well-Read Poem! In this series we will be reading six poems about writers, some of them well-known, some of them not as well known. Our aim in this season is to give listeners some insight into the lives, minds, and imaginations of authors long deceased, and some understanding of what they have meant to their fellow scribes. Today's poem is “On First Looking into Chapman's Homer” by John Keats, written as an hommage to the great epics of Homer as translated by George Chapman. Poem begins at timestamp 5:44. On First Looking into Chapman's Homer by John Keats Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold, And many goodly states and kingdoms seen; Round many western islands have I been Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. Oft of one wide expanse had I been told That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne; Yet did I never breathe its pure serene Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold: Then felt I like some watcher of the skies When a new planet swims into his ken; Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes He star'd at the Pacific—and all his men Look'd at each other with a wild surmise— Silent, upon a peak in Darien.
	31 Jan 2022	S7E4: Remember Me by Christina Rossetti	00:07:56
In this seventh season, we are going to read six poems about romantic love. Love may seem to be the most fundamental subject for poetry, but interestingly, it is not. When we consider the great poetic traditions of almost any people, we find that love is by no means the first matter that has inspired their poets. The poems we will read together come from several different periods in time, and I would like to examine, among other things, how the language of romance has changed in the English-speaking world over the centuries. Today's piece is "Remember Me" by Christina Rossetti. Poem begins at timestamp 6:04. Remember Me by Christina Rossetti Remember me when I am gone away, Gone far away into the silent land; When you can no more hold me by the hand, Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay. Remember me when no more day by day You tell me of our future that you plann'd: Only remember me; you understand It will be late to counsel then or pray. Yet if you should forget me for a while And afterwards remember, do not grieve: For if the darkness and corruption leave A vestige of the thoughts that once I had, Better by far you should forget and smile Than that you should remember and be sad.
	03 Jun 2024	S16E1: "Summer Sun" by Robert Louis Stevenson	00:09:11
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.
	11 Mar 2024	S15E5: “Ask Not (Odes I.11)” by Horace (trans. by John Conington)	00:11:22
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.
	14 Feb 2022	S7E6: "Love Poem" by John Frederick Nims	00:09:46
In this seventh season, we are reading six poems about romantic love. Love may seem to be the most fundamental subject for poetry, but interestingly, it is not. When we consider the great poetic traditions of almost any people, we find that love is by no means the first matter that has inspired their poets. The poems we will read together come from several different periods in time, and I would like to examine, among other things, how the language of romance has changed in the English-speaking world over the centuries. Today's piece is "Love Poem" by John Frederick Nims. Poem begins at timestamp 5:52. Love Poem by John Frederick Nims My clumsiest dear, whose hands shipwreck vases, At whose quick touch all glasses chip and ring, Whose palms are bulls in china, burs in linen, And have no cunning with any soft thing Except all ill-at-ease fidgeting people: The refugee uncertain at the door You make at home; deftly you steady The drunk clambering on his undulant floor. Unpredictable dear, the taxi drivers' terror, Shrinking from far headlights pale as a dime Yet leaping before apopleptic streetcars— Misfit in any space. And never on time. A wrench in clocks and the solar system. Only With words and people and love you move at ease; In traffic of wit expertly maneuver And keep us, all devotion, at your knees. Forgetting your coffee spreading on our flannel, Your lipstick grinning on our coat, So gaily in love's unbreakable heaven Our souls on glory of spilt bourbon float. Be with me, darling, early and late. Smash glasses— I will study wry music for your sake. For should your hands drop white and empty All the toys of the world would break.
	14 Jun 2021	S3E6: "Anthem for St. Cecilia's Day" by W. H. Auden	00:09:29
Welcome to Season 3 of The Well Read Poem podcast. In this third season we will explore six lyric poems by the great English modernist W. H. Auden. The study of Auden’s poetry is in many respects a study of the 20th Century itself, and of its religious, philosophical, and political concerns. Auden was one of the great chroniclers of the so-called “Age of Anxiety,” a term he coined, and a brilliant and sympathetic analyst of modern man’s fears and hopes, beliefs and unbeliefs. Poem begins at timestamp 3:31. Anthem for St. Cecilia’s Day, Part 1 By W. H. Auden In a garden shady this holy lady With reverent cadence and subtle psalm, Like a black swan as death came on Poured forth her song in perfect calm: And by ocean's margin this innocent virgin Constructed an organ to enlarge her prayer, And notes tremendous from her great engine Thundered out on the Roman air. Blonde Aphrodite rose up excited, Moved to delight by the melody, White as an orchid she rode quite naked In an oyster shell on top of the sea; At sounds so entrancing the angels dancing Came out of their trance into time again, And around the wicked in Hell's abysses The huge flame flickered and eased their pain. Blessed Cecilia, appear in visions To all musicians, appear and inspire: Translated Daughter, come down and startle Composing mortals with immortal fire.
	24 Jun 2024	S16E4: "Adlestrop" by Edward Thomas	00:09:49
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.
	21 Nov 2022	S10E1: "Fanfare for the Makers" by Louis MacNeice	00:09:03
In this tenth season of The Well Read Poem podcast, we are going to read six poems about the blessings and curses of labor. Work is a thing we both enjoy and dislike, and some professions are easier for poets to draw inspiration from than others. These poems come from different ages of literary history, and hopefully will leave the reader with a sense of what work has meant to different minds over the course of the centuries. Today's selection is "Fanfare for the Makers" by Louis MacNeice; poem begins at timestamp 5:02. *Fanfare for the Makers* by Louis MacNeice A cloud of witnesses. To whom? To what? To the small fire that never leaves the sky. To the great fire that boils the daily pot. To all the things we are not remembered by, Which we remember and bless. To all the things That will not notice when we die, Yet lend the passing moment words and wings. So fanfare for the Makers: who compose A book of words or deeds who runs may write As many who do run, as a family grows At times like sunflowers turning towards the light. As sometimes in the blackout and the raids One joke composed an island in the night. As sometimes one man’s kindness pervades A room or house or village, as sometimes Merely to tighten screws or sharpen blades Can catch a meaning, as to hear the chimes At midnight means to share them, as one man In old age plants an avenue of limes And before they bloom can smell them, before they span The road can walk beneath the perfected arch, The merest green print when the lives began Of those who walk there with him, as in default Of coffee men grind acorns, as in despite Of all assaults conscripts counter assault, As mothers sit up late night after night Moulding a life, as miners day by day Descend blind shafts, as a boy may flaunt his kite In an empty nonchalant sky, as anglers play Their fish, as workers work and can take pride In spending sweat before they draw their pay. As horsemen fashion horses while they ride, As climbers climb a peak because it is there, As life can be confirmed even in suicide: To make is such. Let us make. And set the weather fair.
	28 Mar 2022	S8E2: "The Eagle" by Alfred, Lord Tennyson	00:09:23
