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

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

This is kind of a lonely poem for a lonely day hiking. Not lonely, exactly, but very alone. I spent probably five hours and saw, maybe, three human beings. It was good. I like to be alone. Sometimes. I also like to be with those I love. When I am with other people, I think about them. I am a person in society. When I am alone, I think about God, or nature, or poetry and art, or all of those things. I think about myself in relation to all those things. ### TEXT OF POEM "The Preacher Ruminates Behind the Sermon" by Gwendolyn Brooks I think it must be lonely to be God. Nobody loves a master. No. Despite The bright hosannas, bright dear-Lords, and bright Determined reverence of Sunday eyes. Picture Jehovah striding through the hall Of His importance, creatures running out From servant-corners to acclaim, to shout Appreciation of His merit's glare. But who walks with Him?—dares to take His arm, To clap Him on the shoulder, tweak His ear, Buy Him a Coca-Cola or a beer, Pooh-pooh His politics, call Him a fool? Perhaps—who knows?—He tires of looking down. Those eyes are never lifted. Never straight. Perhaps sometimes He tires of being great In solitude. Without a hand to hold.

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

More adventures in Canyonlands National Park in southern Utah. I hike to be quiet and alone. This hike took me on the White Rim Trail, one of the destination trails for 4x4 affectionados. Which is about the opposite of me. I like my peace and quiet, which never includes dirtbikes or ATVs. Of course, every one I saw at least waved at me, and often were very friendly and chatty. I tell a story of one of those encounters in this episode. ### TEXT OF POEM Alexander Pope's "Ode on Solitude" Happy the man, whose wish and care A few paternal acres bound, Content to breathe his native air, In his own ground. Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, Whose flocks supply him with attire, Whose trees in summer yield him shade, In winter fire. Blest, who can unconcernedly find Hours, days, and years slide soft away, In health of body, peace of mind, Quiet by day, Sound sleep by night; study and ease, Together mixed; sweet recreation; And innocence, which most does please, With meditation. Thus let me live, unseen, unknown; Thus unlamented let me die; Steal from the world, and not a stone Tell where I lie.

Episode 309: Karl Shapiro's "Interlude III"

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. [Gilia inconspicua]: http://www.swcoloradowildflowers.com/White%20Enlarged%20Photo%20Pages/gilia.htm

Episode 308: Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's "My Cathedral"

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.

Episode 307: Amy Lowell's "Fenway Park: Study in Orange and Silver"

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.