Lucky Words: Recent Episodes
Jeffrey Windsor
Recorded live on location at... my backyard. It was a lovely morning, and so I decided to read a poem. I didn't mention it in the recording because, well because I didn't think about it. I was thinking about Ryan's great poem. And so I recorded a nice short podcast about it.
I love this poem. It's one that I've copied out, longhand, in my own notebook that I'm carrying around right now. It's nice and short, for one, and it's fun to read out loud. "It's a pickle, this life" is a great opener, and everyone knows that "pickle" is one of the funniest words in English. Most critically, it's got some intellectual oomph to it as well, and is good for me to think about a while.
Since recording this, I've been thinking a lot more about the contrast between the jolly rhyme and the seriousness of what Ryan's talking about. The unextinguishable component of life, according to the poem, is strife. So when life is nearly gone ("shut down to a trickle") there's still the particles of suffering in it. And while the trials may shrink, they are still more than enough to eat you. _And yet_ there's something great in it, too. It's life, after all. We never reach the end, only cut the remainder in half (again!), even while we are encouraged by some coach to just end the race, we don't. And so while strife is always there, so it life itself. And that's pretty great, I think.
What do you think? Is this poem hopeless or ultimately hopeful? Also, what word is more fun than "pickle"?
TEXT OF POEM
"This Life" by Kay Ryan
It's a pickle, this life.
Even shut down to a trickle
it carries every kind of particle
that causes strife on a grander scale:
to be miniature is to be swallowed
by a miniature whale. Zeno knew
the law that we know: no matter
how carefully diminished, a race
can only be _half_ finished with success;
then comes the endless halving of the rest --
the ribbon's stalled approach, the helpless
red-faced urgings of the coach.
Recorded on West Mountain, just west of Spanish Fork, Utah. It was blustery and cold, but kind of weirdly beautiful regardless. Beautiful in its desolate ugliness, I guess.
The painting I mentioned is indeed by Francisco Goya, but I got the name of the painting wrong. It is "Saturn Eating His Children" which you can see and read about here. It's still a perfect painting to accompany this, I think.
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TEXT OF POEMS
Three poems by Stephen Crane
"I Saw A Man Pursuing the Horizon"
I saw a man pursuing the horizon;
Round and round they sped.
I was disturbed at this;
I accosted the man.
"It is futile," I said,
"You can never --"
"You lie," he cried,
And ran on.
"In the Desert"
In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
Who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said, "Is it good, friend?"
"It is bitter--bitter," he answered;
"But I like it
"Because it is bitter,
"And because it is my heart."
"In Heaven"
In Heaven,
Some little blades of grass
Stood before God.
"What did you do?"
Then all save one of the little blades
Began eagerly to relate
The merits of their lives.
This one stayed a small way behind
Ashamed.
Presently God said:
"And what did you do?"
The little blade answered: "Oh, my lord,
"Memory is bitter to me
"For if I did good deeds
"I know not of them."
Then God in all His splendor
Arose from His throne.
"Oh, best little blade of grass," He said.
Recorded by the shore of Utah Lake on a windy but pleasant day, though not as pleasant as what Wordsworth described what with his green bower and all. My favorite part of this recording is the sounds of the killdeer, which I wish were louder, but of course every time I got close they decided to fly away.
TEXT OF POEM
"Lines Written in Early Spring" by William Wordsworth
I heard a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.
To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.
Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And 'tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.
The birds around me hopped and played,
Their thoughts I cannot measure:--
But the least motion which they made
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.
The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.
If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such be Nature's holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?
Recorded on the Watchman Overlook in Zion National Park. There are always too may people at Zion, but I found a spot where I could have some quiet privacy and record a poem. Unfortunately, technology was conspiring against me, and so this sounds kinda lousy. Sorry.
Also, I referred to the trail as "The Watchman" but what I meant was the Watchman _Overlook_: a much less ambitious undertaking.
This is another one of those poems that is popular with people who don't really like poetry. That's not fair, even if Walter Scott kinda deserves his reputation.
It makes me sad that my own children have very little positive to say about the United States. This is where they were born and where they have always lived, and I want them to love it (even if they're not big fans of the government or the political parties). I grew up saying the Pledge of Allegiance, and I think it made an impact on my thinking. I am a pretty standard educated-liberal guy, who votes with the bloc of educated-liberal people -- but I refuse to give up the symbol of the flag to other people. I refuse to make patriotism a partisan issue.
Which is kind of funny that my analysis of this poem focuses on the landscape more than the government.
TEXT OF POEM
"Innominatus," by Sir Walter Scott
Breathes there the man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
"This is my own, my native land!"
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd
As home his footsteps he hath turn'd
From wandering on a foreign strand?
If such there breathe, go, mark him well;
For him no Minstrel raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentred all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonour'd, and unsung.
Recorded in a tiny little canyon that I never learned the name for, but it was peaceful and quiet. Everyone should have a peaceful, quiet little place to read a poem every now and again.
As I mention in the commentary, this is interesting because it's simultaneously modern -- I mean, it's talking about an event in the 20th century! -- but also has something older about it. All of Thomas Hardy does, I think, and this in particular. We don't worry much about the role that Fates play in our lives these days.
