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Saturday, 10 August 2024
Podcast #15
Friday, 22 September 2023
Life and Lines
Sunday, 18 June 2023
Podcast #14
The Raven
BY EDGAR ALLAN POE
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and
weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
While I nodded,
nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber
door—
Only this
and nothing more.”
Ah, distinctly I
remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the
floor.
Eagerly I wished
the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books
surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Nameless
here for evermore.
And the silken,
sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt
before;
So that now, to
still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
“’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my
chamber door—
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—
This it is
and nothing more.”
Presently my soul
grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I
was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you
came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the
door;—
Darkness
there and nothing more.
Deep into that
darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream
before;
But the silence
was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word
there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word,
“Lenore!”—
Merely
this and nothing more.
Back into the
chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
“Surely,” said I,
“surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see,
then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
’Tis the
wind and nothing more!”
Open here I flung
the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of
yore;
Not the least
obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of
lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—
Perched,
and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art
sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly
shore—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian
shore!”
Quoth the
Raven “Nevermore.”
Much I marvelled
this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help
agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was
blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber
door,
With such
name as “Nevermore.”
But the Raven,
sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did
outpour.
Nothing farther
then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—
Till I scarcely
more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown
before.”
Then the
bird said “Nevermore.”
Startled at the
stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and
store
Caught from some
unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and
followed faster till his songs one burden bore—
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of
‘Never—nevermore’.”
But the Raven still
beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and
bust and door;
Then, upon the
velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy,
thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird
of yore
Meant in
croaking “Nevermore.”
This I sat engaged
in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s
core;
This and more I sat
divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion’s
velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating
o’er,
She shall
press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought,
the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted
floor.
“Wretch,” I cried,
“thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite—respite
and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost
Lenore!”
Quoth the
Raven “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I,
“thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here
ashore,
Desolate yet all
undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
On this home by
Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I
implore!”
Quoth the
Raven “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I,
“thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both
adore—
Tell this soul
with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a
sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name
Lenore.”
Quoth the
Raven “Nevermore.”
“Be that word our
sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian
shore!
Leave no black
plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my
loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off
my door!”
Quoth the
Raven “Nevermore.”
And the Raven,
never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have
all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light
o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the
floor
Sunday, 20 November 2022
Podcast #13
A Poison Tree & Suicide in the Trenches
BY WILLIAM BLAKE, SIEGFRIED SASSOON
“A Poison Tree” by William BlakeThursday, 2 June 2022
Podcast #12
How Do I Love Thee? (Sonnet 43)
BY ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.Saturday, 22 January 2022
Podcast #11
She Dwelt among the Untrodden Ways
BY WILLIAM WORDSWOTH
She dwelt among the untrodden waysBesides the spring of Dove,
A Maid whom there were none to praise
And very few to love:
A violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden from the eye!
—Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.
She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and, oh,
The difference to me!
Thursday, 30 September 2021
Journal 2021-09-30
Saturday, 25 September 2021
Podcast #10: Episode 2
POEMS
BY ROBERT WALKER
Dead shadows dance in the night
yearning for the dawn.
Cold and forgotten walking scars,
drained by decay,
wasted by time,
stretch out,
hungered and blurred,
to a spark ignited,
climbing,
rising from the ground.
From the last depths,
rays of hope entwine in the sky,
kissing the hills;
breathing new life
and wonders layered in light.
Naked with joy, a new day, a new world is born.
THE OUTER VIEW
Beneath a mountain of tedium,
In a dull ugly system,
In an empty ocean of shadows,
Is a silhouette of pure fire heat
Drifting in the dark.
All I wanted was the wind;
The wind murmured with anticipation,
The grass turned to icy grey,
A fine mist fell,
And with the mist came my sorrow
Cooling my body
With her thousand kisses,
Leaving me there.
I am surrounded by ice crystals
floating down through silence
into soft glowing snow.
The only sound is the pulse of my breathing.
