Recent Posts

An episode from 12/15/25: Tonight, I read from Irving Howe’s World of Our Fathers: The Journey of the East European Jews to America and the Life They Found and Made. In light of the events in Australia yesterday, I take the time not just to talk about what it meant to be a Jewish immigrant to America around the year 1900, but what it means to me to be a Jew right now. The best way to support the podcast is by leaving a review on Apple or Spotify, sharing it with others, or sending me a note on what… Read more: #209 – Being a Jew in 1900, Being a Jew Now

Looking ahead to the February release of Time and the River: From Columbine to the Invention of Fire, I will be posting poems from it with accompanying videos. You can preorder the book here and see all videos and reviews of here. Today’s poem is Unfinished Michelangelo:

Looking ahead to the February release of Time and the River: From Columbine to the Invention of Fire, I will be posting poems from it with accompanying videos. You can preorder the book here and see all videos and reviews of here. Today’s poem is The Sun Sets Into the Sea:

An episode from 12/1/25: Note: A version of this episode was posted last week and quickly taken down when I realized the audio quality was poor. I have rerecorded it here; apologies to those listeners who heard the subpar version. Tonight, I read from John Eliot’s Gardiner’s Bach: Music in the Castle of Heaven. Gardiner talks about Bach’s Christian faith, how much we can expect listeners today to know about liturgical context of his music, as well as his intense attachment to the writings of Martin Luther. He also asks a fairly mundane question about Bach’s book-buying habits that humanizes… Read more: #208 – Bach & God

Looking ahead to the February release of Time and the River: From Columbine to the Invention of Fire, I will be posting poems from it with accompanying videos. You can preorder the book here and see all videos and reviews of here. Today’s poem is Vermeer’s “The Milkmaid”:

An episode from 11/24/25: Tonight, I read from one of the best books on religion in ancient Egypt, Erik Hornung’s Conceptions of God in Ancient Egypt: The One and the Many. Few have written so lucidly on the subject: Egyptians were actually obsessed with life and its renewal, not in wallowing death; the “monotheistic” reforms of Akhenaten were not visionary at all, but largely practical and pretty brutal; the essence of Egyptian religion was its ability to go on and on, adding to its own profuseness wherever it could, and resisting systemization and dogmas at every turn; and so on.… Read more: #207 – Death, the Gods, and Endless Life in Ancient Egypt

As I began to plan the February release of my new book, Time and the River: From Columbine to the Invention of Fire, the one obvious way of promoting it was to create YouTube videos for many of the book’s poems. A few weeks ago, I posted the first of these, “Edward Hopper’s ‘Nighthawks’” and “Dylan Klebold’s Crush.” Both videos garnered nearly 900 views in just a few days–no doubt a drop in the bucket compared to anything that goes viral, but pretty good for poetry. I immediately posted a third video, “Robert Oppenheimer,” and it went nowhere. By the… Read more: YouTube is Censoring… Poetry?

Looking ahead to the February release of Time and the River: From Columbine to the Invention of Fire, I will be posting poems from it with accompanying videos. You can preorder the book here and see all videos and reviews of here. Today’s poem is Mr Cassian’s Good Friend, Albert Einstein:

Looking ahead to the February release of Time and the River: From Columbine to the Invention of Fire, I will be posting poems from it with accompanying videos. You can preorder the book here and see all videos and reviews of here. Today’s poem is about Robert Oppenheimer:

An episode from 11/17/25: Tonight, I read a section from David Anthony’s book The Horse, the Wheel, and Language. It is a wonderfully written account of the archeological and linguistic attempts to discover the origins of the Indo-European language families. The part I read from retells the famous story of Sir William Jones, the Welsh linguist and lawyer stationed in British India in the late eighteenth century, and the eureka moment he had upon realizing that Sanskrit, Latin, Greek (and so many other languages) are related. Anthony also sums up the political, nationalist (and, eventually, simply racist) uses to which… Read more: #206: The Discovery of Indo-European Languages – 1876

Looking ahead to the February release of Time and the River: From Columbine to the Invention of Fire, I will be posting poems from it with accompanying videos. You can preorder the book here and see all videos and reviews of here. Today’s poem is the first in the book, and one of the hardest to write (and perhaps the hardest to read), Dylan Klebold’s Crush. I was only out of high school for two years when the Columbine High School shooting took place, and it took almost twenty years, and becoming a father, for me to write anything about… Read more: “Dylan Klebold’s Crush” (poem & video)

An episode from 11/10/25: Tonight, I talk about literacy and education in the ancient world, both the fascinating aspects of memorization and of what “reading” meant back (it was much closer to reading shorthand today), and the precarious reality that anyone who underwent scribal training in Mesopotamia or Egypt might not even live long enough to see their education through. The book I read from is David Carr’s Writing on the Tablet of the Heart: Origins of Scripture and Literature. I also begin the episode with a small passage on the life of CIA spymaster James Angleton, from Tom Mangold’s… Read more: #205: Learning to Read, c. 2000 BCE

Looking ahead to the February release of Time and the River: From Columbine to the Invention of Fire, I will be posting poems from it with accompanying videos. You can preorder the book here and see all videos and reviews of here. The first poem to share is on that great figure from Arthurian myth, Merlin:

An episode from 11/3/25: Tonight, I read what is perhaps Walt Whitman’s greatest poem, “Crossing Brooklyn Ferry.” I also set it in the context of Whitman’s life as a poet: he wrote and published the first edition of Leaves of Grass in 1855 and was certain that the book would have an immediate cultural and national impact. When this didn’t happen, and while Whitman was preparing the second edition of Leaves of Grass only a year later, part of his response is expressed in “Crossing Brooklyn Ferry”—whose original title was “Sun-Down Poem.” Here is the most vivid and memorable expression… Read more: #204: Walt Whitman’s “Crossing Brooklyn Ferry,” 1856

An episode from 10/24/25: I’ve been waiting in vain for a cold to pass so I can record a new episode. As that doesn’t seem to be happening anytime soon, the new movie about Bruce Springsteen reminded me that a few years ago I recorded an episode about his 1982 album Nebraska. While the original episode itself is much longer, tonight’s episode presents only the part about Springsteen. I hope you enjoy it, and I hope it gets a few of you out there to listen to Nebraska again. The best way to support the podcast is by leaving a… Read more: #203: Bruce Springsteen Talks About “Nebraska” – 1984

An episode from 10/6/25: Tonight, I read from Richard Henry Dana Jr.’s Two Years Before the Mast, first published in 1840. It tells of the death of one sailor, George Ballmer. The text of this passage can be found here. I also read a quote from the poet Derek Walcott, and part of the poem “The Burning of the Leaves,” by Laurence Binyon. The best way to support the podcast is by leaving a review on Apple or Spotify, sharing it with others, or sending me a note on what you think. You can also order any of my books:… Read more: #202: A Death at Sea, 1834

