Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Song for the Last Act by Louise Bogin

John Berryman

Dream Song 14 by John Berryman

Lawrence Ferlinghetti

The Changing Light by Lawrence Ferlinghetti

Eavan Boland

Ode To Suburbia by Eavan Boland

Production, Music and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Production, Music and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

How To Be Perfect by Ron Padgett

Robert Creeley

The Rain by Robert Creeley

Ted Kooser

For you, Friend by Ted Kooser

Production and Sound Design By Kevin Seaman

Production and Sound Design By Kevin Seaman

Mirabeau Bridge by  Guillame Apollinaire

Eileen Myles

Robert Lowell

On The Death of Robert Lowell by Eileen Myles

Sonnet 12 by William Shakespeare

Remarkable Words+Remarkable Voices+Remarkable Hi-Fi Sounds =Words in the Air.

Denise Levertov

Production and Sound Design by  Kevin Seaman

Production and Sound Design by  Kevin Seaman

February Evening in New York by Denise Levertov

Fernando Valverde

Edgar Allan Poe Is Reached at the Baltimore Harbor by the Shadows That Pursue Him by Fernando Valverde

Richard Brautigan

Love Poem by Richard Brautigan

Paul Laurence Dunbar

The Haunted Oak by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Carl Sandburg

The Answer by Carl Sandburg

If You Forget Me by Pablo Neruda

Elizabeth Bishop

Insomnia by Elizabeth Bishop

Billy Collins

Nightclub By Billy Collins

Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Kubla Khan by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Alice Oswald

Various Portents by Alice Oswald

Remarkable Words+Remarkable Voices+Remarkable Hi-Fi Sounds = Words in the Air.

Words in the Air

Frank O'Hara

Meditations in an Emergency by Frank O'Hara

William Carlos Williams

Sound Design and Production by Kevin Seaman

Sound Design and Production by Kevin Seaman

This is Just to Say by William Carlos Williams

The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe

Gregory Corso

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman The Whole Mess ... AlmostBY GREGORY CORSOI ran up six flights of stairsto my small furnished room  opened the windowand began throwing outthose things most important in life First to go, Truth, squealing like a fink:“Don’t! I’ll tell awful things about you!”“Oh yeah? Well, I’ve nothing to hide ... OUT!”Then went God, glowering &amp; whimpering in amazement:  “It’s not my fault! I’m not the cause of it all!” “OUT!”  Then Love, cooing bribes: “You’ll never know impotency!  All the girls on Vogue covers, all yours!”I pushed her fat ass out and screamed:“You always end up a bummer!”I picked up Faith Hope Charityall three clinging together:“Without us you’ll surely die!”“With you I’m going nuts! Goodbye!” Then Beauty ... ah, Beauty—As I led her to the windowI told her: “You I loved best in life... but you’re a killer; Beauty kills!”  Not really meaning to drop herI immediately ran downstairsgetting there just in time to catch her  “You saved me!” she criedI put her down and told her: “Move on.” Went back up those six flightswent to the moneythere was no money to throw out.The only thing left in the room was Death  hiding beneath the kitchen sink:“I’m not real!” It cried“I’m just a rumor spread by life ... ”  Laughing I threw it out, kitchen sink and all  and suddenly realized Humorwas all that was left—All I could do with Humor was to say:  “Out the window with the window!”

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman The Whole Mess ... AlmostBY GREGORY CORSOI ran up six flights of stairsto my small furnished room  opened the windowand began throwing outthose things most important in life First to go, Truth, squealing like a fink:“Don’t! I’ll tell awful things about you!”“Oh yeah? Well, I’ve nothing to hide ... OUT!”Then went God, glowering &amp; whimpering in amazement:  “It’s not my fault! I’m not the cause of it all!” “OUT!”  Then Love, cooing bribes: “You’ll never know impotency!  All the girls on Vogue covers, all yours!”I pushed her fat ass out and screamed:“You always end up a bummer!”I picked up Faith Hope Charityall three clinging together:“Without us you’ll surely die!”“With you I’m going nuts! Goodbye!” Then Beauty ... ah, Beauty—As I led her to the windowI told her: “You I loved best in life... but you’re a killer; Beauty kills!”  Not really meaning to drop herI immediately ran downstairsgetting there just in time to catch her  “You saved me!” she criedI put her down and told her: “Move on.” Went back up those six flightswent to the moneythere was no money to throw out.The only thing left in the room was Death  hiding beneath the kitchen sink:“I’m not real!” It cried“I’m just a rumor spread by life ... ”  Laughing I threw it out, kitchen sink and all  and suddenly realized Humorwas all that was left—All I could do with Humor was to say:  “Out the window with the window!”