TEXT OF POEM
"The Convergence of the Twain" by Thomas Hardy
(Lines on the loss of the "Titanic")
I
In a solitude of the sea
Deep from human vanity,
And the Pride of Life that planned her, stilly couches she.
II
Steel chambers, late the pyres
Of her salamandrine fires,
Cold currents thrid, and turn to rhythmic tidal lyres.
III
Over the mirrors meant
To glass the opulent
The sea-worm crawls -- grotesque, slimed, dumb, indifferent.
IV
Jewels in joy designed
To ravish the sensuous mind
Lie lightless, all their sparkles bleared and black and blind.
V
Dim moon-eyed fishes near
Gaze at the gilded gear
And query: "What does this vaingloriousness down here?" ...
VI
Well: while was fashioning
This creature of cleaving wing,
The Immanent Will that stirs and urges everything
VII
Prepared a sinister mate
For her -- so gaily great --
A Shape of Ice, for the time far and dissociate.
VIII
And as the smart ship grew
In stature, grace, and hue,
In shadowy silent distance grew the Iceberg too.
IX
Alien they seemed to be;
No mortal eye could see
The intimate welding of their later history,
X
Or sign that they were bent
By paths coincident
On being anon twin halves of one august event,
XI
Till the Spinner of the Years
Said "Now!" And each one hears,
And consummation comes, and jars two hemispheres.
Recorded sitting next to some trickling water just outside the mouth of Hellhole Canyon, in Ivins, Utah. In part, my analysis was a chance for me to talk a little about my process in reading a poem—the messy stuff that gets cut out in my editing.
Because not only do I typically record things in a single take and live on a hike, I also don't use any notes or any script. I have, of course, read and thought about the poem, but I don't have a written plan: I read the poem and then talk about it, just like I would if you were on the hike with me. What happens in editing is that I take out long pauses where I think, or I remove false starts. Sometimes I'll get two minutes into an idea and then realize that what I'm talking about is invalidated by a word or phrase that I hadn't understood before.
That's how it goes with many things, isn't it? We start off with a rough idea about where we are headed, but only along the way do we actually figure it out. If you don't believe me, take Alan Jacobs's word for it.
Anyway, that's my process.
For this poem in particular, you might be interested in seeing the painting that Auden is talking about.
TEXT OF POEM
"Musée des Beaux Arts" by W. H. Auden
_December 1938_
About suffering they were never wrong,
The Old Masters: how well they understood
Its human position; how it takes place
While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along
How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting
For the miraculous birth, there always must be
Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating
On a pond at the edge of the wood:
They never forgot
That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course
Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot
Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer's horse
Scratches its innocent behind on a tree.
In Brueghel's _Icarus_, for instance: how everything turns away
Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may
Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,
But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone
As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green
Water; and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen
Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky
Had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.
A reading and short analysis of Jim Harrison's poem, recorded live in Hellhole canyon, outside St. George, Utah.
TEXT OF POEM
"I Believe" by Jim Harrison, from his book _In Search of Small Gods_
I believe in steep drop-offs, the thunderstorm across the lake
in 1949, cold winds, empty swimming pools,
the overgrown path to the creek, raw garlic,
used tires, taverns, saloons, bars, gallons of red wine,
abandoned farmhouses, stunted lilac groves,
gravel roads that end, brush piles, thickets, girls
who haven't quite gone totally wild, river eddies,
leaky wooden boats, the smell of used engine oil,
turbulent rivers, lakes without cottages lost in the woods,
the primrose growing out of a cow skull, the thousands
of birds I've talked to all of my life, the dogs
that talked back, the Chihuahuan ravens that follow
me on long walks. The rattler escaping the cold hose,
the fluttering unknown gods that I nearly see
from the left corner of my blind eye, struggling
to stay alive in a world that grinds them underfoot.
Three poems (more than two!) poems by E. E. Cummings recorded on the shore of the Virgin River in northern Arizona, at the edge of the Mojave Desert. I was sitting on a big, jutting chunk of red sandstone, surrounded by Joshua trees and cacti.
These three poems are of varying levels of difficulty, but for today, the only one that gets the double treatment is "sweet spring is your."
One thing I didn't mention—because I am a man with great self-control—is that I can't read "viva sweet love" without thinking of Elvis singing "Viva Las Vegas." And maybe that's why I chose this poem, sitting just a long stone's throw from the road that would take me there. I can imagine Elvis singing a song with these lyrics, and it would have been a classic.
Instead, I discovered "sweet spring is your" from this album (Apple Music, Spotify) by the acoustic chamber quarter (formerly trio) Tin Hat.
