Episode 4.07 John Donne’s “Good Friday 1613, Riding Westward”

Five or six years ago, I read this poem here on Lucky Words. This is a new recording—recorded, edited, and uploaded on Good Friday 2023—looking at the best Good Friday poem ever written.

Who am I kidding? Every poem by John Donne is the best ever written.

I hope that you have (or had) a lovely Easter, filled with family, chocolate, poetry, and Jesus Christ.

TEXT OF POEM

Let man's soul be a sphere, and then, in this,
Th' intelligence that moves, devotion is;
And as the other spheres, by being grown
Subject to foreign motion, lose their own,
And being by others hurried every day,
Scarce in a year their natural form obey; Pleasure or business, so, our souls admit
For their first mover, and are whirl'd by it.
Hence is't, that I am carried towards the west,
This day, when my soul's form bends to the East.
There I should see a Sun by rising set,
And by that setting endless day beget.
But that Christ on His cross did rise and fall,
Sin had eternally benighted all.
Yet dare I almost be glad, I do not see
That spectacle of too much weight for me.
Who sees Gods face, that is self-life, must die;
What a death were it then to see God die?
It made His own lieutenant, Nature, shrink,
It made His footstool crack, and the sun wink.
Could I behold those hands, which span the poles
And tune all spheres at once, pierced with those holes?
Could I behold that endless height, which is
Zenith to us and our antipodes,
Humbled below us? or that blood, which is
The seat of all our soul's, if not of His,
Made dirt of dust, or that flesh which was worn
By God for His apparel, ragg'd and torn?
If on these things I durst not look, durst I
On His distressed Mother cast mine eye,
Who was God's partner here, and furnish'd thus
Half of that sacrifice which ransom'd us?
Though these things as I ride be from mine eye,
They're present yet unto my memory,
For that looks towards them; and Thou look'st towards me,
O Saviour, as Thou hang'st upon the tree.
I turn my back to thee but to receive
Corrections till Thy mercies bid Thee leave.
O think me worth Thine anger, punish me,
Burn off my rust, and my deformity;
Restore Thine image, so much, by Thy grace,
That Thou mayst know me, and I'll turn my face.

Episode 4.06 Dylan Thomas’s “The force that through the green fuse drives the flower”

Redorded on location on the trail to Corona Arch outside Moab, Utah, in May of 2022. Some members of my family were with me, and I recorded in snatches while we were hiking—which is why there is some heckling going on. I tried to edit most of it out, but, you know...

I have a soft spot for Dylan Thomas, but I don't know why. There's something about his poetry that just feels good to me. I feel the same way about Hopkins (maybe I should do some Hopkins...), even though they're both poets who really make me work. It's good work, though.

TEXT OF POEM

"The force that through the green fuse drives the flower" by Dylan Thomas

The force that through the green fuse drives the flower
Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees
Is my destroyer.
And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose
My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.

The force that drives the water through the rocks
Drives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams
Turns mine to wax.
And I am dumb to mouth unto my veins How at the mountain spring the same mouth sucks.

The hand that whirls the water in the pool
Stirs the quicksand; that ropes the blowing wind
Hauls my shroud sail.
And I am dumb to tell the hanging man
How of my clay is made the hangman's lime.

The lips of time leech to the fountain head;
Love drips and gathers, but the fallen blood
Shall calm her sores.
And I am dumb to tell a weather's wind
How time has ticked a heaven round the stars.

And I am dumb to tell the lover's tomb
How at my sheet goes the same crooked worm.

Episode 4.05 Elizabeth Bishop’s “One Art”

Recorded on location at Arches National Park in Moab, Utah. Specifically, at the La Sal mountains look out—not that I could see anything.

While this is a lovely poem, it's also another poem that I recorded sitting down. At least this time I wasn't at my desk, I was still enclosed in a car. It wasn't quite as bad, and the view was nice, but it isn't my ideal. I'm not sure that you all notice, but my brian feels like it only works at half-speed when I'm sitting. To get access to my whole intellect (such as it is) I need to be upright and in motion.

TEXT OF POEM

"One Art" by Elizabeth Bishop

The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.

—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

Episode 4.04 The anonymous Anglo-Saxon poem “The Battle of Brunanburh”

A very different thing today: I'm stuck indoors and so this was recorded at home. So weird. Still, I don't think you'll get bored, because I get all artsy: give it a listen and let me know how much you like (or dislike) it.

The inspiration for me to use this poem for Lucky Words was actually a project that my daughter was doing for her class in new genres in art. They were doing audio work, and so I recorded this poem for her an started playing around with a stereo version with different versions in different ears. I liked it, and thought I might keep it in my back pocket for a rainy day.

Well, it's a snowy day, and I'm using it.

