The Poetry Podcast

My heart aches, & a drowsy numbness pains         My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains         One minute past, & 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, & 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 & the country green,         Dance, & Provençal song, & 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,                        & purple-stained mouth;         That I might drink, & leave the world unseen,                & with thee fade away into the forest dim:Fade far away, dissolve, & quite forget         What thou among the leaves hast never known,The weariness, the fever, & the fret         Here, where men sit & hear each other groan;Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,         Where youth grows pale, & spectre-thin, & dies;                Where but to think is to be full of sorrow                        & 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 & his pards,But on the viewless wings of Poesy,         Though the dull brain perplexes & retards:Already with thee! tender is the night,         & 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 & 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 endowsThe grass, the thicket, & the fruit-tree wild;         White hawthorn, & the pastoral eglantine;                Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;                        & mid-May's eldest child,         The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,                The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.Darkling I listen; &, 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, & 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 & 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; & 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?

In Scarlet town, where I was born,   There was a fair maid dwellin’,Made every youth cry Well-a-way!   Her name was Barbara Allen.All in the merry month of May,   When green buds they were swellin’,Young Jemmy Grove on his death-bed lay,   For love of Barbara Allen.He sent his man in to her then,   To the town where she was dwellin’;“O haste and come to my master dear,   If your name be Barbara Allen.”So slowly, slowly rase she up,   And slowly she came nigh him,And when she drew the curtain by—   “Young man, I think you’re dyin’.”“O it’s I am sick and very very sick,   And it’s all for Barbara Allen.”—O the better for me ye’se never be,   Tho’ your heart’s blood were a-spillin’!“O dinna ye mind, young man,” says she,   “When the red wine ye were fillin’,That ye made the healths go round and round,   And slighted Barbara Allen?”He turned his face unto the wall,   And death was with him dealin’:“Adieu, adieu, my dear friends all,   And be kind to Barbara Allen!”As she was walking o’er the fields,   She heard the dead-bell knellin’;And every jow the dead-bell gave   Cried “Woe to Barbara Allen.”“O mother, mother, make my bed,   O make it saft and narrow:My love has died for me today,   I’ll die for him tomorrow.”“Farewell,” she said, “ye virgins all,   And shun the fault I fell in:Henceforth take warning by the fall   Of cruel Barbara Allen.”

There's little joy in life for me,      And little terror in the grave;I 've lived the parting hour to see      Of one I would have died to save.Calmly to watch the failing breath,      Wishing each sigh might be the last;Longing to see the shade of death      O'er those belovèd features cast.The cloud, the stillness that must part      The darling of my life from me;And then to thank God from my heart,      To thank Him well and fervently;Although I knew that we had lost      The hope and glory of our life;And now, benighted, tempest-tossed,      Must bear alone the weary strife.

My dearest boy,This is to assure you of my immortal, my eternal love for you. Tomorrow all will be over. If prison and dishonour be my destiny, think that my love for you and this idea, this still more divine belief, that you love me in return will sustain me in my unhappiness and will make me capable, I hope, of bearing my grief most patiently. Since the hope, nay rather the certainty, of meeting you again in some world is the goal and the encouragement of my present life, ah! I must continue to live in this world because of that. Brought to you by: Imposter ProductionsPerformance by: Jessica MunnaResearch/Assistant Producer: Sharon Sybill GattIntro & Episode music by ELPHNT: ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠https://elphnt.io/youtube-audio⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ (search for ELPHNT & download for free from the Youtube Audio Library) ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠https://elphnt.io/⁠⁠

