7.17.15

 

 

The Great Hunt, by Carl Sandburg

Read by Xe Sands

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Xe writes…

Don’t we all have someone to whom we owe something – an explanation, a declaration…even if they are oblivious to it? And will we tell them, before it becomes moot not to?

No. Most likely, we won’t.

Image credit: Varun Suresh
License: CC BY 2.0

 

 

 

Emma, by Wayne Gatfield

Read by Wayne Gatfield

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Wayne writes…

A poem of mine with music (not mine)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ani Poem. Goddess Thoughts. New Moon in Cancer, Amani O+Poetess

Read by Susan Marie

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Amani O+Poetess writes…

Why Ani Poems?

Ani (also known as Ala, Ana, Ale, and Ali in varying Igbo dialects) is the Earth Mother Goddess; female Alusi (deity) of the earth, morality, death, and fertility in Odinani.
The Igbo people of Nigeria call Her the mother of all things, but She is both the fertile earth and the empty field after the harvest. She is present at the beginning of the cycle of life, making children grow in their mother’s womb, and She is there at the end of the cycle, to receive the souls of the dead into Her own womb.
Her name literally translates to ‘Ground’ in the Igbo language, denoting Her powers over the earth and Her status as the ground itself.
Ala is considered the highest Alusi in the Igbo pantheon and was the first Alusi, daughter of Chukwu, the supreme god. Ala’s husband is Amadioha, the sky god.
We each are the beginning, middle and end. We are light and dark. Womyn in particular . In this ircle, among other things, Ani Poems represents the cycle of creation, critique and sharing.
Ani Poems, Goddess Thoughts aims to foster a space for Women of Color in Upstate NY that celebrates the beauty of each moment and at every stage of life while recognizing the value of what we each bring to the table. We are the green garden, we are the empty garden, we are everything in between and we are all beautiful.
Photo Cred: juachiobi.deviantart.com/…/Ala-Earth-…ess-3361791…
More Here en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ala_%28Odinani%29

 

 

Gleaming Eyes and Shining Teeth, George MacDonald

Read by theshadowlands

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theshadowlands writes…

My poetic rendering of George MacDonald’s “The Gray Wolf”

—Gleaming Eyes & Shining Teeth—

The old woman pointed to a heather bed
As the place for the night to lay his head
Weary, the young man, from this day
Wrapped himself in his cloak to hit the hay

The moment his head to lay
A fresh storm was underway
The wind blew through the cracks of the hut
His cloak over his head, for the noise to rebut

Unable to sleep, he listened away
As the window held back the sea and spray
The door opened, the young woman came in
Curled up on the bench with her hand on her chin

In that same strange posture as before
Her face turned towards the young man all the more
If he moved, she would drop her head
Yet still she quietly, keenly peering towards his bed

The mother soon to disappear
Drowsiness and soon sleep was drawing near
A move from the bench, the boy to excite
Thinking a four-footed creature, was drowsily in sight

Hazily dreaming a large dog to trot across the floor
Then with stealth to quietly exit the door
In the darkness, he felt a rising dread
The fixed gaze of two eyes upon his bed

He stared at the fire, then was soon aware
The bench was vacant, and the young woman, not there
Wondering, what reason to enter a storm so deep
Soon reposing, the young man fell fast asleep

In the depth of that stormy night
Awakened in pain at what was in his sight
A deep ache in his shoulder to be
With gleaming eyes and shining teeth…to now…see…(-bc)

 

 

Tom Jones, Book XIV, Chapter 1, by Henry Fielding

Read by Mark Turetsky

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Mark writes…

Book 14 Chapter 1 of Tom Jones.

This is part of an ongoing project in which I will record and post one chapter per week of Henry Fielding’s Tom Jones over the course of four years.

It’s the start of another book of Tom Jones, meaning once again, Fielding takes a break from the narrative to expound on a certain idea. In this chapter, Fielding discusses the need for a certain level in expertise in the subjects one writes about to write effectively. The greatest problem he sees in the writing of his contemporaries, is that nobody knows how to write the genteel class, since no writers are of that class.