An episode from 9/25/25: Tonight, I read a few entries from the book Gillian Anderson edited, called Want: Sexual Fantasies by Anonymous. It is a collection of sexual fantasies from women all over the world, but as I point out, behind the acrobatics and explicitness of what we assume fantasy to be all about, a much simpler and basic need is also being longed for. (And I have a feeling that men, too, even if they phrase it differently, probably wish for something very similar.) I also read one of Heloise’s letters to her lover Abelard, whose love affair made… Read more: #201: Gillian Anderson, & What Women Want, 2024

An episode from 9/15/25: Tonight, I read a long section on the last days of the philosopher Walter Benjamin (1892-1940) from the biography Walter Benjamin: A Critical Life, by Howard Eiland and Michael W. Jennings. (For those who are interested, the BBC’s In Our Time devotes an entire hour to Benjamin’s life and work.) I also read two small passages from Barbara Tuchman’s A Distant Mirror: The Calamitous Fourteenth Century. The best way to support the podcast is by leaving a review on Apple or Spotify, sharing it with others, or sending me a note on what you think. You… Read more: #200: The Last Days of Walter Benjamin, 1940

An episode from 9/9/25: Tonight, I read from three books: The best way to support the podcast is by leaving a review on Apple or Spotify, sharing it with others, or sending me a note on what you think. You can also order any of my books: Time and the River: From Columbine to the Invention of Fire, due out next year, is now available for preorder. Other books include Notes from the Grid, To the House of the Sun, The Lonely Young & the Lonely Old, and Bone Antler Stone. I’ve also edited a handful of books in the… Read more: #199: The Protestant Reformation Gets Going, c. 1517

An episode from 9/1/25: Tonight, I read a small passage from Herman Hesse’s Steppenwolf, and then a much longer passage from Laurie Lisle’s Portrait of an Artist: A Biography of Georgia O’Keeffe. In it, Lisle describes the weeks and months in late 1915 during which O’Keeffe found herself as an artist after her decision to start from scratch and devote herself to drawing only in charcoal. It was as a result of these drawings that she met her future husband, the photographer Alfred Stieglitz, and that her long career as a painter truly began. The best way to support the… Read more: #198: Georgia O’Keeffe Finds Herself in the Fall of 1915

An episode from 8/27/25: Tonight, I read from Amanda Podany’s wonderful book, Weavers, Scribes, and Kings: A New History of the Ancient Near East. After a royal wedding took place in the ancient Syrian city of Ebla around 2300 BCE, the new king and queen spent no less than three weeks among the tombs and statues of their royal forbears. I conclude the episode with the response of one listener to the last episode, where he notes that the London docks of 1850 aren’t much different from similar places in contemporary India. The best way to support the podcast is… Read more: #197: A Honeymoon in the House of the Dead in Ancient Mesopotamia, c. 2300 BCE

An episode from 8/23/25: Returning to the podcast after a long hiatus, I read from Henry Mayhew and John Binny’s London Labour and the London Poor, their exhaustive and essential description of life in London for the working poor in the mid-nineteenth century. Far from being a dry and distant document, it is a work of literature in itself, as this description of the London docks—and those hoping for a day of paid work there—shows. The text can be found here. The best way to support the podcast is by leaving a review on Apple or Spotify, sharing it with… Read more: #196: Morning at the London Docks, c. 1850

An episode from 7/21/23: Tonight, I read a few dozen quotations from the scientists, politicians, and military figures who were instrumental in the development of the atomic bomb, and in the final decision to drop it on Japan in August of 1945. The most prominent voices here are those of Robert Oppenheimer and his fellow physicists, whose dedication and excitement to develop the bomb was matched only by their misgivings (though rarely their outright regret) in the years after World War Two. While I previously dedicated four long episodes to the subject, I tried here to isolate the most vivid… Read more: Oppenheimer & the Bomb (from the archive)

Robert Oppenheimer Now I come to write in light and firein a language of power we all know,beyond every letter and poetryand all the dithering of philosophy,all the prevarication of politics.The physicists have known sin, it’s true,but also the brilliance of a burden overcome in the ageless mountains,a foul display that was beyond awesome,beyond my conscience but still atop it:in less than a second tens of thousandsturned to piles of boiled organs and black char,the burnt but still living running for the cisterns or the boiled, dead-crowded rivers. News of a flood or an earthquake makes methink of myself, since… Read more: Robert Oppenheimer (poem)

For the next few weeks, my book of poems on prehistoric Europe, Bone Antler Stone, will be 70% off at Amazon–in other words, only $3.50. Click here to order it Read a few reviews about the book below, or listen to a podcast of readings from it: Passing through more than thirty thousand years of history, the changing spiritual and material lives of the earliest Europeans are vividly imagined through their artwork, burials, architecture, and their interaction with the landscape, the seasons, and one another. Listen to an interview with NPR about Bone Antler Stone Reviews: “Our prehistory now has… Read more: “Bone Antler Stone” is 70% off at Amazon

An episode from 6/15/25: Tonight, the podcast returns briefly for a reading of my new short story, “The One Who Sang So Well.” The episode coincides with the story’s publication in The Basilisk Tree—you can read it here. Many thanks to editor Bryan Helton for taking the story. You can support Human Voices Wake Us here, or by ordering any of my books: Notes from the Grid, To the House of the Sun, The Lonely Young & the Lonely Old, and Bone Antler Stone. I’ve also edited a handful of books in the S4N Pocket Poems series. Email me at humanvoiceswakeus1@gmail.com.

Hello everyone! I’m excited to announce a new podcast that that artist and teacher Tom Hart and I have started. It is called Savage Amazement, where we talk about being modern guys, about living inside of creativity, longing, and caring about art and meaning. For the moment, the podcast is being housed at Tom’s Substack, Men: An Explanation, a bunch of Tom’s essays on masculinity and how its gone awry. Those are worth reading, too. Subscribe at Substack, Apple Podcasts, Spotify and elsewhere. Here is Tom’s introduction to the podcast, including his kind words about my old podcast, Human Voices… Read more: New Podcast Announcement – “Savage Amazement”

An episode from 10/16/23: Tonight, I read my long poem about William Shakespeare, and offer a commentary along the way. It is being published simultaneously at Bryan Helton’s ⁠The Basilisk Tree⁠, and once again I give Bryan my infinite thanks. This will be the third long poem of mine that he has published this year to coincide with an episode of Human Voices Wake Us – the other two are on ⁠Leonardo da Vinci⁠ and ⁠Pythagoras⁠. Please take the time to check out the rest of The Basilisk Tree, or to even submit your own poetry. While introducing my Shakespeare… Read more: Shakespeare: The Life & Times (from the archive)

