The Well Read Poem – Details, episodes & analysis

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.
 

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!"

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.

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.

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.