 

 

 

7.10.15

 

 

The Messages, Wilfrid Wilson Gibson

Read by Xe Sands

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Xe writes…

Hmm…I seem to be on a war poetry kick at present. For some reason, the timeless themes of incomprehensible and reprehensible loss specific to war has been resonating with me lately, even while my news consumption has been shamefully lacking. But there is something there that calls, something that only poetry and visual depiction seem to be able to get at, at least for me. It’s haunting, and visceral, and tragic.

 

 

 

Behind the Veil, by Wayne Gatfield

Read by Wayne Gatfield

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Wayne writes…

Poetry of mine with music (not mine)

 

 

7.3.15 (ish)

Yes, we’re “ishing” it again this week, after a week’s absence. *sigh*

 

Sometimes, life just gets in the way of your plans.

 

Dreams in Wartime, Amy Lowell

Read by Xe Sands

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Xe writes…

I think there is something unfortunately timeless about war poetry…I imagine being able to read poetry from ages past (Ovid, anyone? Oh the flashbacks to college seminar – gah!)and finding the same imagery, themes, laments. As with beauty, love, anguish, war and its particular damage, its emotional uniform hardly seems to change. Change the dates, spiff up the language and you can slip right into that wartime poetry dress as if it was custom made for your era.

And I think I find that profoundly disturbing.

 

 

 

I Am, Susan Marie

Read by Susan Marie

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Susan writes…

I
am
that
which
cannot be
caged
tamed
tried
understood
included
deluded
or left

misunderstood

I am
the fairy tailed children
asleep beneath blankets
on a cool summers eve,
books in palms
eyes shut tight
warding off monsters
in closets
underneath the bed

I am the angelic presence in dreams
the dark rising depths
present
in the time between
night and day

I am
the bleeding hearts
of artists
music flowing
like manes of thoroughbreds
strings and violins
concertos and preludes
the rise and fall
of notes
the voice of the oppressed
painting alone
writing alone
speaking to the masses
standing in front of
sculptures
in galleries
half numb
from having their soul
placed on a
public platter
picked apart
and critiqued

I am
the constellations
stars,
the ancient raiment
of the majestic
velvet night
coaxing solitude
creation
rendering you
sleepless
with desire

and the great Gods
contemplating existence
tossing magic
and medicine
electrified
towards Earth
teaching lessons to the
mere human soul

I am Woman
Man
Child
Mother
Father
Brother
Sister

I am a lover
loved
loving

I am the volcanic
rumblings
of every tired soul
and every smile
and tear

I am an argument
and agreement

the birds that berth
in your
crown chakra

their song
is mine

all creatures
earth, dirt, silt
gems, stones
twigs and trees
every root and crevice
all footholds and paths
the falling leaves
kamikaze
every rock and shell
the waves and oceans
all bodies of water
feathers, flight
the bees that buzz
around the new bud
the hand that guides a sprout
from seed

the secrets the wind
whispers
the fierce embrace
of winter
the warmth upon
your face
heart
body
soul
and the sweet cool
calming waters
of life

I am death.

wild

I am
Woman

Here.
Now.

I am every element
all emotions
every fable told
by firelight
every word
written
spoken
uttered
screamed
and sighed

the true Goddess
the wild soul

I am that which cannot
be kept
nor set free

I exist
without logic
in rational conscious
thought
in esoteric
holy
nakedness

I am the rich man
and beggar
the king and the jester

I am the grass
all species
and the sky
kaleidoscopes
of spectrums

I am good
versus
evil
versus
self
versus
sentience

I am a conundrum
unto myself
a human shell
existing
as pure
ether

I am heaven
and hell

I am the destroyer
and creator

simultaneous

© Susan Marie
Art © Daphne and Apollo by Beatriz Martin Vidal

 

 

 

Tangle Follows the Old Man of the Fire, George MacDonald

Read by theshadowlands

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theshadowlands writes…

Artwork by Christi L. Williams “The Old Man of the Fire”
Connect with her : www.facebook.com/christi.l.williams

My poetic rendering of George MacDonald’s “The Golden Key” (Poem 25)

—Tangle Follows The Old Man of the Fire—

The Old Man of the Fire drew near
Tangle suddenly burst into tear
Sobbing she asked “Do you know?”
“To that country, the way to go?”