Blessed be the Muses for their descent, dancing round my desk,crowning my balding head with Laurel. 1955 Allen Ginsberg, 1926-1998 – “Blessed be the Muses” from Collected Poems 1947-1997

Rain. Floods. Frost. And after frost, rain.Dull roof-drumming. Wraith-rain pulsing across purplebare woodsLike light across heaved water. Sleet in it.And the poor fields, miserable tents of their hedges.Mist-rain off-world. Hills wallowingIn and out of a grey or silvery dissolution. A farm gleaming,Then all dull in the near drumming. At field-cornersBrown water backing and brimming in grass.Toads hop across rain-hammered roads. Every mutilated leaf thereLooks like a frog or a rained-out mouse. CattleWait under blackened backs. We drive post-holes.They half fill with water before the post goes in.Mud-water spurts as the iron bar slam-burnsThe oak stake-head dry. CowsTamed on the waste… Read more: Ted Hughes, “Rain”

You do not have to be good.You do not have to walk on your kneesFor a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.Meanwhile the world goes on.Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rainare moving across the landscapes,over the prairies and the deep trees,the mountains and the rivers.Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,are heading home again.Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,the world offers itself to your imagination,calls to you like… Read more: Mary Oliver, “Wild Geese”

Squarings #2Roof it again. Batten down. Dig in.Drink out of tin. Know the scullery cold,A latch, a door-bar, forged tongs and a grate.Touch the cross-beam, drive iron in a wall,Hang a line to verify the plumbFrom lintel, coping-stone and chimney-breast.Relocate the bedrock in the threshold.Take squarings from the recessed gable pane.Make your study the unregarded floor.Sink every impulse like a bolt. SecureThe bastion of sensation. Do not waverInto language. Do not waver in it.Squarings #8The annals say: when the monks of Clonmacnoise Were all at prayers inside the oratory A ship appeared above them in the air. The anchor dragged… Read more: Seamus Heaney, 3 Poems from “Squarings”

When I was a connoisseuse of slugsI would part the ivy leaves, and look for thenaked jelly of those gold bodies,translucent strangers glistening along thestones, slowly, their gelatinous bodiesat my mercy. Made mostly of water, they would shrivelto nothing if they were sprinkled with salt,but I was not interested in that. What I likedwas to draw aside the ivy, breathe theodor of the wall, and stand there in silenceuntil the slug forgot I was thereand sent its antennae up out of itshead, the glimmering umber hornsrising like telescopes, until finally thesensitive knobs would pop out the ends,delicate and intimate. Years… Read more: Sharon Olds, “The Connoisseuse of Slugs”

MatinsForgive me if I say I love you: the powerfulare always lied to since the weak are alwaysdriven by panic. I cannot lovewhat I can’t conceive, and you disclosevirtually nothing: are you like the hawthorn tree,always the same thing in the same place,or are you more the foxglove, inconsistent, first springing upa pink spike on the slope behind the daisies,and the next year, purple in the rose garden? You must seeit is useless to us, this silence that promotes beliefyou must be all things, the foxglove and the hawthorn tree,the vulnerable rose and tough daisy – we are left to… Read more: Louise Glück, “Matins” and “Vespers”

Ceres went to hellwith no sense of time.When she looked backall that she could see wasthe arteries of silver in the rock,the diligence of rivers always at one level,wheat at one height,leaves of a single colour,the same distance in the usual light;a seasonless, unscarred earth.But I need time –my flesh and that history –to make the same descent.In my body,neither young now nor fertile,and with the marks of childbirthstill on it,in my gestures –the way I pin my hair to hidethe stitched, healed blemish of a scar –must bean accurate inscriptionof that agony:the failed harvests,the fields rotting to the horizon,the… Read more: Eavan Boland, “The Making of an Irish Goddess”

And then the gray concrete of the subway platform, that shore stripped of all premise of softnessor repose. I stood there, beneath the city’s sequential grids and frameworks, its wrappings and unwrappingslike a robe sewn with birds that flew into seasons of light, a robe of goldand then a robe of ash.All around me were briefcases, cell phones, baseball caps, folded umbrellas forlorn and still glisteningwith rain. Who owned them? Each face possessed a hiddenness. DO NOT STEP ACROSS THE YELLOW LINE; the Transit Authorityhad painted this onto the platform’s edge beyond which the railsgleamed, treacherous, almost maniacal, yet somehow… Read more: Laurie Sheck, “The Subway Platform”

Thanks to everyone who has been reading and commenting on the Daily Poems. It takes a few months to work backward from twentieth century poems to some of the earliest English verse. Dating to the year 1250 or so, today’s poem is the last from this round; tomorrow, we will swing back to the twentieth century and work backwards again. Please keep commenting, sharing, and suggesting other poems and poets to include. How death comesWanne mine eyhnen misten,And mine heren sissen,And my nose coldet,And my tunge foldet,And my rude slaket,And mine lippes blaken,And my muth grennet,And my spotel rennet,And mine… Read more: How Death Comes (a poem from 1250)

An episode from 3/12/23: Tonight, I return to new episodes with a handful of poems about the spring. As I mention, living as I do in a city usually inundated with snow, it has been bizarre to have not shoveled the driveway even once. And since the next few weeks of episodes are already planned out, it seemed appropriate to get to spring early, since the earth is doing that already. The poems are: You can support Human Voices Wake Us here, or by ordering any of my books: Notes from the Grid, To the House of the Sun, The Lonely Young & the… Read more: Anthology: Poems for Spring (from the archive)

from “The white beauty,” c. 1300Herkneth me, I ou telle. In such wondring for wo I welle; Nis no fur so hot in helle All to monThat loveth derne and dar nout telle Whet him is on. Hear me, I tell you. I suffer for sorrow in such distress of mind. There is no fire in hell so hot as the man who loves secretly and dare not tell what is the matter with him. – from Medieval English Lyrics

If you enjoy receiving daily poems from me… or listening to my podcast… if you’re into ancient history or the American Civil War… if you enjoy archaeology or religion or even short stories… you’ll probably be into at least one of my books. Give them a look, order a few, pass them around. There (might) be a new book of poems coming soon! Bone Antler Stone (poetry) Order from Amazon Passing through more than thirty thousand years of history, the changing spiritual and material lives of the earliest Europeans are vividly imagined in more than sixty poems through their artwork,… Read more: Shopping for books?