The Whole Mess...Almost by Gregory Corso

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman The PomegranateBy Eavan BolandThe only legend I have ever loved isthe story of a daughter lost in hell.And found and rescued there.Love and blackmail are the gist of it.Ceres and Persephone the names.And the best thing about the legend isI can enter it anywhere. And have.As a child in exile ina city of fogs and strange consonants,I read it first and at first I wasan exiled child in the crackling dusk ofthe underworld, the stars blighted. LaterI walked out in a summer twilightsearching for my daughter at bed-time.When she came running I was readyto make any bargain to keep her.I carried her back past whitebeamsand wasps and honey-scented buddleias.But I was Ceres then and I knewwinter was in store for every leafon every tree on that road.Was inescapable for each one we passed. And for me.                   It is winterand the stars are hidden.I climb the stairs and stand where I can seemy child asleep beside her teen magazines,her can of Coke, her plate of uncut fruit.The pomegranate! How did I forget it?She could have come home and been safeand ended the story and allour heart-broken searching but she reachedout a hand and plucked a pomegranate.She put out her hand and pulled downthe French sound for apple andthe noise of stone and the proofthat even in the place of death,at the heart of legend, in the midstof rocks full of unshed tearsready to be diamonds by the timethe story was told, a child can behungry. I could warn her. There is still a chance.The rain is cold. The road is flint-coloured.The suburb has cars and cable television.The veiled stars are above ground.It is another world. But what elsecan a mother give her daughter but suchbeautiful rifts in time?If I defer the grief I will diminish the gift.The legend will be hers as well as mine.She will enter it. As I have.She will wake up. She will holdthe papery flushed skin in her hand.And to her lips. I will say nothing.

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman The PomegranateBy Eavan BolandThe only legend I have ever loved isthe story of a daughter lost in hell.And found and rescued there.Love and blackmail are the gist of it.Ceres and Persephone the names.And the best thing about the legend isI can enter it anywhere. And have.As a child in exile ina city of fogs and strange consonants,I read it first and at first I wasan exiled child in the crackling dusk ofthe underworld, the stars blighted. LaterI walked out in a summer twilightsearching for my daughter at bed-time.When she came running I was readyto make any bargain to keep her.I carried her back past whitebeamsand wasps and honey-scented buddleias.But I was Ceres then and I knewwinter was in store for every leafon every tree on that road.Was inescapable for each one we passed. And for me.                   It is winterand the stars are hidden.I climb the stairs and stand where I can seemy child asleep beside her teen magazines,her can of Coke, her plate of uncut fruit.The pomegranate! How did I forget it?She could have come home and been safeand ended the story and allour heart-broken searching but she reachedout a hand and plucked a pomegranate.She put out her hand and pulled downthe French sound for apple andthe noise of stone and the proofthat even in the place of death,at the heart of legend, in the midstof rocks full of unshed tearsready to be diamonds by the timethe story was told, a child can behungry. I could warn her. There is still a chance.The rain is cold. The road is flint-coloured.The suburb has cars and cable television.The veiled stars are above ground.It is another world. But what elsecan a mother give her daughter but suchbeautiful rifts in time?If I defer the grief I will diminish the gift.The legend will be hers as well as mine.She will enter it. As I have.She will wake up. She will holdthe papery flushed skin in her hand.And to her lips. I will say nothing.

The Pomegranate by Eavan Boland

Frank Stanford

Memory Is Like a Shotgun Kicking You Near the Heart by Frank Stanford

Andrei Codrescu

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman I remember walking out of the ocean. What struggle!Millions of mollusk years and shell games that hurt.I remember getting up from all fours and looking downon all my astonished variously shaped former friends.Not one of them wanted to look up at me now I was up.Bipedal and lonely until there were a bunch of others.I remember the first scene in 2001 where I killed another.I remember that every time I bent down to be closerto the busy world of things that crawled loped or burrowedI was condescending and they moved away from me.I remember towering over everything that wasn’t me.I remember the day I howled in pain because my back gave out.That was the day I knew my body was weakly hingedat the place where it first stood up, and I wanted down again.Lord, help me walk on all fours again. I know that it’s late.We only grow taller now like the towers we can’t stop building.Since we got language not one nonhuman creature deignsto speak to us though we pretend in vain to understand them.Animals find it more understandable when we shoot themthen when we kneel down and pretend we are their friends.We do kneel down often to pray not to commune but praythat we won’t suffer from the back pain that is our sign of Cain.I remember that I can still return to water and do flipsbut I’m in charge now of all the things I covered over.I remember kneeling to gods who were so tall I couldn’t see them.Their heads were in the clouds, we barely reached their sandals.Even the mono god was so tall he dropped the tablets on Mosesand made lightning to scare us all to the death we knew was coming.In the little world I live in I sell diminishment at one dollar an inchand practice quadripedal yoga every morning in my living roomhoping to walk one day into the street with my quadripedal brood.It will be the day of no pain and of trading language for nozzling.If we succeed it won’t be so hard to hope that learning screens hurtsless than when we first left the ocean, equally pushed by hubris.Our new weak spot is memory. A bad back and a lousy memorymay smooth our way to becoming humble and wild again and good.