In this eighth season of The Well Read Poem, we are reading six poems about birds. Since antiquity, birds have supplied rich material to poets, being by turns regal, charming, absurd, delicate, dangerous, and philosophical creatures. This season is dedicated to the animal lovers in our audience, particularly to Emily Raible who suggested the subject in the first place. Today's poem is "The Eagle" by Alfred, Lord Tennyson. Poem begins at timestamp 7:51. "The Eagle" by Alfred, Lord Tennyson He clasps the crag with crooked hands; Close to the sun in lonely lands, Ring'd with the azure world, he stands. The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls; He watches from his mountain walls, And like a thunderbolt he falls.
	26 Jul 2021	S4E4: “Epigram Engraved on the Collar of a Dog Which I Gave to His Highness” by Alexander Pope	00:08:12
Welcome to Season 4 of The Well Read Poem with poet and classicist Thomas Banks. This series of poetry readings will focus on poems having animals as the subject. Some poems will be by well known poets, while others will be by less popular poets. This week’s poem is “Epigram Engraved on the Collar of a Dog Which I Gave to His Highness” by Alexander Pope. Pope is known for his satirical poems and his rather dark sense of humor. Poem begins at timestamp 6:47. Check out our sister podcast, The Literary Life Podcast, for more great discussions of literature! Epigram Engraved on the Collar of a Dog Which I Gave to His Highness By Alexander Pope I am his Highness’ dog at Kew: Pray tell me, Sir, whose dog are you?
	19 Jul 2021	S4E3: "The Kraken" by Alfred, Lord Tennyson	00:09:01
Welcome to Season 4 of The Well Read Poem with poet and classicist Thomas Banks. This series of poetry readings will focus on poems having animals as the subject. Some poems will be by well known poets, while others will be by less popular poets. This week’s poem is “The Kraken” by Alfred, Lord Tennyson. Tennyson was perhaps the last poet to achieve popular celebrity in his day, and his inspiration for this poem comes from the Book of Job and Norse folklore. Poem begins at timestamp 6:58. Check out our sister podcast, The Literary Life Podcast, for more great discussions of literature! The Kraken by Alfred, Lord Tennyson Below the thunders of the upper deep; Far, far beneath in the abysmal sea, His ancient, dreamless, uninvaded sleep The Kraken sleepeth: faintest sunlights flee About his shadowy sides: above him swell Huge sponges of millennial growth and height; And far away into the sickly light, From many a wondrous grot and secret cell Unnumbered and enormous polypi Winnow with giant arms the slumbering green. There hath he lain for ages and will lie Battening upon huge sea-worms in his sleep, Until the latter fire shall heat the deep; Then once by man and angels to be seen, In roaring he shall rise and on the surface die.
	11 Apr 2022	S8E4: "Le Corbeau et le Renard (The Crow and the Fox)" by Jean de la Fontaine	00:10:17
In this eighth season of The Well Read Poem, we are reading six poems about birds. Since antiquity, birds have supplied rich material to poets, being by turns regal, charming, absurd, delicate, dangerous, and philosophical creatures. This season is dedicated to the animal lovers in our audience, particularly to Emily Raible who suggested the subject in the first place. Today's poem is "Le Corbeau et le Renard (The Crow and the Fox)" by Jean de la Fontaine, translated from the French by Norman Spector. Poem begins at timestamp 7:08. "Le Corbeau et le Renard (The Crow and the Fox)" by Jean de la Fontaine (trans. by Norman Spector) At the top of a tree perched Master Crow; In his beak he was holding a cheese. Drawn by the smell, Master Fox spoke, below. The words, more or less, were these: "Hey, now, Sir Crow! Good day, good day! How very handsome you do look, how grandly distingué! No lie, if those songs you sing Match the plumage of your wing, You’re the phoenix of these woods, our choice." Hearing this, the Crow was all rapture and wonder. To show off his handsome voice, He opened beak wide and let go of his plunder. The Fox snapped it up and then said, "My Good Sir, Learn that each flatterer Lives at the cost of those who heed. This lesson is well worth the cheese, indeed." The Crow, ashamed and sick, Swore, a bit late, not to fall again for that trick.
	08 Nov 2021	S6E1: "On a General Election" by Hilaire Belloc	00:09:01
Welcome to Season 6 of The Well Read Poem podcast. In this season we will explore a series of satirical poems. Satire has been defined as literary ridicule or literary correction. This week’s selection is by the rather prolific author Hilaire Belloc who was once a politician who himself became a critic of politics. Poem begins at timestamp 7:30. On a General Election by Hilaire Belloc The accursed power which stands on Privilege (And goes with Women, and Champagne and Bridge) Broke — and Democracy resumed her reign: (Which goes with Bridge, and Women and Champagne).
	12 Dec 2022	S10E4: "Surgeons must be very careful" by Emily Dickinson	00:07:55
In this tenth season of The Well Read Poem podcast, we are reading six poems about the blessings and curses of labor. Work is a thing we both enjoy and dislike, and some professions are easier for poets to draw inspiration from than others. These poems come from different ages of literary history, and hopefully will leave the reader with a sense of what work has meant to different minds over the course of the centuries. Today's selection is "Surgeons must be very careful" by Emily Dickinson; poem begins at timestamp 6:28. *Surgeons must be very careful* by Emily Dickinson Surgeons must be very careful When they take the knife! Underneath their fine incisions Stirs the Culprit - Life!
	19 Dec 2022	S10E5: "The Chimney Sweeper" by William Blake	00:08:43
In this tenth season of The Well Read Poem podcast, we are reading six poems about the blessings and curses of labor. Work is a thing we both enjoy and dislike, and some professions are easier for poets to draw inspiration from than others. These poems come from different ages of literary history, and hopefully will leave the reader with a sense of what work has meant to different minds over the course of the centuries. Today's selection is "The Chimney Sweeper" by William Blake; poem begins at timestamp 5:53. *The Chimney Sweeper: A Little Black Thing Among the Snow* by William Blake A little black thing among the snow, Crying "weep! 'weep!" in notes of woe! "Where are thy father and mother? say?" "They are both gone up to the church to pray. Because I was happy upon the heath, And smil'd among the winter's snow, They clothed me in the clothes of death, And taught me to sing the notes of woe. And because I am happy and dance and sing, They think they have done me no injury, And are gone to praise God and his Priest and King, Who make up a heaven of our misery."
	02 Sep 2024	S17E1: "On the Jubilee of Queen Victoria" by Alfred, Lord Tennyson	00:12:44
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.
	18 Dec 2023	S14E4: "Good King Wenceslas" by Vaclav Svoboda, trans. by John Mason Neale	00:10:17
As befits the time of year, we will be reading six poems of Advent and Christmas during this fourteenth season of the Well-Read Poem. We have selected certain familiar ones, which may yet contain certain surprises in their authorship and composition history, as well as some less well-known pieces which we hope will help you better enjoy the late days of the year leading up to the great Feast of the Nativity of Christ the Lord. Today's poem is "Good King Wenceslas" by Vaclav Svoboda in translation by John Mason Neale. Reading begins at timestamp 6:26. Good King Wenceslas by Vaclav Svoboda, translation by John Mason Neale Good King Wenceslas look’d out, On the Feast of Stephen; When the snow lay round about, Deep, and crisp, and even: Brightly shone the moon that night, Though the frost was cruel, When a poor man came in sight, Gath’ring winter fuel. “Hither page and stand by me, If thou know’st it, telling, Yonder peasant, who is he? Where and what his dwelling?” “Sire, he lives a good league hence. Underneath the mountain; Right against the forest fence, By Saint Agnes’ fountain.” “Bring me flesh,and bring me wine, Bring me pine-logs hither: Thou and I will see him dine, When we bear them thither.” Page and monarch forth they went, Forth they went together; Through the rude wind’s wild lament, And the bitter weather. “Sire, the night is darker now, And the wind blows stronger; Fails my heart, I know not how, I can go no longer.” “Mark my footsteps, good my page; Tread thou in them boldly; Thou shalt find the winter’s rage Freeze thy blood less coldly.” In his master’s steps he trod, Where the snow lay dinted; Heat was in the very sod Which the Saint had printed. Therefore, Christian men, be sure, Wealth or rank possessing, Ye who now will bless the poor, Shall yourselves find blessing.