As the sun sleeps,
how many hearts are dreaming,
when the world stands still.
Friday, 24 September 2021
Podcast #9: The Outer View
THE OUTER VIEW
BY ROBERT WALKER
Beneath a mountain of tedium,
In a dull ugly system,
In an empty ocean of shadows,
Is a silhouette of pure fire heat
Drifting in the dark.
All I wanted was the wind;
The wind murmured with anticipation,
The grass turned to icy grey,
A fine mist fell,
And with the mist came my sorrow
Cooling my body
With her thousand kisses,
Leaving me there.
I am surrounded by ice crystals
floating down through silence
into soft glowing snow.
The only sound is the pulse of my breathing.
As the sun sleeps,
how many hearts are dreaming,
when the world stands still.
Wednesday, 22 September 2021
Podcast #8
“TO BE, OR NOT TO BE”
– HAMLET IN HAMLET BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE (ACT 3, SCENE 1)
To be, or not to be, that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles
And by opposing end them. To die—to sleep,
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to: 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep, perchance to dream—ay, there's the rub:
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause—there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
Th'oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of th'unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovere'd country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience doth make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action.
Saturday, 18 September 2021
Rhythm and Words
Saturday, 17 July 2021
Podcast #7
JABBERWOCKY
BY LEWIS CARROLL
‘Twas brillig, and the slithy tovesDid gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
“Beware the Jabberwock, my son
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!”
He took his vorpal sword in hand;
Long time the manxome foe he sought—
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.
And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!
One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.
“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”
He chortled in his joy.
‘Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
Friday, 2 April 2021
Podcast #6: Dawn
DAWN
BY ROBERT WALKER
Dead shadows dance in the night
yearning for the dawn.
Cold and forgotten walking scars,
drained by decay,
wasted by time,
stretch out,
hungered and blurred,
to a spark ignited,
climbing,
rising from the ground.
From the last depths,
rays of hope entwine in the sky,
kissing the hills;
breathing new life
and wonders layered in light.
Naked with joy, a new day, a new world is born.
Saturday, 6 February 2021
Journal 2021-02-06
Reading 2 to 3 hours every day for a year is probably enough to skim through the complete works of Shakespeare; and this will still probably miss 90% of the meaning and richness of the text.
Thursday, 31 December 2020
New Year
I intend to make some interesting videos and films next year with my own green screen studio. With filmmaking I can write and perform the music and songs; write the screenplays; perform as an actor; and design the visual art and cinematography. Technology is continually providing new amazing tools to play with, so the future seems very exciting creatively!
Tuesday, 29 December 2020
Journal 2020-12-29
The art of any performance is truthfully interacting with the situation that is arising.
If all the world is a stage, then not knowing the future - or the fact that you are acting - helps create a great performance.
Wednesday, 11 November 2020
Journal 2020-11-11
I form tears when I’m moved in any meaningful way - so if I produce them in a performance, I’m not pretending, I’m genuinely feeling what I’m doing.
Sunday, 18 October 2020
Podcast #5
"Th' expense of spirit in a waste of shame"
- SONNET 129 BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
Th' expense of spirit in a waste of shame
Is lust in action; and till action, lust
Is perjured, murd'rous, bloody, full of blame,
Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust,
Enjoyed no sooner but despisèd straight,
Past reason hunted; and, no sooner had
Past reason hated as a swallowed bait
On purpose laid to make the taker mad;
Mad in pursuit and in possession so,
Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme;
A bliss in proof and proved, a very woe;
Before, a joy proposed; behind, a dream.
All this the world well knows; yet none knows well
To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.
Journal 2020-10-18
Dubbing for home languages is really not a good idea. The vocal is half of the performance - taking that away, and splicing in another person’s voice, literally mutes and disconnects the actor.
Sunday, 4 October 2020
Journal 2020-10-04
Recorded Sonnet 129 in one take. I didn’t plan how to do it - I just absorbed the words and wanted to see what happened.
The result is interesting, like nothing I have heard before.
The character speaking is not one you should let seduce you.