I have but one thought, Susie, this afternoon of June, and that of you, and I have one prayer, only; dear Susie, that is for you. That you and I in hand as we e’en do in heart, might ramble away as children, among the woods and fields, and forget these many years, and these sorrowing cares, and each become a child again — I would it were so, Susie, and when I look around me and find myself alone, I sigh for you again; little sigh, and vain sigh, which will not bring you home.I need you more and more, and the great world grows wider, and dear ones fewer and fewer, every day that you stay away — I miss my biggest heart; my own goes wandering round, and calls for Susie — Friends are too dear to sunder, Oh they are far too few, and how soon they will go away where you and I cannot find them, don’t let us forget these things, for their remembrance now will save us many an anguish when it is too late to love them! Susie, forgive me Darling, for every word I say — my heart is full of you, none other than you is in my thoughts, yet when I seek to say to you something not for the world, words fail me. If you were here — and Oh that you were, my Susie, we need not talk at all, our eyes would whisper for us, and your hand fast in mine, we would not ask for language — I try to bring you nearer, I chase the weeks away till they are quite departed, and fancy you have come, and I am on my way through the green lane to meet you, and my heart goes scampering so, that I have much ado to bring it back again, and learn it to be patient, till that dear Susie comes. Three weeks — they can’t last always, for surely they must go with their little brothers and sisters to their long home in the west!I shall grow more and more impatient until that dear day comes, for till now, I have only mourned for you; now I begin to hope for you.Brought to you by: Imposter ProductionsPerformance by: Jessica MunnaResearch/Assistant Producer: Sharon Sybill GattIntro & Episode music by ELPHNT: ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠https://elphnt.io/youtube-audio⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ (search for ELPHNT & download for free from the Youtube Audio Library) ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠https://elphnt.io/⁠⁠

I got your letter, my beloved; it has filled my heart with joy. I am grateful to you for the trouble you have taken to send me news; your health should be better to-day—I am sure you are cured. I urge you strongly to ride, which cannot fail to do you good.Ever since I left you, I have been sad. I am only happy when by your side. Ceaselessly I recall your kisses, your tears, 20your enchanting jealousy; and the charms of the incomparable Josephine keep constantly alight a bright and burning flame in my heart and senses. When, free from every worry, from all business, shall I spend all my moments by your side, to have nothing to do but to love you, and to prove it to you? I shall send your horse, but I am hoping that you will soon be able to rejoin me. I thought I loved you some days ago; but, since I saw you, I feel that I love you even a thousand times more. Ever since I have known you, I worship you more every day; which proves how false is the maxim of La Bruyère that "Love comes all at once." Everything in nature has a regular course, and different degrees of growth. Ah! pray let me see some of your faults; be less beautiful, less gracious, less tender, and, especially, less kind; above all never be jealous, never weep; your tears madden me, fire my blood. Be sure that it is no longer possible for me to have a thought except for you, or an idea of which you shall not be the judge.Have a good rest. Haste to get well. Come and join me, so that, at least, before dying, we could say—"We were happy for so many days!!"Millions of kisses, and even to Fortuné, in spite of his naughtiness.Brought to you by: Imposter ProductionsPerformance by: Jessica MunnaResearch/Assistant Producer: Sharon Sybill GattIntro & Episode music by ELPHNT: ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠https://elphnt.io/youtube-audio⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ (search for ELPHNT & download for free from the Youtube Audio Library) ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠https://elphnt.io/⁠⁠

The sky is clear, the moon is shining. I hear sailors singing as they raise anchor, preparing to leave with the oncoming tide. No clouds, no wind. The river is white under the moon, black in the shadows. Moths are playing around my candles, and the scent of the night comes to me through my open windows. And you, are you asleep? Or at your window? Are you thinking of the one who think of you? Are you dreaming? What is the color of your dream? Yes, I will come back, and soon, for I think of you always; I keep dreaming of your face, of your shoulders, your white neck, your smile, of your voice that is like a love-cry, at once impassioned, violent, and sweet. I told you, I think, that it was above all your voice that I loved.Brought to you by: Imposter ProductionsPerformance by: Jessica MunnaResearch/Assistant Producer: Sharon Sybill GattIntro & Episode music by ELPHNT: ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠https://elphnt.io/youtube-audio⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ (search for ELPHNT & download for free from the Youtube Audio Library) ⁠⁠⁠⁠https://elphnt.io/⁠⁠