Lollay, lollay, little child, why wepestou so sore? Nedes mostou wepe – it was iyarked thee yoreEver to lib in sorow, and sich and mourne evere, As thine eldren did er this, whil hi alives were. Lollay, lollay, little child, child, lollay, lullow, Into uncuth world icommen so ertou. Lollay, lollay, little child, why do you cry so hard? You must needs cry – it was ordained for you of old to live for ever in sorrow and to sigh and mourn for ever, as your elders did before this, while they were alive. Lollay, lollay, little child child, lollay,… Read more: An anonymous poem of incredible cynicism, from c. 1325

Madame, ye ben of al beaute shryneAs fer as cercled is the mapamounde, map of the worldFor as the cristal glorious ye shyne,And lyke ruby ben your chekes rounde.Therwith ye ben so mery and so jocoundeThat at a revel whan that I see you daunce,It is an oynement unto my wounde,Thogh ye to me ne do no daliaunce.For thogh I wepe of teres ful a tyne, tyne/tub (for brewing)Yet may that wo myn herte nat confounde;Your semy voys that ye so smal out twine semy/thin, tiny? Maketh my thoght in joy and blis habounde.So curtaysly I go with love boundeThat… Read more: Geoffrey Chaucer, “Ballade to Rosamund”

An episode from 5/20/24: Tonight, after a long hiatus, we return to Norse myth with the story of Sigurd’s killing of the dragon, Fafnir. Couched in a much longer narrative that contains shape-shifting, war, revenge, brief appearances by Odin and Loki, and finally Sigurd’s ability to hear the language of birds and animals, it is a brilliant and vivid example of storytelling in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. I read from the two great sources of the story, the ⁠Volsung Saga⁠ (in the Jesse Byock translation) and Snorri Sturluson’s ⁠Prose Edda⁠ (in the Anthony Faulkes translation). I also discuss the… Read more: The Great Myths #24: Sigurd & the Dragon (from the archive)

Swart-smecked smethe, smatered with smoke, Smoke-blackened smiths, begrimed with smoke,Drive me to deth with den of here dintes: drive me to death with the din of their blows:Swich nois on nightes ne herd men never, such noise by night no man ever heard,What knavene cry and clattering of knockes! what crying of workmen and clattering of blows! The cammede kongons cryen after “Col! col!” The snub-nosed (crooked?) changelings cry out for, “Coal! coal!”And blowen here bellewes that all here brain brestes. and blow their bellows fit to burst their brains.“Huf, puf, seith that on, ‘Haf, paf,’ that other. “Huf, puf,”… Read more: “Smoke-blackened smiths” (an anonymous poem from c. 1450)

Alas! what shul we freres do,Now lewed men cun Holy Writ? cun/knowAlle aboute where I go They aposen me of it. They confront me with hard questions about itThen wondreth me that it is so,How lewed men cun alle wit. Sertely, we be undoBut if we mo amende it.I trowe the devil brought it aboute,To write the Gospel in Englishe,For lewed men ben nowe so stoutThat they yeven us neither fleshe ne fishe.When I come into a shopeFor to say, “In principio,”They bidene me, “Go forth, lewed ‘Pope’,”And worche and win my silver so.If I say it longeth not If… Read more: “A Friar Complains” (anonymous poem from c. 1500)

from c. 1525: Holly against Ivy Nay! nay! Ivy, It may not be, iwis: iwis/indeed For Holy must have the mastry, As the maner is. Holy bereth beris, Beris rede inough: The thristilcok, the popingay cock thrush, the parrot (?) Daunce in every bough. Welaway! sory Ivy, What fowles hast thou? But the sory owlet, That singeth “How! how!” Ivy bereth beris As black as any slo: Ther commeth the woode-colver wood-pigeon And fedeth her of tho. feed on them She lifteth up her taill, And she cackes or she go: And she leaves droppings before she goes She wold… Read more: 2 Early Versions of “The Holly and the Ivy”

An episode from 11/13/23: Tonight, I talk about our attachment to music as teenagers and adults, and the lessons that loving music—and finding meaning in musicians’ life stories—can teach us. First, I read two passages from Patti Smith’s memoir, ⁠Just Kids⁠. Those parts on her early life with the photographer Robert Mapplethorpe, before either of them were well-known, are incredibly moving. Next, I talk about my attachment to the band Mazzy Star, and then read from a listener’s email about seeing the band Living Colour perform live for the first time, after years of listening to their music. Finally, I… Read more: Patti Smith / Mazzy Star & Living Colour / Philip Glass (from the archive)

What menethe this? When I lye aloneI tosse, I turne, I sighe, I grone;My bed semes as hard as stone:What menes this?I sighe, I plaine continually; The clothes that on my bed do lie Always, methinks, they lie awry: What menes this? In slumbers oft for fere I quake, For hete and cold I burne and shake, For lake of slepe my bede dothe ake: What menes this? A morninges then when I do rise I torne unto my wonted gise, wonted/habitualAll day after muse and devise: What menes this? And if perchance by me there passe She unto whome… Read more: Thomas Wyatt, “What does this mean?”

Sonnet 27Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,The dear repose for limbs with travel tired,But then begins a journey in my headTo work my mind when body’s work’s expired.For then my thoughts, from far where I abide,Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,Looking on darkness which the blind do see;Save that my soul’s imaginary sightPresents thy shadow to my sightless view,Which like a jewel hung in ghastly nightMakes black night beauteous and her old face new. Lo, thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind, For thee and for myself no quiet… Read more: Shakespeare: 3 Sonnets on Love, Lust, and Exhaustion

King: I stay too long by thee; I weary thee.Dost thou so hunger for mine empty chairThat thou wilt needs invest thee with my honorsBefore thy hour be ripe? O foolish youth,Thou seek’st the greatness that will overwhelm thee.Stay but a little, for my cloud of dignityIs held from falling with so weak a windThat it will quickly drop. My day is dim.Thou hast stol’n that which after some few hoursWere thine without offense, and at my deathThou hast sealed up my expectation.Thy life did manifest thou loved’st me not,And thou wilt have me die assured of it.Thou hid’st a… Read more: Shakespeare: “I stay too long by thee; I weary thee” (from Henry IV pt. 2)

“Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! Rage, blow!” (King Lear III.ii) Lear: Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! Rage, blow!You cataracts and hurricanoes, spoutTill you have drenched our steeples, drowned the cocks.You sulph’rous and thought-executing fires,Vaunt-couriers of oak-cleaving thunderbolts,Singe my white head. And thou, all-shaking thunder,Strike flat the thick rotundity o’ th’ world.Crack nature’s molds, all germens spill at onceThat makes ingrateful man. Fool: O nuncle, court holy water in a dry house is better than this rainwater out o’ door. Good nuncle, in. Ask thy daughters’ blessing. Here’s a night pities neither wise men nor fools. Lear: Rumble thy… Read more: Shakespeare: King Lear Out in the Elements