TEXT OF POEMS
All the following are by E. E. Cummings and published in _1x1 [One times one]_ (1944), which is also included in his Complete Poems, 1904-1962
LI
"sweet spring is your
time is my time is our
time for springtime is lovetime
and viva sweet love"
(all the merry little birds are
flying in the floating in the
very spirits singing in
are winging in the blossoming)
lovers go and lovers come
awandering awondering
but any two are perfectly
alone there's nobody else alive
(such a sky and such a sun
i never knew and neither did you
and everybody never breathed
quite so many kinds of yes)
not a tree can count his leaves
each herself by opening
but shining who by thousands mean
only one amazing thing
(secretly adoring shyly
tiny winging darting floating
merry in the blossoming
always joyful selves are singing)
"sweet spring is your
time is my time is our
time for springtime is lovetime
and viva sweet love"
XXVII
old mr ly
fresh from a fu
ruddy as a sun
with blue true two
man
neral
rise
eyes
"this world's made 'bout
right it's the people that
abuses it you can git
anything you like out
of it if
you gut a mind
to there's something
for everybody it's a"
old mr lyman
ruddy as a sunrise
fresh with blue come
true from
a funeral
eyes
"big
thing"
DXIV
pity this busy monster,manunkind,
not. Progress is a comfortable disease:
your victim(death and life safely beyond)
plays with the bigness of his littleness
—electrons deify one razorblade
into a mountainrange;lenses extend
unwish through curving wherewhen till unwish
returns on its unself.
A world of made
is not a world of born—pity poor flesh
and trees,poor stars and stones,but never this
fine specimen of hypermagical
ultraomnipotence. We doctors know
a hopeless case if—listen:there's a hell
of a good universe next door;let's go
Comments, feedback, suggestions, complaints? Send 'em my way.
Recorded on site at the tiny, old cemetery in Charleston, Utah. Some of my ancestors are buried there, which makes it relevant for me at least, on this particular day.
You can find some interesting commentary about what Kipling might have been thinking about while composing this poem on the Kipling Society page about this poem. It talks much more about World War I and the death of Kipling's son Joseph—all things that I did not discuss.
Because it's Easter! The poem works as a straight religious poem even without its historical context. The historical context is one way of reading the poem, but by no means the only way.
Different ways to read poems is the subject for another day. For today, Easter, the celebration of Christ's resurrection, we're going to stick with a Christocentric reading. Anyway, the solely historical reading of "A Nativity" must simply ignore the final lines of the poem, which feels like a greater disservice from my perspective.
TEXT OF POEM
"A Nativity" by Rudyard Kipling
_The Babe was laid in the Manger
Between the gentle kine—
All safe from cold and danger—_
"But it was not so with mine,
(With mine! With mine!)
"Is it well with the child, is it well?"
The waiting mother prayed.
"For I know not how he fell,
And I know not where he is laid."
_A Star stood forth in Heaven;
The Watchers ran to see
The Sign of the Promise given--_
"But there comes no sign to me.
(To me! To me!)_
"My _child died in the dark.
Is it well with the child, is it well?
There was none to tend him or mark,
And I know not how he fell."
_The Cross was raised on high;
The Mother grieved beside—_
"But the Mother saw Him die
And took Him when He died.
(He died! He died!)
"Seemly and undefiled
His burial-place was made—
Is it well, is it well with the child?
For I know not where he is laid."
_On the dawning of Easter Day
Comes Mary Magdalene;
But the Stone was rolled away,
And the Body was not within—_
(Within! Within!)
"Ah, who will answer my word?"
The broken mother prayed.
"They have taken away my Lord,
And I know not where He is Laid."
"_The Star stands forth in Heaven.
The watchers watch in vain
For Sign of the Promise given
Of peace on Earth again—_
(Again! Again!)
"But I know for Whom he fell"—
The steadfast mother smiled,
"Is it well with the child—is it well?
It is well—it is well with the child!"
Recorded live and on site right outside Utah Lake State Park, which means that there are also airplanes flying and birds chirping and other people walking. I have edited out the other people walking, but the rest of it is all here.
Mark Gibbons is the Montana Poet Laureate for 2021-2023, and I hope he doesn't mind that I used this poem...
TEXT OF POEM
"My Life as a Capitalist" by Mark Gibbons
My Life as a Capitalist
has been an abject failure.
As evidence consider the living
room of this rental I've lived in
for the last twenty years:
this chair I sit in and the area rug
beneath me were gifted by our friends,
Bob & Sheryl; the two wooden tables
holding second hand lamps
and donated plants belonged to
our grandmothers; the hide-a-bed
sofa I inherited from my mom
along with the TV trays
we use for end tables; another
straight-backed chair and the handmade
entertainment center I picked up
at my old job as a furniture mover
where I found the legless entryway
table my brother rebuilt for me;
our used Samsung flat screen TV
was shipped to us by friends in Alaska;
the boom-box was donated by my buddy
Burt to fill the silence of the departed
one. The art on the walls? Given to us.
The only thing in this room we purchased
brand new is the (now shredded) cat tree
which has evolved into a scratched post-
modern work of frayed-fiber art.
If everyone in America lived like me,
there would be no "throw away" society/
economy. And now that we find ourselves
crowding the end of the line, to consider that
this is all we have, our accumulated wealth,
seems comical (in the way that everything
has seemed comical to me, the absurdity
of this material trip). It almost appears as if
it were a focused effort to have bought
so little and scrounged so much. Honestly
I just didn't pay attention, and obviously
I don't care—never did. So this is
the inevitable result—what's left of
the hand-me-down kid: one angel
on the right moans, embarrassed,
holding and shaking its head while
the little devil on the left sorts through
a pile of freebies from the recently dead.