Making Life Worthwhile by George Eliot Every soul that touches yours – Be it the slightest contact– Get there from some good; Some little grace; one kindly thought; One aspiration yet unfelt; One bit of courage For the darkening sky; One gleam of faith To brave the thickening ills of life; One glimpse of brighter skies –To make this life worthwhile And heaven a surer heritage. Brought to you by: Imposter Productions Performance by: Jessica Munna Research/Assistant Producer: Sharon Sybill Gatt Intro & Episode music by ELPHNT: ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠https://elphnt.io/youtube-audio⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ (search for ELPHNT & download for free from the Youtube Audio Library) ⁠⁠⁠⁠https://elphnt.io/⁠⁠

Revenge by Eliza Acton I would not, in the wildness of revenge, Give poison to mine enemy, nor strike My dagger to his heart, but I would plant Love--burning--hopeless--and unquenchable-- Within the inmost foldings of his breast, And bid him die the dark, and ling'ring death, Of the pale victims, who expire beneath The pow'r of that deep passion. Earth can show No bitterness like this !--The shroud of thought Which gathers round them, gloomy as the grave;-- The wasting, but unpitied pangs, which wear The frame away, and make the tortur'd mind Almost a chaos in its agony;-- The writhings of the spirit, doom'd to see A rival bless'd;-and utter, cold, despair :- These are its torments !-Are they not enough To satisfy the most remorseless hate? Brought to you by: Imposter Productions Performance by: Jessica Munna Research/Assistant Producer: Sharon Sybill Gatt Intro & Episode music by ELPHNT: ⁠⁠⁠⁠https://elphnt.io/youtube-audio⁠⁠⁠⁠ (search for ELPHNT & download for free from the Youtube Audio Library) ⁠⁠⁠https://elphnt.io/⁠⁠

When latest autumn spreads her evening veil, And the gray mists from these dim waves arise, I love to listen to the hollow sighs Through the half leafless wood that breathes the gale. For at such hours the shadowy phantom pale,         Oft seems to fleet before the poet's eyes; Strange sounds are heard, and mournful melodies As of night-wanderers who their woes bewail. Here by his native stream, at such an hour, Pity's own Otway I methinks could meet         And hear his deep sighs swell the saddened wind! O Melancholy, such thy magic power That to the soul these dreams are often sweet And soothe the pensive visionary mind. Brought to you by: Imposter Productions Performance by: Jessica Munna Research/Assistant Producer: Sharon Sybill Gatt Intro music by ELPHNT: ⁠⁠⁠https://elphnt.io/youtube-audio⁠⁠⁠ (search for ELPHNT & download for free from the Youtube Audio Library) ⁠⁠https://elphnt.io/⁠⁠ Episode music by The Lights: ⁠⁠https://thelights.bandcamp.com/⁠⁠

LETTER VI (excerpt) from Letters written during a short residence in Sweden, Norway, and Denmark by Mary Wollstonecraft Nature is the nurse of sentiment, the true source of taste; yet what misery, as well as rapture, is produced by a quick perception of the beautiful and sublime when it is exercised in observing animated nature, when every beauteous feeling and emotion excites responsive sympathy, and the harmonised soul sinks into melancholy or rises to ecstasy, just as the chords are touched, like the Æolian harp agitated by the changing wind. But how dangerous is it to foster these sentiments in such an imperfect state of existence, and how difficult to eradicate them when an affection for mankind, a passion for an individual, is but the unfolding of that love which embraces all that is great and beautiful! When a warm heart has received strong impressions, they are not to be effaced. Emotions become sentiments, and the imagination renders even transient sensations permanent by fondly retracing them. I cannot, without a thrill of delight, recollect views I have seen, which are not to be forgotten, nor looks I have felt in every nerve, which I shall never more meet. The grave has closed over a dear friend, the friend of my youth. Still she is present with me, and I hear her soft voice warbling as I stray over the heath. Fate has separated me from another, the fire of whose eyes, tempered by infantine tenderness, still warms my breast; even when gazing on these tremendous cliffs sublime emotions absorb my soul. And, smile not, if I add that the rosy tint of morning reminds me of a suffusion which will never more charm my senses, unless it reappears on the cheeks of my child. Her sweet blushes I may yet hide in my bosom, and she is still too young to ask why starts the tear so near akin to pleasure and pain. Brought to you by: Imposter Productions Performance by: Jessica Munna Researcher /Assistant Producer: Sharon Sybill Gatt Intro music by ELPHNT: ⁠https://elphnt.io/youtube-audio⁠ (search for ELPHNT) https://elphnt.io/ Episode music by The Lights: https://thelights.bandcamp.com/