An episode from 8/12/22: Everybody knows the most famous soliloquy in all of drama, or at least the first line of it: ⁠”To be or not to be, that is the question,”⁠ from act three of Shakespeare’s Hamlet. Tonight, I delve into the speech and try to figure out why it works so well not just as poetry and drama, but why it has leapt beyond literature entirely to become a cultural touchstone. Throughout the episode I include the performance of this speech from modern actors: the first is by ⁠Paapa Essiedu⁠, and the second by ⁠Andrew Scott⁠. The very last, to give a… Read more: Great Poems: Shakespeare’s “To be or not to be” (from the archive)

“Art thou not sorry for these heinous deeds?” (Titus Andronicus, V.i)Lucius: Art thou not sorry for these heinous deeds?Aaron: Ay, that I had not done a thousand more.Even now I curse the day – and yet, I think,Few come within the compass of my curse –Wherein I did not some notorious ill,As kill a man, or else devise his death;Ravish a maid or plot the way to do it;Accuse some innocent and forswear myself;Set deadly enmity between two friends;Make poor men’s cattle break their necks;Set fire on barns and haystalks in the night,And bid the owners quench them with their… Read more: Shakespeare: “Are thou not sorry for these heinous deeds?”: 2 Speeches from “Titus Andronicus”

For those of you who are interested, here are a few recent poems and essays that have appeared. The full list is always here. A few poems from The Great Year: Two essays on Judaism in the Pittsburgh Jewish Chronicle: Other essays on poetry and history:

Have you seen but a bright lily grow, Before rude hands have touch’d it?Ha’you mark’d but the fall o’ the snow Before the soil hath smutch’d it?Ha’you felt the wool o’ the beaver? Or swan’s down ever?Or have smelt o’ the bud o’ the briar? Or the nard in the fire?Or have tasted the bag of the bee?Oh so white! Oh so soft! Oh so sweet is she! Ben Jonson, 1572-1637 – “The Triumph of Charis” from Complete Poems

Death be not proud, though some have called theeMighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not soe,For, those, whom thou think’st, thou dost overthrow,Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill mee;From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.Thou’art slave to Fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,And poppie,’or charmes can make us sleepe as well,And better then thy stroake; why swell’st thou then?One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,And death… Read more: John Donne, “Death be not proud”

An episode from 3/3/24: Tonight, I read from a handful of what I call “visionary” poems. After an introductory section of familiar nineteenth- and twentieth-century poets, I go back to the sources of those, which are found in religious scripture and myth: You can support Human Voices Wake Us here, or by ordering any of my books: Notes from the Grid, To the House of the Sun, The Lonely Young & the Lonely Old, and Bone Antler Stone. I’ve also edited a handful of books in the S4N Pocket Poems series. Email me at  humanvoiceswakeus1@gmail.com.

Accept, thou shrine of my dead saint,Instead of dirges, this complaint;And for sweet flow’rs to crown thy hearse,From thy griev’d friend, whom thou might’st seeQuite melted into tears for thee. Dear loss! since thy untimely fateMy task hath been to meditateOn thee, on thee; thou art the book,The library whereon I look,Though almost blind. For thee (lov’d clay)I languish out, not live, the day,Using no other exerciseBut what I practise with mine eyes;By which wet glasses I find outHow lazily time creeps aboutTo one that mourns; this, only this,My exercise and bus’ness is.So I compute the weary hoursWith sighs dissolved… Read more: Henry King, “The Exequy”

An episode from 1/2/23: Tonight, I read a handful of voices from those living in Europe and the United States between 1900 and 1914. Rephrased only slightly, nearly all of their concerns (over technology, gender, nationalism, war, eugenics) feel like they could appear in the news or on the street today. Then and now, what is actually going on alongside all the dread? What can we learn from these voices that sound so much like our own, and what will people look back on 2023 learn for themselves? Each of these quotations can be found in Philipp Blom’s wonderful book, ⁠The… Read more: First Person: Voices from 1900-1914 (from the archive)

How fresh, O Lord, how sweet and cleanAre thy returns! ev’n as the flowers in spring; To which, besides their own demean,The late-past frosts tributes of pleasure bring. Grief melts away Like snow in May, As if there were no such cold thing. Who would have thought my shrivel’d heartCould have recover’d greennesse? It was gone Quite under ground; as flowers departTo see their mother-root, when they have blown; Where they together All the hard weather, Dead to the world, keep house unknown. These are thy wonders, Lord of power,Killing and quickning, bringing down to hell And up to heaven… Read more: George Herbert, “The Flower”

For now, and since first break of dawne the Fiend,Meer Serpent in appearance, forth was come,And on his Quest, where likeliest he might findeThe onely two of Mankinde, but in themThe whole included Race, his purposd prey.In Bowre and Field he sought, where any tuftOf Grove or Garden-Plot more pleasant lay,Thir tendance or Plantation for delight,By Fountain or by shadie RivuletHe sought them both, but wishd his hap might findEve separate, he wishd, but not with hopeOf what so seldom chanc’d, when to his wish,Beyond his hope, Eve separate he spies,Veild in a Cloud of Fragrance, where she stood,Half spi’d,… Read more: John Milton: Eve and the Serpent from “Paradise Lost”

Eternal God! maker of all That have liv’d here, since the mans fall; The Rock of ages! in whose shadeThey live unseen, when here they fade. Thou knew’st this papyr, when it was Meer seed, and after that but grass; Before ’twas drest or spun, and whenMade linen, who did wear it then: What were their lifes, their thoughts and deedsWhither good corn, or fruitless weeds. Thou knew’st this Tree, when a green shade Cover’d it, since a Cover made,And where it flourish’d, grew and spread,As if it never should be dead. Thou knew’st this harmless beast, when heDid live… Read more: Henry Vaughan, “The Book”

An episode from 12/7/22: Tonight, we enter into the early years of Vincent van Gogh (1853-1890), from his birth in the village of Zundert in the Netherlands, to his time in the Borinage mining region of Belgium. It was there, at the age of twenty-seven—and after years of personal and professional failures—that he hit bottom … and suddenly realized he was an artist. In the first half of the episode, I read from Steven Naifeh and Gregory White Smith’s biography, ⁠⁠Van Gogh: The Life⁠⁠. The second half is devoted to a handful of letters Van Gogh wrote to his brother… Read more: Van Gogh’s Early Years (from the archive)

Had we but World enough, and Time,This coyness Lady were no crime.We would sit down, and think which wayTo walk, and pass our long Loves Day.Thou by the Indian Ganges sideShould’st Rubies find: I by the TideOf Humber would complain. I wouldLove you ten years before the Flood:And you should if you please refuseTill the Conversion of the Jews.My vegetable Love should growVaster then Empires, and more slow.An hundred years should go to praiseThine Eyes, and on thy Forehead Gaze.Two hundred to adore each Breast:But thirty thousand to the rest.An Age at least to every part,And the last Age should… Read more: Andrew Marvell, “To His Coy Mistress”