One thing that I ought to have added was a guide to some of the names, just to make it a little easier to understand. Æthelstan, Eadmund, and Eadweard are English, and from the perspective of the poem, the good guys. Anlaf and Constantine are the aggressors and losers here, who head home in ignominious defeat.

TEXT OF POEM

You can read the text of the poem in its original form online,or if you prefer in PDF, but you probably won't get much out of it.

Episode 4.03 John Keats’s “On First Looking into Chapman’s Homer”

When I was in high school and probably completely insufferable, I used to walk around with a book of poetry in my back pocket. Keats was a big favorite then. I'm not sure why; I mean he is great, but it's not exactly stuff that should thrill an obnoxious young kid. And I was very obnoxious. I cringe looking back at myself in those days.

Maybe everyone does. That's the nature of growing up; now that I know more, I am better able to appreciate just how dumb I used to be. But it must be that way: imagine if I were actually more stupid now than then, and all my life experience would have taught me nothing. That is much more cringe-worthy.

So what Keats accomplishes in this poem can also be seen as not just poetically interesting, but good life advice. He describes a transformative moment in his life: he starts in ignorance and inexperience, and then discovers something great. By the end of the poem he is a different person than he was at the beginning, those sixteen lines earlier. And his approach is not to berate himself for his earlier stupidity, but to celebrate the wonder of where he is now. He has some of the zeal of the convert here. Soon enough, he's going to be out evangelizing Chapman to all his friends.

TEXT OF POEM

John Keats's "On First Looking into Chapman's Homer"

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.

Episode 4.02 Czeslaw Milosz’s “And Yet The Books”

Hiking in the snow is always harder than hiking on dirt, but there's still snow on the ground and so I'll take what I can get. The cold does present one particular difficulty, of course, that it makes my nose run and I have to edit out about a thousand sniffs. I didn't get them all, and for that I apologize.

I also apologize for my pronunciation of Milosz's name. That's another thing that I had to edit out. I'm mostly consistent here with mill-osh but only sometimes. I think I edited out every time I said mish-losh or mlil-loss or any other travesty. The nice thing here is that I can at least edit it out. In front of a classroom, I just have to hope that the students were too focused on the actual substance to ignore my butchery.

Also, I edited out a whole long section where I started ranting a little bit about the importance of books that you don't agree with. It was too political, and not going to help anyone understand this wonderful poem, and so through the magic of editing, it has vanished into the ether.

Lastly, it's pretty obvious that this isn't a studio recording where I am sitting in some studio (read: my home office/bedroom) and adding in effects for ambiance. These really are recorded in the field, while I'm (usually) hiking, and dealing with whatever happens to me out there. I'm not working from notes, except for the text of the poem, and sometimes I have to pause to think or remember what I was going to say. Sometimes I encounter other people on the trail and need to stop because I'm self-conscious. And sometimes I am just physically clumsy. No, it wouldn't make a good comedy--it's much too pathetic for that.

TEXT OF POEM

"And Yet The Books" by Czeslaw Milosz

And yet the books will be there on the shelves, separate beings,
That appeared once, still wet
As shining chestnuts under a tree in autumn,
And, touched, coddled, began to live
In spite of fires on the horizon, castles blown up,
Tribes on the march, planets in motion.
"We are, " they said, even as their pages
Were being torn out, or a buzzing flame
Licked away their letters. So much more durable
Than we are, whose frail warmth
Cools down with memory, disperses, perishes.
I imagine the earth when I am no more:
Nothing happens, no loss, it's still a strange pageant,
Women's dresses, dewy lilacs, a song in the valley.
Yet the books will be there on the shelves, well born,
Derived from people, but also from radiance, heights.

Episode 4.01 John Ashbery’s “Just Walking Around”

It's National Poetry Month, and we're back (from the dead, it seems) to read poems while exploring around the American west. It's been years, but there are still poems, so many poems, and so we're doing it all over again.

Welcome.

There is so much, so much to do! I have to remember all the ins and outs of podcasting: editing and posting and, if I am feeling feisty, trying to publicize it. But there one thing at a time: let's get started.

"Just Walking Around" by John Ashbery

What name do I have for you?
Certainly there is no name for you
In the sense that the stars have names
That somehow fit them. Just walking around,

An object of curiosity to some,
But you are too preoccupied
By the secret smudge in the back of your soul
To say much and wander around,

Smiling to yourself and others.
It gets to be kind of lonely
But at the same time off-putting.
Counterproductive, as you realize once again

That the longest way is the most efficient way,
The one that looped among islands, and
You always seemed to be traveling in a circle.
And now that the end is near

The segments of the trip swing open like an orange.
There is light in there and mystery and food.
Come see it. Come not for me but it.
But if I am still there, grant that we may see each other.

Poetry Month 2023

Welcome back! (Or just plain old welcome, if you're here for the first time.)

