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Photo by Pavel Teltsov The Disciple by Oscar Wilde --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/atred/message

Photo by Anton Semenov Her voice y Oscar Wilde --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/atred/message

Photo by Alana Corwin Theocritus by Oscar Wilde --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/atred/message

Photo by Dongo Sonnets are full of love by Christina Rossetti --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/atred/message

Photo by Femina Grosera Since I Left You, Mine Eye Is In My Mind by William Shakespeare --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/atred/message

Photo by Kacper Swat Freedom by Charles Bukowski --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/atred/message

Photo by José Saccone Bye to everything Charles Bukowski --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/atred/message

Cuando escuchaba la canción de bellas palabras pretéritas, se hacían bautizar en la fogata los versos de la madera. Un faro cálido envió su señal a un barco solitario y le orientó en los contornos tropicales, en el seno generoso de la Caribeña. Pero escuchaba la canción, y en el humo de la fogata restallaban los versos de la madera. [ENGLISH] As I listened to that old and beautiful song its fine words were baptised by the flames igniting the bonfire of this poem An incandescent lighthouse lit up a solitary boat guiding it through the tropics to the safe haven of the Caribbean But I listened to that song and in the smoke of the bonfire its poetry sparked Vocal by Mahsa Moqadam & Ali Alizade Haqiqi Photo by Shahab Shahmohammadi Poem by Limam Boicha --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/atred/message

A girl asleep beneath a fishing net Sandals the color of tangerines Off the coast of Morocco A moonlit downpour, God's skeleton Bark, dory, punt, skiff "Each with a soul full of scents" Day after day spent shaping A ball of wax into a canary Little lamp, little lamp The word "contraband" arrived In English in the 16th century via Spanish Throw your shadow overboard Proverbs, blessings scratched into wood The tar of my country better than the honey of others Poem by Eduardo C. Corral Photo by Me --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/atred/message

The sounds of the train piped in through the PA system. The whole city slightly askew but familiar in its shadows, its symmetrical brick, its dry hot breeze and its lack of pedestrians, save you. ----------- The blinking message said: More alcohol is needed to achieve escape velocity ----------- The salutations and styles erupting on the top few stairs, where service is mercifully restored and the world resumes its tangents and vectors, terrific possibilities processed by objects as small and dark as the eyes of a starling, constantly soaking up data and sending it back to Seattle, which sells it to Tokyo, which sells it to someplace else Photo by Me Poem by Rick Snyder --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/atred/message

When your joys are of the sweetest     And your heart is light and free;  When your griefs are skimming fleetest,      Love, one moment think of me. I’d not ask you to remember      Me when life is dull and drear; When your hopes are but an ember     From a cold and vanished year; Sorrow’s far too bleak a burden     To retain in mem’ry’s hall.  Friendship has no greater guerdon     Than to happiness recall. So, when roses scent the twilight     Air with ling’ring dew damp breath,  Please remember me as eye-bright     Faith remembers until death. Photo by Zhenya Tigina A wish by Joshua Henry Jones, Jr. --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/atred/message

He was painting the sky. Not painting images of sun and clouds on canvas — no, slapping paint across the sky itself. It was a painting en plein air on plain air. There was a theory behind it, of course, a theory so big it didn’t matter anymore, a map the size of the territory. Go tell it to the birds, he would say. But the birds didn’t care. They were flying nonchalantly through the sky, and he would paint them, too, the redbirds blue and the bluebirds red. Of course, the paint would drip everywhere. But didn’t it always? That’s what the rag was for, and the little blade. As someone said: If art was not difficult, it would not be art. The critics hadn’t found the right word for it yet. Not exactly realism, and not quite surrealism — not even subrealism. But he couldn’t wait for the critics to make up their minds. He just kept painting, while the sun was out. At the end of the day, his work was done. He put away his paints, and the sun put itself away, and the clouds likewise. It was so dark he couldn’t see the grass around his feet, no longer green but a ground of many colors, still wet, like some kaleidoscope of dew. Ah, what would he paint tomorrow? A seascape? He thought of the water, wave after wave, and his small brush dabbling in the shallows, stroking out into the deep. Art and Nature by Elton Glaser Photo by Ilya Haharev --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/atred/message

This is the world so vast and lonely without end, with mountains named for men who brought hunger from other lands, and fear of the thick, dark forest of trees that held each other up, knowing fire dreamed of swallowing them and spoke an older tongue, and the tongue of the nation of wolves was the wind around them. Even ice was not silent. It cried its broken self back to warmth. But they called it ice, wold, forest of sticks, as if words would make it something they could hold in gloved hands, open, plot a way and follow. This is the map of the forsaken world. This is the world without end where forests have been cut away from their trees. These are the lines wolf could not pass over. This is what I know from science: that a grain of dust dwells at the center of every flake of snow, that ice can have its way with land, that wolves live inside a circle of their own beginning. This is what I know from blood: the first language is not our own. There are names each thing has for itself, and beneath us the other order already moves. It is burning. It is dreaming. It is waking up. Map by Linda Hogan Photo by Sara Matos --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/atred/message

[INTRO] Local anchors list the ways viewers might enjoy tomorrow. One says, “Get some great….”, but that seems like a stretch. The other snickers, meaning, “Where were you going with that?” Like you thought Like you could defend  vanity in the sense of idle conceit, vacuous self- absorption, doing whatever it takes to whatever because, really. As if to say, “Conceit is the vacuum energy.” [CHORUS] [FIRST LINE] What are you listening to? Do you think you are very talented? Yes, right, but do not be arrogant. You and I can not understand at the same time what is being said now. [SECOND LINE] The human mind is very complex and also has the ability to do strange things, But there are no limits, it’s our brain that is limited. It’s our mind that understands the infinite in a limited way because it is easier for it. [THIRD LINE] If you can hear this, then you are choosing not to hear other sounds, it is true that we are not able to hear and understand all the sounds at the same time, but we can choose what to hear. [VERSE] I have seen a life laid to waste, in the name of pure stubbornness, in the absolute definition of denial. I see my own life. Caught up on the same rails, charging full steam ahead, to a tunnel where no light shines. The gates of experience fly by. Still frames of adventures I have excused myself from for reasons, for selfishness. Vanity . . . shame. The double yellow line, solid and illuminated, laughs as I attempt to find the nerve. To dare cross. Throwing up walls of resistance as the hourglass bleeds grains of sand I can’t afford. I have seen a lifetime laid to waste, and in its shadow, I have seen my own. Intro by Rae Armantrout Chorus by Ali Alizade Haqiqi Verse by Natasha Head Photo by Elia Bonetti --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/atred/message

Vocal by Mahsa Moqadam Photo by Diamonster - Cultivo una Rosa Blanca [I Grow a White Rose] by José Martí Cultivo una rosa blanca en junio como en enero, eara el amigo sincero, que me da su mano franca. Y para el cruel que me arranca el corazón con que vivo, cardo ni ortiga cultivo cultivo una rosa blanca. [ENGLISH] I grow a white rose in June and in January, for the true friend, who offers his honest hand. And for the cruel one who tears from me the heart I live with, not a thistle nor a nettle do I grow, I grow a white rose. --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/atred/message

Photo by zdzisław beksiński To God our twice-Revenger by John Wilson --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/atred/message

Photo by Olaf Korbanek Mirror by Ali Alizade haqiqi --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/atred/message

Photo by Hsianglin Tseng A Winter Twilight by Angelina Weld Grimké --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/atred/message

Photo by Marcelo Vaz New Travelogue by Lewis Warsh --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/atred/message

Photo by Filipp Rabachev A Picture by Olivia Ward Bush-Banks --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/atred/message