Cou’d our First Father, at his toilsome Plough,Thorns in his Path, and Labour on his Brow,Cloath’d only in a rude, unpolish’d Skin,Cou’d he a vain Fantastick Nymph have seen,In all her Airs, in all her antick Graces,Her various Fashions, and more various Faces;How had it pos’d that Skill, which late assign’dJust Appellations to Each several Kind!A right Idea of the Sight to frame;T’have guest from what New Element she came;T’have hit the wav’ring Form, or giv’n this Thing a Name. Anne Finch, 1661-1720 – “Adam Pos’d” from Selected Poems

Now hardly here and there a hackney-coachAppearing, show’d the ruddy morn’s approach.Now Betty from her master’s bed had flown,And softly stole to discompose her own.The slip-shod ’prentice from his master’s doorHad par’d the dirt, and sprinkled round the floor.Now Moll had whirl’d her mop with dext’rous airs,Prepar’d to scrub the entry and the stairs.The youth with broomy stumps began to traceThe kennel-edge, where wheels had worn the place.The small-coal man was heard with cadence deep;Till drown’d in shriller notes of “chimney-sweep.”Duns at his lordship’s gate began to meet;And brickdust Moll had scream’d through half a street.The turnkey now his flock… Read more: Jonathan Swift, “A Description of the Morning”

The bliss of Man (could Pride that blessing find)Is, not to think, or act, beyond Mankind;No pow’rs of Body or of Soul to share,But what his Nature and his State can bear.Why has not Man a microscopic eye?For this plain reason, Man is not a Fly.Say what the use, were finer opticks giv’n,T’ inspect a Mite, not comprehend the Heav’n?Or Touch, if tremblingly alive all o’er,To smart, and agonize at ev’ry pore?Or keen Effluvia darting thro’ the brain,Die of a Rose, in aromatic pain?If Nature thunder’d in his opening ears,And stunn’d him with the music of the Spheres,How would he… Read more: Alexander Pope, from “An Essay on Man”

An episode from 12/9/24: Tonight’s episode gathers together all of the readings I’ve done on this podcast from the poet William Blake (1757-1827). All of these poems can be found online at The Complete Poetry & Prose of William Blake: Listeners will forgive me for providing an episode that isn’t quite brand new. But in the two months since I tentatively ended this podcast, I’ve seen that a way forward could be to bring out new episodes every few months. My thanks to those listeners who have responded positively to this idea. Please continue to keep your subscription to the… Read more: William Blake (new episode)

Lo! where the rosy-bosomed Hours,Fair Venus’ train, appear,Disclose the long-expecting flowers,And wake the purple year!The Attic warbler pours her throat,Responsive to the cuckoo’s note,The untaught harmony of spring:While whispering pleasure as they fly,Cool zephyrs through the clear blue skyTheir gathered fragrance fling.Where’er the oak’s thick branches stretchA broader browner shade;Where’er the rude and moss-grown beechO’er-canopies the glade,Beside some water’s rushy brinkWith me the Muse shall sit, and think(At ease reclined in rustic state)How vain the ardour of the crowd,How low, how little are the proud,How indigent the great!Still is the toiling hand of Care;The panting herds repose:Yet hark, how through… Read more: Thomas Gray, “Ode on the Spring”

To Thomas Pennant, Esq.When day declining sheds a milder gleam, What time the may-fly haunts the pool or stream;When the still owl skims round the grassy mead, What time the timorous hare limps forth to feed;Then be the time to steal adown the vale, And listen to the vagrant cuckoo’s tale;To hear the clamorous curlew call his mate, Or the soft quail his tender pain relate;To see the swallow sweep the darkening plainBelated, to support her infant train;To mark the swift in rapid giddy ringDash round the steeple, unsubdued of wing:Amusive birds! – say where your hid retreat When the… Read more: Gilbert White, “The Naturalist’s Summer-Evening Walk”

A different task remains: the secret pathsOf early genius to explore: to traceThose haunts where Fancy her predestined sons, Like to the demigods of old, doth nurse Remote from eyes profane. Ye happy souls, Who now her tender discipline obey,Where dwell ye? What wild river’s brink at eve Imprint your steps? What solemn groves at noonUse ye to visit, often breaking forth In rapture mid your dilatory walk, Or musing, as in slumber, on the green?– Would I again were with you! – O ye dales Of Tyne, and ye most ancient woodlands; where Oft as the giant flood obliquely… Read more: Mark Akenside, from “The Pleasures of Imagination”

All-beauteous Nature! by thy boundless charms Oppressed, O where shall I begin thy praise, Where turn th’ ecstatic eye, how ease my breast That pants with wild astonishment and love!Dark forests, and the op’ning lawn, refreshed With ever-gushing brooks, hill, meadow, dale, The balmy bean-field, the gay-coloured close, So sweetly interchanged, the lowing ox, The playful lamb, the distant water-fall Now faintly heard, now swelling with the breeze, The sound of pastoral reed from hazel-bower, The choral birds, the neighing steed, that snuffs His dappled mate, stung with intense desire, The ripened orchard when the ruddy orbs Betwixt the green… Read more: Joseph Warton, from “The Enthusiast: or The Lover of Nature”

IMPRIMIS – My departed Shade I trustTo Heav’n – My Body to the silent Dust;My Name to publick Censure I submit,To be dispos’d of as the World thinks fit;My Vice and Folly let Oblivion close,The World already is o’erstock’d with those;My Wit I give, as Misers give their Store,To those who think they had enough before.Bestow my Patience to compose the LivesOf slighted Virgins and neglected Wives;To modish Lovers I resign my Truth,My cool Reflexion to unthinking Youth;And some Good-nature give (’tis my Desire)To surly Husbands, as their Needs require;And first discharge my Funeral – and thenTo the small Poets… Read more: Mary Leapor, “Mira’s Will”

The time allowed for sleep at length elapsed, We, quite refreshed, awake at usual hour, Greeted with usual sounds. The swallow’s wing In chimney tunnel flutt’ring up and down, And frequent twitt’rings sweet, as bit by bit She plasters busily, with trowel bill, The rough-cast layers of her mud-wall cell.The close-grouped pigeons on the sunny tiles, Scrambling in languid luxury to bask, Or roving to and fro on flapping plumes, In restless ardour to complete their loves;Whilst, aided by our fancy’s eye, we see Each strutting Tom, with noddling head erect, Inflated crop, and glossy neck that darts, At ev’ry… Read more: Thomas Cole, from “The Life of Hubert”

Ah! what a weary race my feet have run, Since first I trod thy banks with alders crowned, And thought my way was all through fairy ground, Beneath thy azure sky, and golden sun:Where first my Muse to lisp her notes begun! While pensive memory traces back the round, Which fills the varied interval between, Much pleasure, more of sorrow, marks the scene.Sweet native stream! those skies and suns so pure No more return, to cheer my evening road! Yet still one joy remains, that not obscure, Nor useless, all my vacant days have flowed, From youth’s gay dawn to… Read more: Thomas Warton, “Sonnet: To the River Lodon”