You can find this poem in Gibbons's book, which you can buy signed by the author at Missoula's best independent bookstore, Fact & Fiction.
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.
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 feelsgood 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 podcastLucky 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 useMost 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!
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.
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.
This recording was originally much longer than what I've got for you here. I took a fork in a trail which led me to an overlook that was so magnificent, so overwhelming, that I just stood there, mostly mute. It's vastness, it's quiet emptiness: it made me feel small and like a thing touching divinity.
Later, on that same hike, I discovered tiny tiny flowers that I hadn't noticed before. They were just as shocking to me as the canyon. Big and small: this hike was really killing me aesthetically.
It took a bunch of research to figure out that the flowers I looked at were Gilia inconspicua, or "shy gilia."
TEXT OF POEM
"Interlude III" by Karl Shapiro
Writing, I crushed an insect with my nail
And thought nothing at all. A bit of wing
Caught my eye then, A gossamer so frail
And exquisite, I saw in it a thing
That scorned the grossness of the thing I wrote
It hung upon my finger like a sting.
A leg I noticed next, fine a mote,
“And on this frail eyelash he walked,” I said,
“And climbed and walked like any mountain-goat”
And in the mood I sought the little head,
But it was lost; then in my heart a fear
Cried out, “A life- why beautiful, why dead!”
It was a mite that held itself most dear,
So small I could have drowned it with a tear.
I spent a few days in Moab, camping and hiking and writing and recording. It was lovely.
This episode was recorded as I was hiking in Canyonlands National Park on the Murphy loop. I did edit out some long stretches of just me walking (not excatly compelling audio, that), and a couple of times were I got distracted by something I saw. I did leave in a couple shorter ones (a lizard in one instance, a butterfly in another) just to maintain the feeling of the recording, which is not some manufactured-in-the-studio-with-a-catalog-of-outdoor-sounds. Nope, this is really me, walking along in a spectacular landscape.
TEXT OF POEM
"My Cathedral" by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Like two cathedral towers these stately pines
Uplift their fretted summits tipped with cones;
The arch beneath them is not built with stones,
Not Art but Nature traced these lovely lines,
And carved this graceful arabesque of vines;
No organ but the wind here sighs and moans,
No sepulchre conceals a martyr's bones.
No marble bishop on his tomb reclines.
Enter! the pavement, carpeted with leaves,
Gives back a softened echo to thy tread!
Listen! the choir is singing; all the birds,
In leafy galleries beneath the eaves,
Are singing! listen, ere the sound be fled,
And learn there may be worship with out words.
One of the beautiful days in April in Utah, talking about a beautiful sport in Boston. (OK, this year, there's very little beautiful about baseball in Boston, but last year was great and there's always next year.) Some American poetry today, because today feels like a good day to be an American.
This is not an easy poem. It's weird. Don't worry too much about getting it "right." That's not the point. This is a poem to take an interpretation (or partial interpretation, in my case, and probably yours, too) and go with it. There's something powerful in a poem that so absolutely refuses to allow for definitive interpretation.
TEXT OF POEM
Amy Lowell's "Fenway Park: Study in Orange and Silver"
Through the spring-thickened branches
I see it floating,
An ivory dome
Headed to gold by the dim sun.
It hangs against a white-misted sky,
And the swollen branches
Open or cover it,
As they blow in the wet wind.
On a trail up American Fork canyon, listening to the water rushing down the mountain as it melts from the snowpack. It's mesmerizing. I know it just sounds like a static hiss on the recording: maybe you can hear it as a natural sound and not just a background noise.
There's something magical about this transition between seasons. There's something magical about seeing the world transform itself, to move from a monochromatic, cold environment to a verdant one: warm, green, vibrant.
Today's poem is about the world, kind of. And it's about things that repeat (like the seasons repeat, every year). And it's about language. Every poem is about language at some level, it's more surface in this one than in others.
You might find this a challenging poem. I do. I know that I am only getting only a fraction of the meaning out of this poem. But that's enough for today. I will let this grow the way that the things are growing around me. I'll know more tomorrow. You'll know more tomorrow, too.
TEXT OF POEM
"You begin" by Margaret Atwood
You begin this way:
this is your hand,
this is your eye,
this is a fish, blue and flat
on the paper, almost
the shape of an eye
This is your mouth, this is an O
or a moon, whichever
you like.
This is yellow.
Outside the window
is the rain, green
because it is summer, and beyond that
the trees and then the world,
which is round and has only
the colors of these nine crayons.
This is the world, which is fuller
and more difficult to learn than I have said.
You are right to smudge it that way
with the red and then
the orange: the world burns.
Once you have learned these words
you will learn that there are more
words than you can ever learn.
The word hand floats above your hand
like a small cloud over a lake.
The word hand anchors
your hand to this table
your hand is a warm stone
I hold between two words.
This is your hand, these are my hands, this is the world,
which is round but not flat and has more colors
than we can see.
It begins, it has an end,
this is what you will
come back to, this is your hand.
While one a short hike right near the border between Utah and Idaho, I tried to capture the songs of all the Western Meadowlarks around me. If you listen closely, you can just hear them. It's one of my favorite birdsongs, and they're not shy about singing it.