	24 Apr 2023	S12E3: Sonnet 106, “When in the chronicle of wasted time” by William Shakespeare	00:09:19
For the twelfth season of the Well-Read Poem, we are reading four poems by William Shakespeare, whose genius as a lyric poet is best appreciated in his collection of 154 sonnets. Shakespeare is of course the supreme dramatic poet of the English language; yet if only his sonnets and shorter poems had survived out of his great body of work, it is not too much to say that he may still have enjoyed a certain literary immortality, albeit of a different sort. In addition to four sonnets by Shakespeare, we will be taking a look at two sonnets by fellow Elizabethan poets, to give a sense of the popularity of this verse form in Shakespeare's day. Today's poem is Sonnet 106, "When in the chronicle of wasted time" by William Shakespeare. Poem begins at timestamp 4:48. Sonnet 106 by William Shakespeare When in the chronicle of wasted time I see descriptions of the fairest wights, And beauty making beautiful old rhyme In praise of ladies dead and lovely knights, Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty's best, Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow, I see their antique pen would have express'd Even such a beauty as you master now. So all their praises are but prophecies Of this our time, all you prefiguring; And, for they look'd but with divining eyes, They had not skill enough your worth to sing: For we, which now behold these present days, Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.
	18 Mar 2024	S15E6: “Happy the Man, Who, Like Ulysses” by Joachim du Bellay trans. by Richard Wilbur	00:10:02
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.
	11 Dec 2023	S14E3: "Christmas Carol" by Sara Teasdale	00:09:16
As befits the time of year, we will be reading six poems of Advent and Christmas during this fourteenth season of the Well-Read Poem. We have selected certain familiar ones, which may yet contain certain surprises in their authorship and composition history, as well as some less well-known pieces which we hope will help you better enjoy the late days of the year leading up to the great Feast of the Nativity of Christ the Lord. Today's poem is "Christmas Carol" by Sara Teasdale. Reading begins at timestamps 4:08 and 7:08. Christmas Carol by Sara Teasdale The kings they came from out the south, All dressed in ermine fine; They bore Him gold and chrysoprase, And gifts of precious wine. The shepherds came from out the north, Their coats were brown and old; They brought Him little new-born lambs— They had not any gold. The wise men came from out the east, And they were wrapped in white; The star that led them all the way Did glorify the night. The angels came from heaven high, And they were clad with wings; And lo, they brought a joyful song The host of heaven sings. The kings they knocked upon the door, The wise men entered in, The shepherds followed after them To hear the song begin. The angels sang through all the night Until the rising sun, But little Jesus fell asleep Before the song was done.
	12 Jul 2021	S4E2: "Infant Innocence" by A. E. Houseman	00:07:51
Welcome to Season 4 of The Well Read Poem with poet and classicist Thomas Banks. This series of poetry readings will focus on poems having animals as the subject. Some poems will be by well known poets, while others will be by less popular poets. This week’s poem is “Infant Innocence” by A. E. Houseman. This poem rather pokes fun at the more romantic treatment of animal characters by poets like William Blake. Poem begins at timestamp 5:09. Check out our sister podcast, The Literary Life Podcast, for more great discussions of literature! Infant Innocence By A. E. Houseman The Grizzly Bear is huge and wild; He has devoured the infant child. The infant child is not aware It has been eaten by the bear.
	17 Jan 2022	S7E2: "Sonnet 130: My Mistress' Eyes Are Nothing Like the Sun" by William Shakespeare	00:07:09
In this seventh season, we are going to read six poems about romantic love. Love may seem to be the most fundamental subject for poetry, but interestingly, it is not. When we consider the great poetic traditions of almost any people, we find that love is by no means the first matter that has inspired their poets. The poems we will read together come from several different periods in time, and I would like to examine, among other things, how the language of romance has changed in the English-speaking world over the centuries. Today's piece is "Sonnet 130: My Mistress' Eyes Are Nothing Like the Sun" by William Shakespeare. Poem begins at timestamp 5:13. Sonnet 130: My Mistress' Eyes Are Nothing Like the Sun by William Shakespeare My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun; Coral is far more red than her lips' red; If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun; If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head. I have seen roses damasked, red and white, But no such roses see I in her cheeks; And in some perfumes is there more delight Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks. I love to hear her speak, yet well I know That music hath a far more pleasing sound; I grant I never saw a goddess go; My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground. And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare As any she belied with false compare.
	05 Dec 2022	S10E3: "The Song of the Shirt" by Thomas Hood	00:09:01
In this tenth season of The Well Read Poem podcast, we are reading six poems about the blessings and curses of labor. Work is a thing we both enjoy and dislike, and some professions are easier for poets to draw inspiration from than others. These poems come from different ages of literary history, and hopefully will leave the reader with a sense of what work has meant to different minds over the course of the centuries. Today's selection is "The Song of the Shirt" by Thomas Hood; poem begins at timestamp 4:25. *The Song of the Shirt* by Thomas Hood With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A Woman sat, in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread— Stitch! stitch! stitch! In poverty, hunger, and dirt, And still with the voice of dolorous pitch She sang the "Song of the Shirt!" "Work! Work! Work! While the cock is crowing aloof! And work—work—work, Till the stars shine through the roof! It's O! to be a slave Along with the barbarous Turk, Where woman has never a soul to save If this is Christian work! "Work—work—work Till the brain begins to swim, Work—work—work Till the eyes are heavy and dim! Seam, and gusset, and band, Band, and gusset, and seam, Till over the buttons I fall asleep, And sew them on in a dream! "O, Men with Sisters dear! O, Men! with Mothers and Wives! It is not linen you're wearing out, But human creatures' lives! Stitch—stitch—stitch, In poverty, hunger, and dirt, Sewing at once, with a double thread, A Shroud as well as a Shirt. "But why do I talk of Death! That Phantom of grisly bone, I hardly fear his terrible shape, It seems so like my own— It seems so like my own, Because of the fasts I keep; O God! that bread should be so dear, And flesh and blood so cheap! "Work—work—work! My labour never flags; And what are its wages? A bed of straw, A crust of bread—and rags. That shatter'd roof,—and this naked floor— A table—a broken chair— And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank For sometimes falling there! "Work—work—work! From weary chime to chime, Work—work—work— As prisoners work for crime! Band, and gusset, and seam, Seam, and gusset, and band, Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumb'd, As well as the weary hand. "Work—work—work, In the dull December light, And work—work—work, When the weather is warm and bright— While underneath the eaves The brooding swallows cling, As if to show me their sunny backs And twit me with the spring. "O, but to breathe the breath Of the cowslip and primrose sweet!— With the sky above my head, And the grass beneath my feet; For only one short hour To feel as I used to feel, Before I knew the woes of want And the walk that costs a meal! "O, but for one short hour! A respite however brief! No blessed leisure for Love or Hope, But only time for Grief! A little weeping would ease my heart, But in their briny bed My tears must stop, for every drop Hinders needle and thread! "Seam, and gusset, and band, Band, and gusset, and seam, Work, work, work, Like the Engine that works by Steam! A mere machine of iron and wood That toils for Mammon's sake— Without a brain to ponder and craze Or a heart to feel—and break!" —With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A Woman sat, in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread— Stitch! stitch! stitch! In poverty, hunger, and dirt, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch,— Would that its tone could reach the Rich!— She sang this "Song of the Shirt!"