“That high country, I have known”
“Many times that way, have gone.”
“To the land of which the shadows lay.”
“Tangle, Too young , you may not go my way.”

“Another way Tangle you must go”
“There is another way I know”
Tangle, “Old Man of the Fire, I do entreat.”
“Please do keep me from the heat.”

He approached her with eyes of love
And with a power as from above
Upon Tangle’s heart he placed his hand.”
“Now Tangle, the heat you can withstand.”

He led her through caverns grand
Into a desert place of rock and sand
In this arid place, Tangle was in shock
The skies were made of solid rock

Solid thunderclouds overhead
Of yellow gold, white silver and copper red
The colors slowly trickling down
Molten colors dripped to the ground

Intense the heat of this barren place
Yet not a drop of sweat reached Tangle’s face
Though the heat was ever grand
Tangle the heat she could withstand

A little further they had gone
The child reached down and lifted a stone
And what he lifted to her eyes
Was strange and of a great surprise

An egg, he held within his hand
Then a long curved line drew in the sand
Then the egg to crack and break
And out slithered a full-grown snake

It slithered along the curvy line
The Man, “Follow the snake closely behind”
“Tangle, the snake, it will show.”
“You to the place you need to go.”

She followed the serpent slithering wild
Not far then looking back to the child
There in the desert, alone in view
By a flaming fountain of reddish hue

In naked whiteness, with loving eyes glaring
Growing smaller, as she walked, still staring
Til he was no more, press onward and now yearning
Following the serpent and (neither to the right or left) ever turning…(-bc)

 

 

 

Tom Jones, Book XIII, Chapter 11, by Henry Fielding

Read by Mark Turetsky

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Mark writes…

Book 13 Chapter 11 of Tom Jones.

This is part of an ongoing project in which I will record and post one chapter per week of Henry Fielding’s Tom Jones over the course of four years.

In this chapter, Tom finally meets with his fair Sophia in what seems like years. He arrives at Lady Bellaston’s house, and is waiting in the drawing room when Sophia enters. They are shocked to see each other, and Tom takes great pains to apologize for all the wrongs he has done her. Sophia is most upset with a wrong that was actually done by Partridge, and soon the young lovers renew their devotion to each other. Until, that is, Lady Bellaston returns to find them in her drawing room, and suspecting that they had been attempting to deceive her.

 

 

 

Tom Jones, Book XIII, Chapter 12, by Henry Fielding

Read by Mark Turetsky

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Mark writes…

Book 13 Chapter 12 of Tom Jones.

This is part of an ongoing project in which I will record and post one chapter per week of Henry Fielding’s Tom Jones over the course of four years.

In this chapter, Lady Bellaston needles Sophia with the knowledge the she knows Sophia was meeting with Jones, but Sophia doesn’t know that she is familiar with Jones. She reminds Sophia that she has made a vow never to marry without her father’s consent, which implies that she is not to see Jones.

6.19.15

Sometimes, the right poem finds you at just the right moment.

 

A.E.F, Carl Sandburg

Read by Xe Sands

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Xe writes…

So often, a poet will seem to speak to us, so intimately from somewhere way back, and although they couldn’t really be talking to us, they are, aren’t they. They are.

Some themes just keep coming back and back and back.

Image credit: Solid, by Katie Brady
Licensed under CC 2.0

 

 

 

Tom Jones, Book XIII, Chapter 10, by Henry Fielding

Read by Mark Turetsky

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Mark writes…

Book 13 Chapter 10 of Tom Jones.

This is part of an ongoing project in which I will record and post one chapter per week of Henry Fielding’s Tom Jones over the course of four years.

In this chapter, Tom meets Mrs. Miller’s cousin, who was on the point of ruin. It’s none other than the highwayman that Tom met on the road to London, whom he helped. Tom sees that he has helped preserve a family from financial ruin, and both Mrs. Miller and the man, Mr. Anderson, both sing his praises.

6.12.15

Lordy Lou, but that was a long, unanticipated break for Going Public. Won’t waste time with mea culpas and apologies…I’ll just say…

 

WELCOME BACK!

 

Er…to ourselves. Anyway…lots of audio beauty to share with you today!