Today's poem is another of Shakespeare's sonnets. If you didn't hear my episodes on the sonnets, I highly recommend heading back and listening to episodes 201, 203, and 205. I give a brief summary here, but only very, very briefly.
There are still a couple of important moves left for the sonnets, and next time we will be leaving the handsome young man and hooking up with the dark lady. Whoo: mysterious!
TEXT OF POEM
Sonnet 126, by William Shakespeare
O thou, my lovely boy, who in thy power
Dost hold Time's fickle glass, his sickle, hour;
Who hast by waning grown, and therein showest
Thy lovers withering, as thy sweet self growest.
If Nature, sovereign mistress over wrack,
As thou goest onwards still will pluck thee back,
She keeps thee to this purpose, that her skill
May time disgrace and wretched minutes kill.
Yet fear her, O thou minion of her pleasure!
She may detain, but not still keep, her treasure:
Her audit (though delayed) answered must be,
And her quietus is to render thee.
( )
( )
This was recorded on a super windy day in Moab. I didn't realize just how much it had affected the recording until I tried to listen to it at home. I tried to make it listenable in Audacity and GarageBand, and even still it sounds pretty lousy.
Which is really too bad, because the poem is great and the locale was spectacular. There are few things more pleasant than sitting on warm slickrock when the day turns cool and breezy. There's such a lovely radiant heat from the stone.
What I didn't actually get to in my analysis is a discussion of the word "circuit." What Dickinson means here is not a circuit in the electronic sense, but in a circular sense. That second line means that success comes from taking the long, perhaps meandering path. Don't just spit out the truth, but draw it out slowly, deliberately, intentionally.
Part of what's fun about this poem is that it is so short. In contrast with her message, this poem just kind of dumps it out in just 41 words. There's not much circuit here, not much "gradually" -- and yet it dazzles.
TEXT OF POEM
"Tell all the truth but tell it slant" by Emily Dickinson
Tell all the truth but tell it slant —
Success in Circuit lies
Too bright for our infirm Delight
The Truth's superb surprise
As Lightning to the Children eased
With explanation kind
The Truth must dazzle gradually
Or every man be blind —
Today's poem, perfectly titled for a beautiful day in April, is a pretty tough one for me. Even now, listening to what I said when I recorded, I'm only half-convinced of my interpretation. I have noticed some new stuff, that I would include if I could. But the recording is not a historical event, captured in this one-take.
I did do a little editing in this recording, though. A good chunk is me getting distracted by birds, and it's boring to listen to me watching. The birds were too quiet to hear well, and it just isn't that compelling to listen to birdwatching. It isn't compelling for me, and I'm the one who was doing it. So I edited that out.
I also edited out three or four false starts on my interpretation. Between my readings of the poem, I gave some exegesis, and then some better, and then different from before. I left in only the last one, because it is the most detailed.
My reading of it isn't informed by any research from Millay experts (which I am not), but only my own skills as a reader. Do you see something different, something that is supported by the text? Then you've got some skills, too. Well done, friend.
This was recorded at Arches National Park a while back, on a cold, cold morning. It was a great time to read this wonderful Mary Oliver poem about mornings (and happiness and goodness).
I apologize that the sound quality on this is so lousy. I am clearly no professional sound engineer, and there is all sorts of clipping and sound that's blown out by the wind and my poor mic skills. I did what I could to fix it, but frankly, I'm just guessing here.
One of my favorite things about recording these on outdoor excusrions is that the sound, for me at least, evokes a powerful memory of the place. I get more ambiance than with just a photo. Does it evoke for you, too? And these places, being there or just remembering being there, helps me live in happiness, in kindness. I hope it inspires joy for you, too.
Squelchy, snowy hike up the Big Springs trail on a day that couldn't decide what weather felt right. There's a particular beauty in being in a monochromatic landscape like this; it makes me feel small and vulnerable.
I've spent much too much time indoors this winter, and I feel more out of shape than I ever have before. I get out of breath more quickly, and the muscles on my legs are less defined than ever beore. It'll take some work this spring and summer to get back to where I was. A poem about middle age seems appropriate right now.
It's a new year, and a new season of Lucky Words. Or, rather, it's a new season! Of Lucky Words! I'm back! And I'm glad you're back, too. I've missed you; I hope you've missed me, too.
It is almost National Poetry Month again, and so it's time to fire up the old recorder and get out hiking. Spring is springing (slowly), and it is a perfect time to be outdoors.
This was recorded sitting in my car at a trailhead in Moab, Utah. Something was a little wonky with the recorder (although it is probably more likely to be user error), so it sounds blown-out in parts when I get too enthusiastic. It’s easy to be enthusiastic about Billy Collins. Some of you have already heard the story about how he convinced me to buy a new car.
This is a great poem, and it is good to be enthusiastic about.
There is a lot more that could be said about sonnet 20, but this should serve as a nice introduction to this one, especially for you listeners who are not regular readers of Shakespeare's sonnets. This is one of the crazy ones, or at least one of the difficult-to-categorize-Shakesepeare's-sexuality ones.
I recorded this while out birding one morning (yes, I am a middle aged white male: so what?) and I had to edit out probably three or four planes landing or taking off. Not exactly the quietest place to record. I tried to get rid of them all while recording, but I'm obviously not a professional audio engineer, who would have made me do a few sentences over from scratch. But that would of course require that I worked form a script, which is pretty obviously not the case if you've listened to an episode or two.