	20 Feb 2023	S11E5: “Edward Lear” by W.H. Auden	00:12:21
Welcome back to another season of the Well-Read Poem! In this series we will be reading six poems about writers, some of them well-known, some of them not as well known. Our aim in this season is to give listeners some insight into the lives, minds, and imaginations of authors long deceased, and some understanding of what they have meant to their fellow scribes. Today's poem is “Edward Lear” by W. H. Auden. Lear was more than just a well-known nonsense poet, but was a talented painter and musician in his own right. Poem begins at timestamp 10:05. Edward Lear by W. H. Auden Left by his friend to breakfast alone on the white Italian shore, his Terrible Demon arose Over his shoulder; he wept to himself in the night, A dirty landscape-painter who hated his nose. The legions of cruel inquisitive They Were so many and big like dogs: he was upset By Germans and boats; affection was miles away: But guided by tears he successfully reached his Regret. How prodigiuous the welcome was. Flowers took his hat And bore him off to introduce him to the tongs; The demon's false nose made the table laugh; a cat Soon had him waltzing madly, let him squeeze her hand; Words pushed him to the piano to sing comic songs; And children swarmed to him like settlers. He became a land.
	13 Feb 2023	S11E4: “To Walter de la Mare” by T. S. Elliot	00:11:25
Welcome back to another season of the Well-Read Poem! In this series we will be reading six poems about writers, some of them well-known, some of them not as well known. Our aim in this season is to give listeners some insight into the lives, minds, and imaginations of authors long deceased, and some understanding of what they have meant to their fellow scribes. Today's poem is “To Walter de la Mare” by T. S. Elliot. Poem begins at timestamp 3:52. To Walter de la Mare by T. S. Eliot The children who explored the brook and found A desert island with a sandy cove (A hiding place, but very dangerous ground, For here the water buffalo may rove, The kinkajou, the mungabey, abound In the dark jungle of a mango grove, And shadowy lemurs glide from tree to tree - The guardians of some long-lost treasure-trove) Recount their exploits at the nursery tea And when the lamps are lit and curtains drawn Demand some poetry, please. Whose shall it be, At not quite time for bed?… Or when the lawn Is pressed by unseen feet, and ghosts return Gently at twilight, gently go at dawn, The sad intangible who grieve and yearn; When the familiar is suddenly strange Or the well known is what we yet have to learn, And two worlds meet, and intersect, and change; When cats are maddened in the moonlight dance, Dogs cower, flitter bats, and owls range At witches' sabbath of the maiden aunts; When the nocturnal traveller can arouse No sleeper by his call; or when by chance An empty face peers from an empty house; By whom, and by what means, was this designed? The whispered incantation which allows Free passage to the phantoms of the mind? By you; by those deceptive cadences Wherewith the common measure is refined; By conscious art practised with natural ease; By the delicate, invisible web you wove - The inexplicable mystery of sound.
	06 Sep 2021	S5E2: "Ghost" by Walter de la Mare	00:09:55
Welcome to Season 5 of The Well Read Poem with poet and classicist Thomas Banks. Throughout this season, we will be exploring the poetry of Walter de la Mare. De la Mare was a great Gothic writer and was very interested in the atmosphere of the uncanny. Poem begins at timestamp . Check out our sister podcast, The Literary Life Podcast, for more great discussions of literature! Ghost By Walter de la Mare 'Who knocks? ' 'I, who was beautiful Beyond all dreams to restore, I from the roots of the dark thorn am hither, And knock on the door.' 'Who speaks? ' 'I -- once was my speech Sweet as the bird's on the air, When echo lurks by the waters to heed; 'Tis I speak thee fair.' 'Dark is the hour!' 'Aye, and cold.' 'Lone is my house.' 'Ah, but mine? ' 'Sight, touch, lips, eyes gleamed in vain.' 'Long dead these to thine.' Silence. Still faint on the porch Brake the flames of the stars. In gloom groped a hope-wearied hand Over keys, bolts, and bars. A face peered. All the grey night In chaos of vacancy shone; Nought but vast sorrow was there -- The sweet cheat gone.
	04 Mar 2024	S15E4: "I Do Not Like Thee, Doctor Fell" by Martial, trans. by Tom Brown	00:10:14
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.
	26 Dec 2022	S10E6: "The British Journalist" by Humbert Wolfe	00:09:33
In this tenth season of The Well Read Poem podcast, we are reading six poems about the blessings and curses of labor. Work is a thing we both enjoy and dislike, and some professions are easier for poets to draw inspiration from than others. These poems come from different ages of literary history, and hopefully will leave the reader with a sense of what work has meant to different minds over the course of the centuries. Today's selection is "The British Journalist" by Humbert Wolfe; poem begins at timestamp 2:50. *The British Journalist* by Humbert Wolfe You cannot hope to bribe or twist (thank God!) the British journalist. But, seeing what the man will do unbribed, there’s no occasion to.
	15 Feb 2021	S1E5: "Kubla Khan" by Samuel Taylor Coleridge	00:13:22
Because reading is interpretation, The Well Read Poem aims to teach you how to read with understanding! Hosted by poet Thomas Banks of The House of Humane Letters, these short episodes will introduce you to both well-known and obscure poets and will focus on daily recitation, historical and intellectual background, elements of poetry, light explication, and more! Play this podcast daily and practice reciting! The next week, get a new poem. Grow in your understanding and love of poetry by learning how to read well! Brought to you by The Literary Life Podcast. Poem begins at 3:26. Kubla Khan by Samuel Taylor Coleridge Or, a vision in a dream. A Fragment. In Xanadu did Kubla Khan A stately pleasure-dome decree: Where Alph, the sacred river, ran Through caverns measureless to man Down to a sunless sea. So twice five miles of fertile ground With walls and towers were girdled round; And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills, Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree; And here were forests ancient as the hills, Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover! A savage place! as holy and enchanted As e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted By woman wailing for her demon-lover! And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething, As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, A mighty fountain momently was forced: Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher’s flail: And mid these dancing rocks at once and ever It flung up momently the sacred river. Five miles meandering with a mazy motion Through wood and dale the sacred river ran, Then reached the caverns measureless to man, And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean; And ’mid this tumult Kubla heard from far Ancestral voices prophesying war! The shadow of the dome of pleasure Floated midway on the waves; Where was heard the mingled measure From the fountain and the caves. It was a miracle of rare device, A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice! A damsel with a dulcimer In a vision once I saw: It was an Abyssinian maid And on her dulcimer she played, Singing of Mount Abora. Could I revive within me Her symphony and song, To such a deep delight ’twould win me, That with music loud and long, I would build that dome in air, That sunny dome! those caves of ice! And all who heard should see them there, And all should cry, Beware! Beware! His flashing eyes, his floating hair! Weave a circle round him thrice, And close your eyes with holy dread For he on honey-dew hath fed, And drunk the milk of Paradise.
	24 May 2021	S3E3: "Roman Wall Blues" by W. H. Auden	00:10:50