In the barn the tenant cock, Close to partlet perched on high, Briskly crows (the shepherd’s clock!), Jocund that the morning’s nigh.Swiftly from the mountain’s brow, Shadows, nursed by night, retire:And the peeping sunbeam now Paints with gold the village spire.Philomel forsakes the thorn, Plaintive where she prates at night;And the lark, to meet the morn, Soars beyond the shepherd’s sight.From the low-roofed cottage ridge, See the chatt’ring swallow spring;Darting through the one-arched bridge, Quick she dips her dappled wing.Now the pine-tree’s waving top Gently greets the morning gale:Kidlings now begin to crop Daisies on the dewy dale.From the balmy… Read more: John Cunningham, “Morning”

An episode from 5/5/21: Tonight, I read part of John Keats’s ⁠famous⁠ ⁠letter⁠ of October 27, 1818, where he talks about the poet and the poetic character. He asks the questions: how much of a poet’s life is given up by their focus on poetry, by their people-watching and -listening, by their lack of social skills? How much of their lives are left over when they become so consumed (whether attracted or repelled) with the lives and words of others? You can support Human Voices Wake Us here, or by ordering any of my books: Notes from the Grid, To the House of… Read more: John Keats: “The poet has no identity” (from the archive)

If you’re buying stuff on Amazon today anyway, why not toss a S4N Pocket book into your cart while you’re at it? It’s been a joy to design these books and make them available as cheaply as possible – they are always only $3.99. Click here or on the image below to find them all.

Here lies David Garrick, describe me who can, An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man; As an actor, confest without rival to shine, As a wit, if not first, in the very first line; Yet with talents like these, and an excellent heart, The man had his failings, a dupe to his art; Like an ill-judging beauty, his colours he spread, And beplaister’d, with rouge, his own natural red. On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting, ’Twas only that, when he was off, he was acting: With no reason on earth to go out of his way,… Read more: Oliver Goldsmith, from “Retaliation”

from Book 1 For I have loved the rural walk through lanes Of grassy swarth close cropt by nibbling sheep, And skirted thick with intertexture firm Of thorny boughs: have loved the rural walk O’er hills, through valleys, and by rivers brink, E’er since a truant boy I pass’d my bounds T’enjoy a ramble on the banks of Thames. And still remember, nor without regret Of hours that sorrow since has much endear’d, How oft, my slice of pocket store consumed, Still hung’ring pennyless and far from home, I fed on scarlet hips and stoney haws, Or blushing crabs, or… Read more: William Cowper, from “The Task”

Ho! Why dost thou shiver and shake, Gaffer Gray? And why doth thy nose look so blue? “’Tis the weather that’s cold; ’Tis I’m grown very old, And my doublet is not very new, Well-a-day!’ Then line thy worn doublet with ale, Gaffer Gray; And warm thy old heart with a glass. “Nay but credit I’ve none; And my money’s all gone; Then say how may that come to pass? Well-a-day!” Hie away to the house on the brow, Gaffer Gray; And knock at the jolly priest’s door. “The priest often preaches Against worldly riches; But ne’er gives a mite… Read more: Thomas Holcroft, “Gaffer Gray”

An episode from 12/30/20: In this second episode on Mesopotamian myth, we return to the story of Gilgamesh. Gilgamesh and Enkidu’s destructive adventures lead directly to the latter’s death, and here I read Enkidu’s deathbed speech, and the dream he has of the Underworld. The translations I read from are by ⁠Andrew George⁠ and N. K. Sandars. Other episodes on Mesopotamian myth can be found here. You can support Human Voices Wake Us here, or by ordering any of my books: Notes from the Grid, To the House of the Sun, The Lonely Young & the Lonely Old, and Bone Antler Stone. I’ve also edited a handful of books… Read more: The Great Myths #2: Enkidu in the Underworld (from the archive)

Over the meadow bounds the skittish colt, And dashes in swift course the bord ring wave, Or scours the hollow of the lofty mount, And plashes through the stony stream unshod. Fierce shines his comely front, his waving mane Wantons in wind, his ears prick quavering up. From his round jetty head his ample eye Out standeth full; from his wide nostril darts The breath as if on flame; his curving neck Stands lofty up, such as full forward bears The bird, whose voice bids lions stand in awe, Whose watchful note calls up the loit’ring morn. Round-circling plump does… Read more: George Farewell, from “The Country Man”

AirA flaxen-headed cow-boy, as simple as may be, And next a merry plough-boy, I whistled o’er the lea;But now a saucy footman, I strut in worsted lace,And soon I’ll be a butler, and wag my jolly face;When steward I’m promoted, I’ll snip a tradesman’s bill, My master’s coffers empty, my pockets for to fill;When lolling in my chariot, so great a man I’ll be,You’ll forget the little plough-boy that whistled o’er the lea.I’ll buy votes at elections but, when I’ve made the pelf,I’ll stand poll for the Parliament, and then vote in myself;Whatever’s good for me, sir, I never will… Read more: John O’Keeffe, “Air”

The Soldier that has Seen Service. A Sketch from Nature (published 1788)From Calpe’s rock, with loss of leg, Reduced from port to port to beg, See the conquering hero comes:An ass’s panniers bear his all, Two sickly brats that fret and bawl, And suck, for want of food, their thumbs.The drooping mother follows near, Now heaves a sigh, now drops a tear, And casts the fond, maternal gaze;Mars bluntly strives to cheat his dame, Reminds her of his stock of fame, And bids her hope for better days.“Alas,” she cries, “and what is fame?An empty sound, not worth a name.… Read more: 2 Anonymous Poems from the 18th Century

“When this Verse was first dictated to me”When this Verse was first dictated to me I consider’d a Monotonous Cadence like that used by Milton & Shakspeare & all writers of English Blank Verse, derived from the modern bondage of Rhyming; to be a necessary and indispensible part of Verse. But I soon found that in the mouth of a true Orator such monotony was not only awkward, but as much a bondage as rhyme itself. I therefore have produced a variety in every line, both of cadences & number of syllables. Every word and every letter is studied and… Read more: William Blake, 3 excerpts from “Jerusalem” on Creativity & Vision

An episode from 1/1/24: Tonight, a cold has forced me to hand over the episode almost entirely to some of the greatest music ever written. Here are excerpts of my favorite pieces from Ludwig van Beethoven (1750-1827). It’s hard to think of music that is more passionate, introspective, uplifting, brooding, mournful, and joyous. The sources for the music I use are: You can support Human Voices Wake Us here, or by ordering any of my books: Notes from the Grid, To the House of the Sun, The Lonely Young & the Lonely Old, and Bone Antler Stone. I’ve also edited… Read more: The Sound of Beethoven (from the archive)