For the text of the poem, or more things to read, come on over to visit at jeffreywindsor.net.
It's a lunchtime post -- or, rather, it's a lunchtime recording. I took a hike at lunchtime and recorded while I was hiking (literally, which is why my breathing is a little more apparent than usual) right before I stopped to eat.
Today's poem is one that has been my favorite since about 1990, when I first read the poem. I was living in Brazil at the time as a Mormon missionary, and a girl sent this poem to me in a letter. I've never forgotten the poem (although shortly thereafter the girl forgot me and married someone else. It all worked out in the end: I married Kate) and think about it often. For such a simple, little narrative poem it packs a long, thought-provoking tail.
For more, as always, go to jeffreywindsor.net
For the second of our look together at some of Shakespeare's sonnets, today's selection is the most famous: sonnet 18, the famous "Shall I comapre thee to a summer's day?" The only sonnet that rivals it in popular consciousness is Elizabeth Barrett Browning's "How do I love thee? Let me count the ways." I approach this with a little reticence, since it's such well-trod territory, but it helps to fill in the whole narrative that I will be explaining as time goes on. So I press on and am posting it anyway. Don't like my interpretation? Let me know.
I recorded this on the most beautiful day of the whole year so far. Surely there will be nicer days in the future, but today is the finest since before winter began months ago. It is a perfect day to read about summer's days, even though it's just spring.
As always, there's more for you to read at http://jeffreywindsor.net
For Easter, a discussion of George Herbert's "Easter Wings." Recorded while out on a hike on a beautiful afternoon in the foothills under Mt. Timpanogos in beautiful Utah.
Text of this poem (and all the other episodes of Lucky Words) are available at jeffreywindsor.net.
Just a quick one today to remind you that National Poetry Month is coming back in April, and Lucky Words will be there, too, with another season of poems in the ourdoors.
If the weather holds (it won't), this will be a perfect year for being outdoors in the mountain west. Today it is a perfect temperature and humidity: this is what heaven feels like to me. 55 degrees and sunny with a slight breeze and some moisture on the ground. Hot dang it's a good time to be alive.
Text of poem
"There is no Frigate like a Book" by Emily Dickinson
There is no Frigate like a Book
To take us Lands away,
Nor any Coursers like a Page
Of prancing Poetry –
This Traverse may the poorest take
Without oppress of Toll –
How frugal is the Chariot
That bears a Human soul.
Side note: in addition to this podcast, you might check out my website and newsletter for some essays and quotes and other fun stuff that overlaps nicely with Lucky Words. Check it out at jeffreywindsor.net. (I know: it's a very creative name. What can I say? It's a gift.) Thanks.
Happy Fourth of July! It's Independence Day, and I'm finally putting up a new post. Today's recording was actually over an hour long, most of which was my listening to a fellow hiker tell me all his stories about encounters with Sasquach. I have no idea what to do with that.
Happy Bloomsday! For this holiday, I've released the first non-poetry Lucky Words! I am sure you are as excited as I am.
Actually, as this hits the internets, I am camping with a bunch of Boy Scouts: getting sunburnt, making fires, sleeping in the dirt. It would be great if I weren't in charge of keeping a bunch of fifteen-year old boys from buring down a national forest. If you haven't heard of any major fires in national forests, I'm doing ok.
I recorded this midway on a hike last week, watching the spring run-off block my path. What I do not explain in the recording is that the angle where the run-off crossed the trail was steep enough and the flow was strong enough that I wasn't brave enough to ford it. After recording this, I turned around and walked back to the trailhead. It was shorter than I had planned, but it wasn't a bad hike. I stretched my legs and I thought some thoughts -- so: mission accomplished.
Also, if you're reading this, you might want to note that you can read the whole text of this poem -- and all the poems I read -- on the website.
The long quiet section before the poem is me standing still, trying to keep a very large moose feeling calm and unthreatened. It must have worked, because he did not trample me, but wandered off in the opposite direction. Whoa, nelly: that was awesome in all senses of the word.
I was on a dusty, dry trail somewhere in the American Fork canyon, all by myself (except for the bee that interrupted me while I was recording. You can hear it at the end). Being all by myself made me think of this poem by Whitman who had a thing or two to say about the way people interact with each other.
Enough with the heavy Wordsworth! (OK, not forever, but for a little while, at least.) You have probably read this poem before; it's often read in schools. But don't let that turn you off: look at how Dickinson uses her awesome, creative diction here; note how she describes the snake without using any conventional descriptors of a snake. Its clever-quotient is high, but it doesn't feel twee or too-clever-by-half.
Huzzah! We've made it! I'm sorry this took a while to post, but here is a reading of the complete text of William Wordsworth's "Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood."
I recorded this at various stops on a hike up along the Deer Creek - Dry Creek trail in the Lone Peak Wilderness. It's a spectacular area and a great hike -- until I reached the water flowing under a snow field and didn't want to risk a crossing. It was visibly hollow underneath and I didn't want to fall into the icy running water. Good thing I wasn't peak bagging, so it was easy to just turn and head back to the car.