Welcome to Season 3 of The Well Read Poem podcast. In this third season we will explore six lyric poems by the great English modernist W. H. Auden. The study of Auden’s poetry is in many respects a study of the 20th Century itself, and of its religious, philosophical, and political concerns. Auden was one of the great chroniclers of the so-called “Age of Anxiety,” a term he coined, and a brilliant and sympathetic analyst of modern man’s fears and hopes, beliefs and unbeliefs. Poem begins at timestamp 8:51. Roman Wall Blues by W. H. Auden Over the heather the wet wind blows, I've lice in my tunic and a cold in my nose. The rain comes pattering out of the sky, I'm a Wall soldier, I don't know why. The mist creeps over the hard grey stone, My girl's in Tungria; I sleep alone. Aulus goes hanging around her place, I don't like his manners, I don't like his face. Piso's a Christian, he worships a fish; There'd be no kissing if he had his wish. She gave me a ring but I diced it away; I want my girl and I want my pay. When I'm a veteran with only one eye I shall do nothing but look at the sky.
	17 May 2021	S3E2: "The Shield of Achilles" by W. H. Auden	00:13:55
Welcome to Season 3 of The Well Read Poem podcast. In this third season we will explore six lyric poems by the great English modernist W. H. Auden. The study of Auden’s poetry is in many respects a study of the 20th Century itself, and of its religious, philosophical, and political concerns. Auden was one of the great chroniclers of the so-called “Age of Anxiety,” a term he coined, and a brilliant and sympathetic analyst of modern man’s fears and hopes, beliefs and unbeliefs. Poem begins at timestamp 3:15. The Shield of Achilles by W. H. Auden She looked over his shoulder For vines and olive trees, Marble well-governed cities And ships upon untamed seas, But there on the shining metal His hands had put instead An artificial wilderness And a sky like lead. A plain without a feature, bare and brown, No blade of grass, no sign of neighborhood, Nothing to eat and nowhere to sit down, Yet, congregated on its blankness, stood An unintelligible multitude, A million eyes, a million boots in line, Without expression, waiting for a sign. Out of the air a voice without a face Proved by statistics that some cause was just In tones as dry and level as the place: No one was cheered and nothing was discussed; Column by column in a cloud of dust They marched away enduring a belief Whose logic brought them, somewhere else, to grief. She looked over his shoulder For ritual pieties, White flower-garlanded heifers, Libation and sacrifice, But there on the shining metal Where the altar should have been, She saw by his flickering forge-light Quite another scene. Barbed wire enclosed an arbitrary spot Where bored officials lounged (one cracked a joke) And sentries sweated for the day was hot: A crowd of ordinary decent folk Watched from without and neither moved nor spoke As three pale figures were led forth and bound To three posts driven upright in the ground. The mass and majesty of this world, all That carries weight and always weighs the same Lay in the hands of others; they were small And could not hope for help and no help came: What their foes like to do was done, their shame Was all the worst could wish; they lost their pride And died as men before their bodies died. She looked over his shoulder For athletes at their games, Men and women in a dance Moving their sweet limbs Quick, quick, to music, But there on the shining shield His hands had set no dancing-floor But a weed-choked field. A ragged urchin, aimless and alone, Loitered about that vacancy; a bird Flew up to safety from his well-aimed stone: That girls are raped, that two boys knife a third, Were axioms to him, who'd never heard Of any world where promises were kept, Or one could weep because another wept. The thin-lipped armorer, Hephaestos, hobbled away, Thetis of the shining breasts Cried out in dismay At what the god had wrought To please her son, the strong Iron-hearted man-slaying Achilles Who would not live long. From The Shield of Achilles by W. H. Auden, published by Random House. Copyright © 1955 W. H. Auden, renewed by The Estate of W. H. Auden. Reproduced for educational purposes only.
	19 Apr 2021	S2E6: “To Virgil” by Alfred, Lord Tennyson	00:09:40
Welcome to Season 2 of The Well Read Poem podcast. During this season, our host, classicist and poet Thomas Banks will be reading and interpreting six poems of history. This week's poem is “To Virgil” by Alfred, Lord Tennyson. Poem begins at timestamp 6:06. To Virgil by Alfred, Lord Tennyson Roman Virgil, thou that singest Ilion's lofty temples robed in fire, Ilion falling, Rome arising, wars, and filial faith, and Dido's pyre; Landscape-lover, lord of language more than he that sang the "Works and Days," All the chosen coin of fancy flashing out from many a golden phrase; Thou that singest wheat and woodland, tilth and vineyard, hive and horse and herd; All the charm of all the Muses often flowering in a lonely word; Poet of the happy Tityrus piping underneath his beechen bowers; Poet of the poet-satyr whom the laughing shepherd bound with flowers; Chanter of the Pollio, glorying in the blissful years again to be, Summers of the snakeless meadow, unlaborious earth and oarless sea; Thou that seëst Universal Nature moved by Universal Mind; Thou majestic in thy sadness at the doubtful doom of human kind; Light among the vanish'd ages; star that gildest yet this phantom shore; Golden branch amid the shadows, kings and realms that pass to rise no more; Now thy Forum roars no longer, fallen every purple Cæsar's dome— Tho' thine ocean-roll of rhythm sound forever of Imperial Rome— Now the Rome of slaves hath perish'd, and the Rome of freemen holds her place, I, from out the Northern Island sunder'd once from all the human race, I salute thee, Mantovano, I that loved thee since my day began, Wielder of the stateliest measure ever moulded by the lips of man.
	18 Apr 2022	S8E5: "Old Adam, the Carrion Crow" by Thomas Beddoes	00:09:15
In this eighth season of The Well Read Poem, we are reading six poems about birds. Since antiquity, birds have supplied rich material to poets, being by turns regal, charming, absurd, delicate, dangerous, and philosophical creatures. This season is dedicated to the animal lovers in our audience, particularly to Emily Raible who suggested the subject in the first place. Today's poem is "Old Adam, the Carrion Crow" by Thomas Beddoes. Poem begins at timestamp 7:00. "Old Adam, the Carrion Crow" by Thomas Beddoes Old Adam, the carrion crow, The old crow of Cairo; He sat in the shower, and let it flow Under his tail and over his crest; And through every feather Leak'd the wet weather; And the bough swung under his nest; For his beak it was heavy with marrow. Is that the wind dying? O no; It's only two devils, that blow, Through a murderer's bones, to and fro, In the ghosts' moonshine. Ho! Eve, my grey carrion wife, When we have supped on king's marrow, Where shall we drink and make merry our life? Our nest it is queen Cleopatra's skull, 'Tis cloven and crack'd, And batter'd and hack'd, But with tears of blue eyes it is full: Let us drink then, my raven of Cairo! Is that the wind dying? O no; It's only two devils, that blow Through a murderer's bones, to and fro, In the ghosts' moonshine.
	10 May 2021	S3E1: "August 1968" by W. H. Auden	00:10:13
Welcome to Season 3 of The Well Read Poem podcast. In this third season we will explore six lyric poems by the great English modernist W. H. Auden. The study of Auden’s poetry is in many respects a study of the 20th Century itself, and of its religious, philosophical, and political concerns. Auden was one of the great chroniclers of the so-called “Age of Anxiety,” a term he coined, and a brilliant and sympathetic analyst of modern man’s fears and hopes, beliefs and unbeliefs. Poem begins at timestamp 4:00. August 1968 by W. H. Auden The Ogre does what ogres can, Deeds quite impossible for Man, But one prize is beyond his reach, The Ogre cannot master Speech: About a subjugated plain, Among its desperate and slain, The Ogre stalks with hands on hips, While drivel gushes from his lips.
	01 May 2023	S12E4: Sonnet 138, "When my love swears that she is made of truth"	00:11:08