Good morning, Even in bed my ideas yearn towards you, my Immortal Beloved, here and there joyfully, then again sadly, awaiting from Fate, whether it will listen to us. I can only live, either altogether with you or not at all. Yes, I have determined to wander about for so long far away, until I can fly into your arms and call myself quite at home with you, can send my soul enveloped by yours into the realm of spirits — yes, I regret, it must be. You will get over it all the more as you know my faithfulness to you; never another one can own my heart, never — never! O God, why must one go away from what one loves so, and yet my life in W. as it is now is a miserable life. Your love made me the happiest and unhappiest at the same time. At my actual age I should need some continuity, sameness of life — can that exist under our circumstances? Angel, I just hear that the post goes out every day — and must close therefore, so that you get the L. at once. Be calm — love me — today — yesterday. What longing in tears for you — You — my Life — my All — farewell. Oh, go on loving me — never doubt the faithfullest heart Of your beloved L Ever thine. Ever mine. Ever ours.

A poet is somebody who feels, and who expresses his feelings through words. This may sound easy. It isn’t. A lot of people think or believe or know they feel — but that’s thinking or believing or knowing; not feeling. And poetry is feeling — not knowing or believing or thinking. Almost anybody can learn to think or believe or know, but not a single human being can be taught to feel. Why? Because whenever you think or you believe or you know, you’re a lot of other people: but the moment you feel, you’re nobody-but-yourself. To be nobody-but-yourself — in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else — means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight; and never stop fighting. As for expressing nobody-but-yourself in words, that means working just a little harder than anybody who isn’t a poet can possibly imagine. Why? Because nothing is quite as easy as using words like somebody else. We all of us do exactly this nearly all of the time-and whenever we do it, we’re not poets. If, at the end of your first ten or fifteen years of fighting and working and feeling, you find you’ve written one line of one poem, you’ll be very lucky indeed. And so my advice to all young people who wish to become poets is: do something easy, like learning how to blow up the world – unless you’re not only willing, but glad, to feel and work and fight till you die. Does this sound dismal? It isn’t. It’s the most wonderful life on earth. Or so I feel.

Winter Stars BY SARA TEASDALE I went out at night alone; The young blood flowing beyond the sea Seemed to have drenched my spirit’s wings— I bore my sorrow heavily. But when I lifted up my head From shadows shaken on the snow, I saw Orion in the east Burn steadily as long ago. From windows in my father’s house, Dreaming my dreams on winter nights, I watched Orion as a girl Above another city’s lights. Years go, dreams go, and youth goes too, The world’s heart breaks beneath its wars, All things are changed, save in the east The faithful beauty of the stars.

To the Moon BY PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY I Art thou pale for weariness Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth, Wandering companionless Among the stars that have a different birth, — And ever changing, like a joyless eye That finds no object worth its constancy? II Thou chosen sister of the Spirit, That gazes on thee till in thee it pities ...

HOME:  "The place where you are treated best and grumble most. Here’s a sigh to those who love me, And a smile to those who hate; And whatever sky’s above me, Here’s a heart for every fate. Were’t the last drop in the well, As I gasped upon the brink, Ere my fainting spirit fell, ’Tis to thee that I would drink." -Byron https://archive.org/details/toastsforallocca00bost/page/18/mode/2up