I'll be returning to some shorter, stand-alone poems for a while before embarking on a long poem like this again. I do hope it was worth it, however. I'd be delighted if you let me know what you think.
This is the final episode that discusses individual sections of Wordsworth's "Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood." If you're just joining us, start at episode 131, where the poem actually begins. Next time: the whole poem, uninterrupted! How exciting!
I got a fancy new digital recorder (thanks, generous listener!), but now I have to learn the appropriate technique for field recording. Lesson for today: turn off your dang cell phone. This was in glorious stereo, but I had to reduce it to mono to cut out a bunch of obnoxious digital interference. Well, now I know. Anyone have any good tips/resources to help me out?
Wordsworth is getting kinda depressing here. All by itself, this section doesn't have the punch that it gets in context. We'll be at a full read soon, and then, I hope, the whole thing will make good sense. It's such a great poem, but it does require some effort to get the whole thing.
Recorded while camping, and I almost made the life-altering decision to grab a rattlesnake as it slithered by. I didn't know it was a rattlesnake at the time, not until it started shaking its tail at me. It was pretty obvious then. I ran away, quickly. I'm grateful it was closer to 60F than to 90. That would have been an ugly end to, well, everything. NOTE TO LISTENERS: do not pick up snakes unless you look at the tail section first.
This is the third episode about Wordsworth's "Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood." If you're just joining us, start at episode 131, where the poem actually begins.
We are at the good part of the poem. The first few lines of the fifth section are the most famous of the poem. They are lines I have heard quoted over pulpits all my life, but as you'll hear, I don't think Wordsworth would have liked the interpretation that's often given there. Good thing he's not around to get all snooty about it.
May is a crazy month. When I recorded this, the weather was sunny and warm and beautiful. As I edit this, it is overcast and cold and in the 40s. It snowed yesterday! It'll be beautiful again in a day or so, I'm sure.
Recorded while I was fishing (or maybe just casting, since I didn't catch any fish) and sat down to record this. Happy program note: all the background bird sounds were just recorded with my one single mic right there when they show up in the recording. I don't know how to add things in post (I'm not exactly sure I'm using the phrase "in post" correctly); it's all just serendipity. And who doesn't love serendipity?
The first of five or six episodes on this poem, so we can spend a little time discussing it one stanza at a time. At the end, I'll read the whole thing straight through, and it'll mean a lot more to you then (I hope).
CRITICAL NOTE: I do not know what my mouth was doing when I say the title of this poem. It is called "Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood." You know and I know that the second word is "intimations" and not "imitations." And yet, somehow I said "imitations" twice. I am so embarrassed. But I am also no longer sitting by the Provo river and can't correct my embarrassing mistake. Forgive me, friend.
Recorded by the Diamond Fork River, but there was a bunch of obnoxious wind that sometimes you'll hear with lousy noise. Endure through it and you'll learn about a great poem by Walt Whitman. It's about death, but listen anyway. Would you be interested in supporting this podcast? I would be interested in receiving your support. Visit https://www.patreon.com/jeffreywindsor for details and rewards.
Recorded in my father's-in-law truck on a dirt road between Spanish Fork and Springville, on my way to Hobble Creek. It was raining, and I decided to turn around, but the road was deserted so I just stopped right there and recorded this episode. I didn't mention in the recording that this poem is a villanelle, which is a quirky little form that requires a lot of planning on the poet's part. The repeated lines that echo and then repeat in the final stanza? That's the villanelle at work. There's usually something kind of audacious about a villanelle, but this poem pulls it off so effectively, it is as if the entire form were created just for this one use, right here.
These two poems are favorites of mine (aren't they all?), and I love the way the comment on each other. I discussed mostly how Wendell Berry's poem seems to be deeply antisocial but, upon some reflection, really isn't. But there's a lot more to say than just this. Check the show notes or the website for some more thought-provoking questions.
Recorded in my secret grading-fishing spot (hint: it's south of Provo) because it's beautiful and secluded and quiet and I can change out of my pants and into my waders by the side of the road and never worry about anyone driving by and seeing me pantsless.
Recorded on a quiet, little used trail while I sat down to eat something and rest a while. Actually, even though the trail had very few human tracks, and though I thought I was leaving the trail to a place of untouched solitude, I found a bunch of garbage within a single pace of where I sat. There's nothing that says "I'm in the authentic backcountry" like sunbleached beer cans and balls of aluminum foil and brittle plastic wrappers.
Recorded at night, while camping in southern Utah, under a clear, dark sky of a million million stars. I love camping, but I love it more when I've got Kate with me.
Recorded a couple of days ago after finishing a couple of slot canyons called Ding and Dang. They're outside Goblin Valley. They're not difficult, I think rated just 2BII, but having a handicapped twenty-something man in our party made it into a much more intense adventure. It was, in fact, one of the greatest things I feel I have ever done outside. What a great day. And so I'm going to read a great poem, too.
Recorded while on the outskirts of the San Rafael Swell, where I could not find anywhere that was completely out of the wind. But even if it isn't a great place to record, it is one of my favorite places, and I am so grateful to live close enough that I get to visit a couple of times a year.