For the twelfth season of the Well-Read Poem, we are reading four poems by William Shakespeare, whose genius as a lyric poet is best appreciated in his collection of 154 sonnets. Shakespeare is of course the supreme dramatic poet of the English language; yet if only his sonnets and shorter poems had survived out of his great body of work, it is not too much to say that he may still have enjoyed a certain literary immortality, albeit of a different sort. In addition to four sonnets by Shakespeare, we will be taking a look at two sonnets by fellow Elizabethan poets, to give a sense of the popularity of this verse form in Shakespeare's day. Today's poem is Sonnet 138, "When my love swears that she is made of truth" by William Shakespeare. Poem begins at timestamp 6:55. Sonnet 138 by William Shakespeare When my love swears that she is made of truth, I do believe her, though I know she lies, That she might think me some untutored youth, Unlearnèd in the world’s false subtleties. Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young, Although she knows my days are past the best, Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue: On both sides thus is simple truth suppressed. But wherefore says she not she is unjust? And wherefore say not I that I am old? Oh, love’s best habit is in seeming trust, And age in love loves not to have years told. Therefore I lie with her and she with me, And in our faults by lies we flattered be.
	25 Dec 2023	S14E5: "Noël" by Théophile Gautier	00:08:19
As befits the time of year, we will be reading six poems of Advent and Christmas during this fourteenth season of the Well-Read Poem. We have selected certain familiar ones, which may yet contain certain surprises in their authorship and composition history, as well as some less well-known pieces which we hope will help you better enjoy the late days of the year leading up to the great Feast of the Nativity of Christ the Lord. Today's poem is "Noël" by Théophile Gautier in translation by Agnes Lee. Reading begins at timestamps 4:33 and 6:18. Noël (Christmas) by Théophile Gautier, trans. by Agnes Lee Black is the sky and white the ground. O ring, ye bells, your carol's grace! The Child is born! A love profound Beams o'er Him from His Mother's face. No silken woof of costly show Keeps off the bitter cold from Him. But spider-webs have drooped them low, To be His curtain soft and dim. Now trembles on the straw downspread The Little Child, the Star beneath. To warm Him in His holy bed, Upon Him ox and ass do breathe. Snow hangs its fringes on the byre. The roof stands open to the tryst Of aureoled saints, that sweetly choir To shepherds, "Come, behold the Christ!"
	26 Sep 2022	S9E5: "Nothing Gold Can Stay" by Robert Frost	00:09:08
In this ninth season, we are reading six poems about the four seasons of the year. English verse especially is abundant in celebrations, odes, and meditative poems about the divisions of the year and the visible changes in nature that attend them. Over the next several weeks, we will take a look at some fine examples of seasonal poetry. Today's selection is "Nothing Gold Can Stay" by Robert Frost; poem begins at timestamp 7:34. *Nothing Gold Can Stay* by Robert Frost Nature’s first green is gold, Her hardest hue to hold. Her early leaf’s a flower; But only so an hour. Then leaf subsides to leaf. So Eden sank to grief, So dawn goes down to day. Nothing gold can stay.
	23 Jan 2023	S11E1: “The Lost Leader” by Robert Browning	00:11:37
Welcome back to another season of the Well-Read Poem! In this series we will be reading six poems about writers, some of them well-known, some of them not as well known. Our aim in this season is to give listeners some insight into the lives, minds, and imaginations of authors long deceased, and some understanding of what they have meant to their fellow scribes. Today's poem is “The Lost Leader” by Robert Browning, written as a criticism of William Wordsworth. Poem begins at timestamp 6:16. The Lost Leader by Robert Browning Just for a handful of silver he left us, Just for a riband to stick in his coat— Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us, Lost all the others she lets us devote; They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver, So much was theirs who so little allowed: How all our copper had gone for his service! Rags—were they purple, his heart had been proud! We that had loved him so, followed him, honoured him, Lived in his mild and magnificent eye, Learned his great language, caught his clear accents, Made him our pattern to live and to die! Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us, Burns, Shelley, were with us,—they watch from their graves! He alone breaks from the van and the freemen, —He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves! We shall march prospering,—not thro' his presence; Songs may inspirit us,—not from his lyre; Deeds will be done,—while he boasts his quiescence, Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire: Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more, One task more declined, one more footpath untrod, One more devils'-triumph and sorrow for angels, One wrong more to man, one more insult to God! Life's night begins: let him never come back to us! There would be doubt, hesitation and pain, Forced praise on our part—the glimmer of twilight, Never glad confident morning again! Best fight on well, for we taught him—strike gallantly, Menace our heart ere we master his own; Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait us, Pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne!
	12 Apr 2021	S2E5: “Stanzas Written in Passing the Ambracian Gulf” by Lord Byron	00:08:36
Welcome to Season 2 of The Well Read Poem podcast. During this season, our host, classicist and poet Thomas Banks will be reading and interpreting six poems of history. This week's poem is “Stanzas Written in Passing the Ambracian Gulf” by Lord Byron. Poem begins at timestamp 6:28. Stanzas Written in Passing the Ambracian Gulf by Lord Byron Through cloudless skies, in silvery sheen, Full beams the moon on Actium's coast: And on these waves for Egypt's queen, The ancient world was won and lost. And now upon the scene I look, The azure grave of many a Roman; Where stem Ambition once forsook His wavering crown to follow woman. Florence! whom I will love as well As ever yet was said or sung (Since Orpheus sang his spouse from hell), Whilst thou art fair and I am young; Sweet Florence! those were pleasant times; When worlds were staked for ladies' Had bards as many realms as rhymes; Thy charms might raise new Antonies. Though Fate forbids such things to be Yet, by thine eyes and ringlets curl'd! I cannot lose a world for thee, But would not lose thee for a world.
	13 Dec 2021	S6E6: "A Sonnet (Two Voices Are There)" By James Kenneth Stephenson	00:10:42
In this sixth season of The Well Read Poem, we will read a number of examples of classic satire in verse. English poetry is particularly rich in satire, and we will take a close look at some of the best instances of literary mockery that the past several centuries have bequeathed to us. Some of these are playfully teasing, while others are deliberately savage. All of them taken together, I trust, will provide a happy introduction to the fine art of verbal annihilation. Today’s poem is "A Sonnet (Two Voices Are There)" by James Kenneth Stephenson. Poem begins at timestamp 3:51. A Sonnet (Two Voices Are There) by James Kenneth Stephenson Two voices are there: one is of the deep; It learns the storm-cloud's thunderous melody, Now roars, now murmurs with the changing sea, Now bird-like pipes, now closes soft in sleep: And one is of an old half-witted sheep Which bleats articulate monotony, And indicates that two and one are three, That grass is green, lakes damp, and mountains steep: And, Wordsworth, both are thine: at certain times Forth from the heart of thy melodious rhymes, The form and pressure of high thoughts will burst: At other times -- good Lord! I'd rather be Quite unacquainted with the A.B.C. Than write such hopeless rubbish as thy worst.
	10 Jun 2024	S16E2: "The Lonely Hunter" by William Sharp	00:09:30
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.
	07 Feb 2022	S7E5: "O Tell Me the Truth About Love" by W. H. Auden	00:06:39