 

Night Swings, by A.R. Jardin & Big Truths

Read by Xe Sands

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Xe writes…

…recorded with permission of the author and publisher

Copyright A.R. Jardine 2014
Published in 2014 by Big Truths
Back after a long absence with this beautiful and aching piece from A.R. Jardine. My thanks to the author for allowing me to record this piece.

 

 

 

“on reading” by Helen Keller

Read by Sara Mosey

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Sara writes…

Helen Keller expresses her love for learning to read in her autobiography THE STORY OF MY LIFE
read by Sara Morsey

 

 

Saviour Poem, by Wayne Gatfield

Read by Wayne Gatfield

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Wayne writes…

Two poems of mine with music (not mine)

 

 

 

Searim Seiðr by ProjectLono

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ProjectLono writes…

Poem written and performed by Bob Beagrie, music by SJ Forth.

*The Dróttkvætt is a poetic form practiced by the Scalds in Old Norse during the ninth century Scandinavia.

Searim Seiðr
(Dróttkvætt)

Turbines tear at skylines
Stitched together by gulls
Fret weaving on wing-lift,
We watch one another

As ghosts weather-grounded
Grappling with apple dreams,
We hoard safe the heart-seeds
Hands held up to heaven.

River ripened verses,
Vacuum wrapped rune visions
Re-sung with the blood’s drum;
Draw crow days in coal-dust

Song-bound to the singers:
Spiral of a sea shell
Tide marooned rockpools
Recall last wave’s caress.

Evening wends homeward,
Hauls Night in its keep-net,
To warm flesh by firelight,
Faces dance in flame-tongues.

Wild eyes watch the crackle
Creeping embers crumble
Knife-edge draws Night’s gullet
Gather round, my Goslings.

Believe that you belong,
Become strong as iron –
Feed full on Night’s carcass
Keep its bones for relics.

Settle down for slumber,
Sleep shall send us stalking
Along seams of starways
Searching for the morning.

 

 

 

 

Tom Jones, Book XIII, Chapter 6, by Henry Fielding

Read by Mark Turetsky

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Mark writes…

Book 13 Chapter 6 of Tom Jones.

This is part of an ongoing project in which I will record and post one chapter per week of Henry Fielding’s Tom Jones over the course of four years.

In this chapter, Tom gets a mysterious invitation to a masquerade. Those of you who’ve been paying attention should be able to figure out who sent it. Also, his new friend Mr. Nightingale will be attending it with him.

 

 

Tom Jones, Book XIII, Chapter 7, by Henry Fielding

Read by Mark Turetsky

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Mark writes…

Book 13 Chapter 7 of Tom Jones.

This is part of an ongoing project in which I will record and post one chapter per week of Henry Fielding’s Tom Jones over the course of four years.

Well, the masquerade visit pays off for Tom, and in more ways than one. Tom meets with a masked lady, whom he assumes is Mrs. Fitzpatrick. The lady promises Tom that she will lead him to Sophia, if Tom does her one small favor. Tom is only too willing to oblige, and ends up returning to a house with the woman, only to unmask Lady Bellaston! Tom engages Lady Bellaston in a “conversation” that lasts for four hours. While nothing obscene is directly alluded to in the text, the included image (which I’ve censored here) will let the reader know what was clearly understood to the 18th Century reader of this book.

 

 

Tom Jones, Book XIII, Chapter 8, by Henry Fielding

Read by Mark Turetsky

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Mark writes…

Book 13 Chapter 8 of Tom Jones.

This is part of an ongoing project in which I will record and post one chapter per week of Henry Fielding’s Tom Jones over the course of four years.

In this chapter, Tom hears the sad story of the relations of Mrs. Miller, who are all sick and dying. Tom, it just so happens, has money to help them out. It’s strongly implied that he got the money by becoming a gigolo.

 

 

Tom Jones, Book XIII, Chapter 9, by Henry Fielding

Read by Mark Turetsky

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Mark writes…

Book 13 Chapter 9 of Tom Jones.

This is part of an ongoing project in which I will record and post one chapter per week of Henry Fielding’s Tom Jones over the course of four years.

In this chapter, we find that Tom’s fortunes have improved, after and extended period of meeting Lady Bellaston. Tom is now a well-dressed man about town, but is beginning to feel ennui, but a sense of duty to continue meeting Lady Bellaston.