John Anderson my Jo John Anderson my jo, John, When we were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven, Your bony brow was brent;But now your brow is beld, John, Your locks are like the snaw;But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson my jo.John Anderson my jo, John, We clamb the hill the gither;And mony a canty day, John, We’ve had wi’ ane anither:Now we maun totter down, John, And hand in hand we’ll go;And sleep the gither at the foot, John Anderson my jo. A Red, Red RoseO my luve’s like a red, red rose, That’s newly… Read more: Robert Burns, 2 Songs

“The world is too much with us”The world is too much with us; late and soon,Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:Little we see in nature that is ours;We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;The Winds that will be howling at all hoursAnd are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;For this, for every thing, we are out of tune;It moves us not – Great God! I’d rather beA Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;Have sight of… Read more: William Wordsworth, Three Sonnets on How to Live

The Frost performs its secret ministry,Unhelped by any wind. The owlet’s cryCame loud – and hark, again! loud as before.The inmates of my cottage, all at rest,Have left me to that solitude, which suitsAbstruser musings: save that at my sideMy cradled infant slumbers peacefully.’Tis calm indeed! so calm, that it disturbsAnd vexes meditation with its strangeAnd extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood,This populous village! Sea, and hill, and wood,With all the numberless goings-on of life,Inaudible as dreams! the thin blue flameLies on my low-burnt fire, and quivers not;Only that film, which fluttered on the grate,Still flutters there, the sole unquiet… Read more: Samuel Taylor Coleridge, “Frost at Midnight”

There is a mountain and a wood between us,Where the lone shepherd and late bird have seen usMorning and noon and even-tide repass.Between us now the mountain and the woodSeem standing darker than last year they stood,And say we must not cross, alas! alas! Walter Savage Landor, 1775-1864 – “Separation” from Poems

An episode from 7/28/23: Tonight’s episode looks in on history, creativity, and mourning from three different angles: In the first part, we hear scattered remarks from Bruce Springsteen over the years, about his low-fi and haunting 1982 album, ⁠Nebraska⁠. It is remarkable how the album was made by Springsteen, alone in his bedroom, with a cheap recorder. For someone who bridges and so seamlessly combines music of the fifties, sixties and seventies, Nebraska sounds nearly timeless. In the second part, I read a small section from Simon Schama’s 1995 book, ⁠Landscape and Memory⁠. Here, he talks about not just his own Jewish… Read more: Bruce Springsteen / Simon Schama / The Iliad (from the archive)

Wilt thou go with me sweet maidSay maiden wilt thou go with meThrough the valley depths of shadeOf night and dark obscurityWhere the path hath lost its wayWhere the sun forgets the dayWhere there’s nor life nor light to seeSweet maiden wilt thou go with meWhere stones will turn to flooding streamsWhere plains will rise like ocean wavesWhere life will fade like visioned dreamsAnd mountains darken into cavesSay maiden wilt thou go with meThrough this sad non-identityWhere parents live and are forgotAnd sisters live and know us notSay maiden wilt thou go with meIn this strange death of life to… Read more: John Clare, “An Invite to Eternity”

Back in 2018, Bone Antler Stone was first released in Britain by The High Window Press. It has now been released in America by S4N Books. You can buy the book here. Scroll down for reviews, audio I’ve recorded from the book, and an interview with NPR. “Our prehistory now has its poet laureate.”– Barry Cunliffe, Oxford University Please consider getting a copy of the book, or asking your local library or museum to stock it Passing through more than thirty thousand years of history, the changing spiritual and material lives of the earliest Europeans are vividly imagined through their… Read more: Now available: “Bone Antler Stone”

Thou still unravish’d bride of quietness, Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,Sylvan historian, who canst thus express A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:What leaf-fring’d legend haunts about thy shape Of deities or mortals, or of both, In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?What men or gods are these? What maidens loth? What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear’d, Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:Fair youth, beneath the… Read more: John Keats, “Ode on a Grecian Urn”

7Dark house, by which once more I stand Here in the long unlovely street, Doors, where my heart was used to beatSo quickly, waiting for a hand,A hand that can be clasp’d no more – Behold me, for I cannot sleep, And like a guilty thing I creepAt earliest morning to the door.He is not here; but far away The noise of life begins again, And ghastly thro’ the drizzling rainOn the bald street breaks the blank day.27I envy not in any moods The captive void of noble rage, The linnet born within the cage,That never knew the summer woods:I… Read more: Alfred, Lord Tennyson, “’Tis better to have loved and lost”: 3 poems from “In Memoriam”

An episode from 5/9/22: Tonight, I continue my five-part series called Notes from the Grid. (A print version of NFTG has since been published.) I suggest that we don’t need to be missionaries for the culture and politics and even religion we love, and nor should we assume that anybody else needs the very things that we depend upon—because “All things can console.” Alongside this, I talk about the virtue of uncertainty, and the difficulties of living with ambiguity of all kinds. Other episodes from Notes from the Grid are here. You can support Human Voices Wake Us here, or by ordering… Read more: Notes from the Grid: All Things Can Console (from the archive)

The night is darkening round meThe wild winds coldly blowBut a tyrant spell has bound meAnd I cannot, cannot goThe giant trees are bendingTheir bare boughs weighed with snowThe storm is fast descendingAnd yet I cannot goClouds beyond clouds above meWastes beyond wastes belowBut nothing drear can move meI will not, cannot go Emily Brontë, 1818-1848 – “The night is darkening round me” from Complete Poems

Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road!Healthy, free, the world before me!The long brown path before me, leading wherever I choose!Henceforth I ask not good-fortune, I am good-fortune,Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing,Strong and content, I travel the open road.The earth – that is sufficient,I do not want the constellations any nearer,I know they are very well where they are,I know they suffice for those who belong to them.Still here I carry my old delicious burdens,I carry them, men and women – I carry them with me wherever I go,I swear it is impossible… Read more: Walt Whitman, “Song of the Open Road”

In this lone, open glade I lie,Screen’d by deep boughs on either hand;And at its end, to stay the eye,Those black-crown’d, red-boled pine-trees stand!Birds here make song, each bird has his,Across the girdling city’s hum.How green under the boughs it is!How thick the tremulous sheep-cries come!Sometimes a child will cross the gladeTo take his nurse his broken toy;Sometimes a thrush flit overheadDeep in her unknown day’s employ.Here at my feet what wonders pass,What endless, active life is here!What blowing daisies, fragrant grass!An air-stirr’d forest, fresh and clear.Scarce fresher is the mountain-sodWhere the tired angler lies, stretch’d out,And, eased of basket… Read more: Matthew Arnold, “Lines Written in Kensington Gardens”