In this seventh season, we are reading six poems about romantic love. Love may seem to be the most fundamental subject for poetry, but interestingly, it is not. When we consider the great poetic traditions of almost any people, we find that love is by no means the first matter that has inspired their poets. The poems we will read together come from several different periods in time, and I would like to examine, among other things, how the language of romance has changed in the English-speaking world over the centuries. Today's piece is "O Tell Me the Truth About Love" by W. H. Auden. Poem begins at timestamp 3:13. O Tell Me the Truth About Love by W. H. Auden Some say love's a little boy, And some say it's a bird, Some say it makes the world go around, Some say that's absurd, And when I asked the man next-door, Who looked as if he knew, His wife got very cross indeed, And said it wouldn't do. Does it look like a pair of pyjamas, Or the ham in a temperance hotel? Does its odour remind one of llamas, Or has it a comforting smell? Is it prickly to touch as a hedge is, Or soft as eiderdown fluff? Is it sharp or quite smooth at the edges? O tell me the truth about love. Our history books refer to it In cryptic little notes, It's quite a common topic on The Transatlantic boats; I've found the subject mentioned in Accounts of suicides, And even seen it scribbled on The backs of railway guides. Does it howl like a hungry Alsatian, Or boom like a military band? Could one give a first-rate imitation On a saw or a Steinway Grand? Is its singing at parties a riot? Does it only like Classical stuff? Will it stop when one wants to be quiet? O tell me the truth about love. I looked inside the summer-house; It wasn't over there; I tried the Thames at Maidenhead, And Brighton's bracing air. I don't know what the blackbird sang, Or what the tulip said; But it wasn't in the chicken-run, Or underneath the bed. Can it pull extraordinary faces? Is it usually sick on a swing? Does it spend all its time at the races, or fiddling with pieces of string? Has it views of its own about money? Does it think Patriotism enough? Are its stories vulgar but funny? O tell me the truth about love. When it comes, will it come without warning Just as I'm picking my nose? Will it knock on my door in the morning, Or tread in the bus on my toes? Will it come like a change in the weather? Will its greeting be courteous or rough? Will it alter my life altogether? O tell me the truth about love.
	26 Feb 2024	S15E3: “The Cat” by Charles Baudelaire (trans. by Roy Campbell)	00:09:24
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.
	17 Apr 2023	S12E2: Sonnet 18, "Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?" by William Shakespeare	00:12:18
For the twelfth season of the Well-Read Poem, we will be reading four poems by William Shakespeare, whose genius as a lyric poet is best appreciated in his collection of 154 sonnets. Shakespeare is of course the supreme dramatic poet of the English language; yet if only his sonnets and shorter poems had survived out of his great body of work, it is not too much to say that he may still have enjoyed a certain literary immortality, albeit of a different sort. In addition to four sonnets by Shakespeare, we will be taking a look at two sonnets by fellow Elizabethan poets, to give a sense of the popularity of this poet form in Shakespeare's day. To get access to the replays of the Literary Life Online Conference on Shakespeare, visit houseofhumaneletters.com. Today's poem is Sonnet 18, "Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?" Poem begins at timestamp 8:20. Sonnet XVIII by William Shakespeare Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer’s lease hath all too short a date; Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimm'd; And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance or nature’s changing course untrimm'd; But thy eternal summer shall not fade, Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st; Nor shall death brag thou wander’st in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st: So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
	22 Feb 2021	S1E6: "The World is Too Much with Us" by William Wordsworth	00:10:31
Because reading is interpretation, The Well Read Poem aims to teach you how to read with understanding! Hosted by poet Thomas Banks of The House of Humane Letters, these short episodes will introduce you to both well-known and obscure poets and will focus on daily recitation, historical and intellectual background, elements of poetry, light explication, and more! Play this podcast daily and practice reciting! The next week, get a new poem. Grow in your understanding and love of poetry by learning how to read well! Brought to you by The Literary Life Podcast. Poem begins at 3:28. The World is Too Much with Us by William Wordsworth The world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;— Little we see in Nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon; The winds that will be howling at all hours, And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers; For this, for everything, we are out of tune; It moves us not. Great God! I’d rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.
	01 Feb 2021	S1E3: "If We Shadows Have Offended" by William Shakespeare	00:09:17
Because reading is interpretation, The Well Read Poem aims to teach you how to read with understanding! Hosted by poet Thomas Banks of The House of Humane Letters, these short episodes will introduce you to both well-known and obscure poets and will focus on daily recitation, historical and intellectual background, elements of poetry, light explication, and more! Play this podcast daily and practice reciting! The next week, get a new poem. Grow in your understanding and love of poetry by learning how to read well! Brought to you by The Literary Life Podcast. Poem begins at 2:46. If We Shadows Have Offended by William Shakespeare If we shadows have offended, Think but this, and all is mended, That you have but slumber'd here While these visions did appear. And this weak and idle theme, No more yielding but a dream, Gentles, do not reprehend: if you pardon, we will mend: And, as I am an honest Puck, If we have unearned luck Now to 'scape the serpent's tongue, We will make amends ere long; Else the Puck a liar call; So, good night unto you all. Give me your hands, if we be friends, And Robin shall restore amends.
	30 Sep 2024	S17E5: "Poem of a Proposition of Nakedness" by Walt Whitman	00:11:46
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/.
	16 Sep 2024	S17E3: "Sonnet 11: On the Desecration Which Followed My Writing Certain Treatises" by John Milton	00:16:44
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 "Sonnet 11: On the Desecration Which Followed My Writing Certain Treatises" by John Milton. Poem readings begin at timestamps . 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/.
	22 Nov 2021	S6E3: "Zimri" from "Absalom and Achitophel" by John Dryden	00:12:10
In this sixth season of The Well Read Poem, we will read a number of examples of classic satire in verse. English poetry is particularly rich in satire, and we will take a close look at some of the best instances of literary mockery that the past several centuries have bequeathed to us. Some of these are playfully teasing, while others are deliberately savage. All of them taken together, I trust, will provide a happy introduction to the fine art of verbal annihilation. Today’s selection is from a longer piece called Absalom and Achitophel, by John Dryden. This passage titled Zimri is a satirical character sketch of the Duke of Buckingham. Poem begins at timestamp 5:19. "Zimri" from "Absalom and Achitophel" by John Dryden A numerous host of dreaming saints succeed; Of the true old enthusiastic breed: 'Gainst form and order they their pow'r employ; Nothing to build, and all things to destroy. But far more numerous was the herd of such, Who think too little, and who talk too much. These, out of mere instinct, they knew not why, Ador'd their father's God, and property: And by the same blind benefit of fate, The Devil and the Jebusite did hate: Born to be saved even in their own despite; Because they could not help believing right. Such were the tools; but a whole Hydra more Remains, of sprouting heads too long, to score. Some of their chiefs were princes of the land: In the first rank of these did Zimri stand: A man so various, that he seem'd to be Not one, but all Mankind's Epitome. Stiff in opinions, always in the wrong; Was everything by starts, and nothing long: But in the course of one revolving moon, Was chemist, fiddler, statesman, and buffoon: Then all for women, painting, rhyming, drinking; Besides ten thousand freaks that died in thinking. Blest madman, who could every hour employ, With something new to wish, or to enjoy! Railing and praising were his usual themes; And both (to show his judgment) in extremes: So over violent, or over civil, That every man, with him, was god or devil. In squandering wealth was his peculiar art: Nothing went unrewarded, but desert. Beggar'd by fools, whom still he found too late: He had his jest, and they had his estate. He laugh'd himself from court; then sought relief By forming parties, but could ne'er be chief: For, spite of him, the weight of business fell On Absalom and wise Achitophel: Thus, wicked but in will, of means bereft, He left not faction, but of that was left.