I have inherited my sense of direction from my mother, who has learned that, when in doubt, she should go exactly the opposite of what feels like the right direction. I get lost all the time, and absolutely depend on the topo map app on my phone. I recorded this while trying to find my way to the right trail, which eventually required a little off-trail bushwhacking.
I had something of a haiku moment: sitting by the side of a trail and watching the grass bend in the wind. I felt like maybe I should learn some more haiku, but then I decided that the feeling of needing more is probably antithetical to what I was feeling at the time.
It's the day after the last day of classes for the semester, and so I chose this poem about offices and businesses. I think it's funny that my students think that they are the only ones who are glad at the end of a term. Recorded on the Little Baldy trail, which my children will probably think is a funny and appropriate name considering the state of my scalp.
Recorded in the rain, but under a pavilion. You can hear both the river and the car traffic near me. This is such a great poem, however, that I didn't want to wait, but I did skip a critical part of the analysis: that's what I get for doing it in one take and without notes. Check the website for details about what I skipped.
Recorded at about 5:00pm, not so coincidentally, for obvious reasons. For a number of years I somehow mixed up this poem with Francisco Goya's painting "The Third of May, 1808" which isn't about bullfighting at all, but rather about the Spanish Civil War. Even now, there's some weird overlap in my head, that I still imagine the (totally unrelated) painting with this poem. There are worse things, I suppose.
Recorded on the Dry Canyon trail, just sitting down on a rock. This is perhaps the most popular poem that I've read on Lucky Words yet, but it's still not nearly as well known as it should be.
Happy Easter, everyone! For this Sabbath holiday I've chosen a holy sonnet by John Donne. This poem is about Jesus' second coming rather than his atoning sacrifice, so I guess it's not a perfect Easter poem, but it's still pretty close. It's in the right ballpark. This is recorded while sitting on a tree over a stream, and there's a lot of water noise in the background. It might not make great audio, but it was a fun place to record.
It's a little weird for me to read this poem about race and America, but that's not stopping me. Just a short episode today, recorded on the Curley Springs trail.
Longest episode yet, but in part because it's a longish poem. And I barely scratch the surface here. We could easily spend an hour on this one alone and just start digging in. But you don't need that much time to start to appreciate it. And on a lovely Good Friday, you'll be a better person after reading this poem. Recorded while hiking up Dry Canyon, above Lindon, Utah.
You could stop listening at 4:45 if you want just the standard experience, or you can keep listening beyond for a special bonus (bonus!) story that kinda-sorta-almost relates to the poem. It's a personal story, and it makes me laugh, but no guarantees that it'll have the same effect on you. I'd be curious: do you have any good fruit-related stories to share? Visit luckywords.squarespace.com and let me know.
Recorded while I was unwilling to hike any further up the snowcovered and avalanche-prone Mount Timpanogos. I love the trail, but I don't want to get caught in a avalanche, and I've seen them from too close up there in the past. So I recorded this podcast about a great modernist poem.
Recorded while hiking up the Squaw Peak trail again, in a spot with lots of wind and hence the distracting and omnipresent wind noise. Still, an awesome poem that you probably haven't head before because it's a translation from a fragment of an Old English (Anglo-Saxon) manuscript.
Recorded while hiking through the snow on the Stewart Falls trail above Sundance. It's technically the Stewart Cascade trail, but no one around here calls it that. It's just Stewart Falls. I didn't make it too the falls, however: too much snow and too little trail. But it was still a nice hike.
Recorded on a trail from the Squaw Peak Lookout, I was at an elevation of about 7200, just over 2000 feet above my house. Not recorded on a Sunday, because, unlike Emily Dickinson, I do keep my Sabbath by going to church. But I like her sentiment.
Kind of a longer poem today, and recorded indoors--or rather, in car, trying to get out of the wind enough to make myself audible. I was birding at the Provo Airport Dike, which is one of the best spots around here for waterbirds (and other birds as well, of course).
Recorded while hiking, which explains but does not justify the noise of the wind, stream, footsteps, and worst of all, my heavy breathing. But the poem is beautiful, and the background noise might help you intuit the setting I recorded in, which is about as beautiful as it gets. It is, in fact, up South Fork in Provo Canyon, on my way to the Cascade Saddle (among other places).
Recorded during a pause while fishing on the lower Provo River, just a couple of miles up the canyon from my house. I had a #14 Elk Hair Caddis fly on about four feet of tippet at the end of a 12' Tenkara rod.
Recorded at the Indian Road trailhead, which leads to the Bonneville Shoreline Trail. I was in the car for this recording, because I wasn't sure about my outdoors setup.
Recorded while hiking on a section of the Bonneville Shoreline Trail, part way up Provo Canyon. There's some wind and I have to breathe heavy because, well, I'm hiking at an elevation that looks down on Denver by 1000 feet. Except Denver is eight hours away. I'm also 1000 feet higher than Salt Lake or my beloved Provo, but they don't claim to be "Mile High."
During the month of April, I will be posting a new poem with some discussion every day. Subscribe to the podcast and you'll get thirty prime poems, each in a short, convenient package. So far, none has exceeded twelve minutes, and more than a few have clocked in at under five. You can spare five minutes to learn a new poem.