Here at Lucky Words, I'm trying for a podcast a day during National Poetry Month, which is April every year. It's a bit like NaNoWriMo, except for podcasts, and poetry, and no one else in the world does it except me. I hope you enjoy it.

If you've got suggestions, corrections, comments, or criticism, I'd love to hear it. Seriously: even the angry stuff. If you want to say something, say it. Send an email to luckywordspodcast@gmail.com.

A little background on Lucky Words the podcast

Lucky Words started as a series of posts on Facebook back in 2015 or so. In 2017, I started recording some of my poetry analysis as a podcast, just to get more people involved. It worked: there are now hundreds of people around the world who are listening to Lucky Words, only one of whom is my mother (Hi, Mom!).

I discovered quickly that sitting at a desk and recording was unpleasant for me. I can't teach sitting behind a desk or a lectern, I need to be pacing around the room. I need to move my body. And if I could do it in interesting places, all the better. So I started integrating my experiences in the outdoors with my reading and talking about poems.

Right now, sometimes I take time on a hike to record a podcast, and sometimes I make recording a podcast an excuse for a hike. Regardless, any environmental sounds are real and recorded at the time. Also, I can have lousy microphone technique because I am legitimately out of breath. I'm climbing a mountain!

A word on fair use

Most of the poetry here is in the public domain. That's the easy part. Some of it is not. I consider any non-public domain works to be covered by fair use. My purpose is education, and there is no negative effect upon the market value of the works I chose to read here.

Are you a poet I featured here? Are you a publisher of a poet I featured here? Please let me know if (a) you would prefer that I take it down or (b) you would like to give me some sponsorship or a publishing deal. Either one is fine with me, but if I had my druthers I'd prefer B.

Who am I?

Briefly, I'm a middle aged guy who has studied and taught literature at various universities in the United States. OK, it's only two universities: The Ohio State and Brigham Young. My masters and doctoral work was on early modern drama and poetry, which is still a favorite of mine.

But who am I kidding: I love poetry from all the eras. I'm a bit of a sucker for mid-20th century poetry, even though I don't have any real scholarly background in the period. I mean: I lived it, but that doesn't count.

I live in Utah, and I love the American southwest. Hence the hiking, etc. I never want to move from here.

What's next?

In addition to the podcast, I'm starting a weekly newsletter which will cover many of the same things that I talk about in my poetry analyses. You can sign up for that just as soon as I've got it up and running. Stay tuned.

And now: go listen to some poetry. Get outside. Do both at the same time: it's magic!

Episode 3.11: Gwendolyn Brooks' "The Preacher Ruminates Behind the Sermon"

This is kind of a lonely poem for a lonely day hiking. Not lonely, exactly, but very alone. I spent probably five hours and saw, maybe, three human beings. It was good. I like to be alone.

Sometimes. I also like to be with those I love. When I am with other people, I think about them. I am a person in society. When I am alone, I think about God, or nature, or poetry and art, or all of those things. I think about myself in relation to all those things.

TEXT OF POEM

"The Preacher Ruminates Behind the Sermon" by Gwendolyn Brooks

I think it must be lonely to be God.
Nobody loves a master. No. Despite
The bright hosannas, bright dear-Lords, and bright
Determined reverence of Sunday eyes.

Picture Jehovah striding through the hall
Of His importance, creatures running out
From servant-corners to acclaim, to shout
Appreciation of His merit's glare.

But who walks with Him?—dares to take His arm,
To clap Him on the shoulder, tweak His ear,
Buy Him a Coca-Cola or a beer,
Pooh-pooh His politics, call Him a fool?

Perhaps—who knows?—He tires of looking down.
Those eyes are never lifted. Never straight.
Perhaps sometimes He tires of being great
In solitude. Without a hand to hold.

Episode 310: Alexander Pope's "Ode on Solitude"

More adventures in Canyonlands National Park in southern Utah.

I hike to be quiet and alone. This hike took me on the White Rim Trail, one of the destination trails for 4x4 affectionados. Which is about the opposite of me. I like my peace and quiet, which never includes dirtbikes or ATVs.

Of course, every one I saw at least waved at me, and often were very friendly and chatty. I tell a story of one of those encounters in this episode.

TEXT OF POEM

Alexander Pope's "Ode on Solitude"

Happy the man, whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound,
Content to breathe his native air,
        In his own ground.

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire,
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
        In winter fire.

Blest, who can unconcernedly find
Hours, days, and years slide soft away,
In health of body, peace of mind,
        Quiet by day,

Sound sleep by night; study and ease,
Together mixed; sweet recreation;
And innocence, which most does please,
        With meditation.

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;
Thus unlamented let me die;
Steal from the world, and not a stone
        Tell where I lie.