	06 Feb 2023	S11E3: “The Arrest of Oscar Wilde at the Cadogan Hotel” by John Betjeman	00:09:25
Welcome back to another season of the Well-Read Poem! In this series we will be reading six poems about writers, some of them well-known, some of them not as well known. Our aim in this season is to give listeners some insight into the lives, minds, and imaginations of authors long deceased, and some understanding of what they have meant to their fellow scribes. Today's poem is “The Arrest of Oscar Wilde at the Cadogan Hotel” by John Betjeman. Poem begins at timestamp 3:54. The Arrest of Oscar Wilde at the Cadogan Hotel by John Betjeman He sipped at a weak hock and seltzer As he gazed at the London skies Through the Nottingham lace of the curtains Or was it his bees-winged eyes? To the right and before him Pont Street Did tower in her new built red, As hard as the morning gaslight That shone on his unmade bed, “I want some more hock in my seltzer, And Robbie, please give me your hand — Is this the end or beginning? How can I understand? “So you’ve brought me the latest Yellow Book: And Buchan has got in it now: Approval of what is approved of Is as false as a well-kept vow. “More hock, Robbie — where is the seltzer? Dear boy, pull again at the bell! They are all little better than cretins, Though this is the Cadogan Hotel. “One astrakhan coat is at Willis’s — Another one’s at the Savoy: Do fetch my morocco portmanteau, And bring them on later, dear boy.” A thump, and a murmur of voices — (”Oh why must they make such a din?”) As the door of the bedroom swung open And TWO PLAIN CLOTHES POLICEMEN came in: “Mr. Woilde, we ‘ave come for tew take yew Where felons and criminals dwell: We must ask yew tew leave with us quoietly For this is the Cadogan Hotel.” He rose, and he put down The Yellow Book. He staggered — and, terrible-eyed, He brushed past the plants on the staircase And was helped to a hansom outside.
	05 Apr 2021	S2E4: “To Toussaint L’Ouverture” by William Wordsworth	00:09:30
Welcome to Season 2 of The Well Read Poem podcast. During this season, our host, classicist and poet Thomas Banks will be reading and interpreting six poems of history. This week's poem is “To Toussaint L’Ouverture” by William Wordsworth. Poem begins at timestamp 7:30. To Toussaint L’Ouverture by William Wordsworth Toussaint, the most unhappy Man of Men! Whether the whistling Rustic tend his plough Within thy hearing, or thy head be now Pillowed in some deep dungeon's earless den; - O miserable Chieftain! where and when Wilt thou find patience? Yet die not; do thou Wear rather in thy bonds a cheerful brow: Though fallen Thyself, never to rise again, Live, and take comfort. Thou hast left behind Powers that will work for thee; air, earth, and skies; There's not a breathing of the common wind That will forget thee; thou hast great allies; Thy friends are exultations, agonies, And love, and Man's unconquerable mind.
	04 Dec 2023	S14E2: "Mistletoe" by Walter de la Mare	00:10:38
As befits the time of year, we will be reading six poems of Advent and Christmas during this fourteenth season of the Well-Read Poem. We have selected certain familiar ones, which may yet contain certain surprises in their authorship and composition history, as well as some less well-known pieces which we hope will help you better enjoy the late days of the year leading up to the great Feast of the Nativity of Christ the Lord. Today's poem is "Mistletoe" by Walter de la Mare. Reading begins at timestamps 4:50 and 7:36. Mistletoe by Walter de la Mare Sitting under the mistletoe (Pale-green, fairy mistletoe), One last candle burning low, All the sleepy dancers gone, Just one candle burning on, Shadows lurking everywhere: Some one came, and kissed me there. Tired I was; my head would go Nodding under the mistletoe (Pale-green, fairy mistletoe), No footsteps came, no voice, but only, Just as I sat there, sleepy, lonely, Stooped in the still and shadowy air Lips unseen—and kissed me there. This podcast is brought to you by The Literary Life Podcast. To find out more about from Thomas Banks, visit HouseofHumaneLetters.com.
	27 Nov 2023	S14E1: "The Magi" by William Butler Yeats	00:11:30
As befits the time of year, we will be reading six poems of Advent and Christmas during this fourteenth season of the Well-Read Poem. We have selected certain familiar ones, which may yet contain certain surprises in their authorship and composition history, as well as some less well-known pieces which we hope will help you better enjoy the late days of the year leading up to the great Feast of the Nativity of Christ the Lord. Today's poem is "The Magi" by William Butler Yeats. Reading begins at timestamps 4:50 and 9:37. The Magi by William Butler Yeats Now as at all times I can see in the mind's eye, In their stiff, painted clothes, the pale unsatisfied ones Appear and disappear in the blue depths of the sky With all their ancient faces like rain-beaten stones, And all their helms of silver hovering side by side, And all their eyes still fixed, hoping to find once more, Being by Calvary's turbulence unsatisfied, The uncontrollable mystery on the bestial floor.
	08 Jul 2024	S16E6: "Summer" by Christina Rossetti	00:10:18
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.
	08 Feb 2021	S1E4: "Babylon" by Robert Graves	00:10:00
Because reading is interpretation, The Well Read Poem aims to teach you how to read with understanding! Hosted by poet Thomas Banks of The House of Humane Letters, these short episodes will introduce you to both well-known and obscure poets and will focus on daily recitation, historical and intellectual background, elements of poetry, light explication, and more! Play this podcast daily and practice reciting! The next week, get a new poem. Grow in your understanding and love of poetry by learning how to read well! Brought to you by The Literary Life Podcast. Poem begins at 4:07. Babylon by Robert Graves The child alone a poet is: Spring and Fairyland are his. Truth and Reason show but dim, And all’s poetry with him. Rhyme and music flow in plenty For the lad of one-and-twenty, But Spring for him is no more now Than daisies to a munching cow; Just a cheery pleasant season, Daisy buds to live at ease on. He’s forgotten how he smiled And shrieked at snowdrops when a child, Or wept one evening secretly For April’s glorious misery. Wisdom made him old and wary Banishing the Lords of Faery. Wisdom made a breach and battered Babylon to bits: she scattered To the hedges and ditches All our nursery gnomes and witches. Lob and Puck, poor frantic elves, Drag their treasures from the shelves. Jack the Giant-killer’s gone, Mother Goose and Oberon, Bluebeard and King Solomon. Robin, and Red Riding Hood Take together to the wood, And Sir Galahad lies hid In a cave with Captain Kidd. None of all the magic hosts, None remain but a few ghosts Of timorous heart, to linger on Weeping for lost Babylon.

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Harp Song of the Dane Women

The Blinded Bird

Auguries of Innocence

Alexander

All That's Past

Selection from “A Satire Against Mankind”

To a Poet, Who Would Have Me Praise Certain Bad Poets, Imitator of His and Mine

Epitaph on a Tyrant

The Wife of Flanders

Polonius

Summer Evening

Mother, I cannot Mind my Wheel

A Farewell to Arms

Constantinople

To the Old Gods

Breughel's Winter

Luther

A Runnable Stag

Atticus

Remember Me

Love Poem

Anthem for St. Cecilia’s Day, Part 1

Epigram Engraved on the Collar of a Dog Which I Gave to His Highness

The Kraken

On a General Election

Heureux qui, comme Ulysse

Infant Innocence

Sonnet 130: My Mistress' Eyes Are Nothing Like the Sun

Ghost

Kubla Khan

Roman Wall Blues

The Shield of Achilles

To Virgil

August 1968

Stanzas Written in Passing the Ambracian Gulf

A Sonnet (Two Voices Are There)

O Tell Me the Truth About Love

The World is Too Much with Us

If We Shadows Have Offended

"Zimri" from "Absalom and Achitophel"

To Toussaint L’Ouverture

Babylon

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