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman I remember walking out of the ocean. What struggle! Millions of mollusk years and shell games that hurt. I remember getting up from all fours and looking down on all my astonished variously shaped former friends. Not one of them wanted to look up at me now I was up. Bipedal and lonely until there were a bunch of others. I remember the first scene in 2001 where I killed another. I remember that every time I bent down to be closer to the busy world of things that crawled loped or burrowed I was condescending and they moved away from me. I remember towering over everything that wasn’t me. I remember the day I howled in pain because my back gave out. That was the day I knew my body was weakly hinged at the place where it first stood up, and I wanted down again. Lord, help me walk on all fours again. I know that it’s late. We only grow taller now like the towers we can’t stop building. Since we got language not one nonhuman creature deigns to speak to us though we pretend in vain to understand them. Animals find it more understandable when we shoot them then when we kneel down and pretend we are their friends. We do kneel down often to pray not to commune but pray that we won’t suffer from the back pain that is our sign of Cain. I remember that I can still return to water and do flips but I’m in charge now of all the things I covered over. I remember kneeling to gods who were so tall I couldn’t see them. Their heads were in the clouds, we barely reached their sandals. Even the mono god was so tall he dropped the tablets on Moses and made lightning to scare us all to the death we knew was coming. In the little world I live in I sell diminishment at one dollar an inch and practice quadripedal yoga every morning in my living room hoping to walk one day into the street with my quadripedal brood. It will be the day of no pain and of trading language for nozzling. If we succeed it won’t be so hard to hope that learning screens hurts less than when we first left the ocean, equally pushed by hubris. Our new weak spot is memory. A bad back and a lousy memory may smooth our way to becoming humble and wild again and good.

WALK ON ALL FOURS: CODE IN DOG by Andrei Codrescu

Mark Strand

W.S. Merwin

Wilhelm Müller

Production and Sound Design by Kevin SeamanPoems Read:The Solstice By W.S. MerwinDer Leiermann by Wilhelm Müller&amp;Snowfall by Mark Strand

Production and Sound Design by Kevin SeamanPoems Read:The Solstice By W.S. MerwinDer Leiermann by Wilhelm Müller&amp;Snowfall by Mark Strand

3 Winter Poems by W.S. Merwin, Wilhelm Müller & Mark Strand

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman The Haunted PalaceBy Edgar Allan Poe In the greenest of our valleysBy good angels tenanted,Once a fair and stately palace -Radiant palace - reared its head.In the monarch Thought's dominion -It stood there!Never seraph spread a pinionOver fabric half so fair!  Banners yellow, glorious, golden,On its roof did float and flow,(This - all this - was in the oldenTime long ago,)And every gentle air that dallied,In that sweet day,Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,A winged odor went away.  Wanderers in that happy valley,Through two luminous windows, sawSpirits moving musically,To a lute's well-tuned law,Round about a throne where, sitting(Porphyrogene!)In state his glory well-befitting,The ruler of the realm was seen.  And all with pearl and ruby glowingWas the fair palace door,Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,And sparkling evermore,A troop of Echoes, whose sweet dutyWas but to sing,In voices of surpassing beauty,The wit and wisdom of their king.  But evil things, in robes of sorrow,Assailed the monarch's high estate.(Ah, let us mourn! - for never morrowShall dawn upon him desolate!)And round about his home the gloryThat blushed and bloomed,Is but a dim-remembered storyOf the old time entombed.  And travellers, now, within that valley,Through the red-litten windows seeVast forms, that move fantasticallyTo a discordant melody,While, like a ghastly rapid river,Through the pale doorA hideous throng rush out foreverAnd laugh - but smile no more.

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman The Haunted PalaceBy Edgar Allan Poe In the greenest of our valleysBy good angels tenanted,Once a fair and stately palace -Radiant palace - reared its head.In the monarch Thought's dominion -It stood there!Never seraph spread a pinionOver fabric half so fair! Banners yellow, glorious, golden,On its roof did float and flow,(This - all this - was in the oldenTime long ago,)And every gentle air that dallied,In that sweet day,Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,A winged odor went away. Wanderers in that happy valley,Through two luminous windows, sawSpirits moving musically,To a lute's well-tuned law,Round about a throne where, sitting(Porphyrogene!)In state his glory well-befitting,The ruler of the realm was seen. And all with pearl and ruby glowingWas the fair palace door,Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,And sparkling evermore,A troop of Echoes, whose sweet dutyWas but to sing,In voices of surpassing beauty,The wit and wisdom of their king. But evil things, in robes of sorrow,Assailed the monarch's high estate.(Ah, let us mourn! - for never morrowShall dawn upon him desolate!)And round about his home the gloryThat blushed and bloomed,Is but a dim-remembered storyOf the old time entombed. And travellers, now, within that valley,Through the red-litten windows seeVast forms, that move fantasticallyTo a discordant melody,While, like a ghastly rapid river,Through the pale doorA hideous throng rush out foreverAnd laugh - but smile no more.

The Haunted Palace by Edgar Allan Poe

Allen Ginsberg

A Supermarket in California by Allen Ginsberg

Theme in Yellow by Carl Sandburg

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman De Profundisby Georg Trakl It is a stubble-field where black rain falls.It is a dark-brown tree that stands alone.It is a soughing wind that swirls round empty huts –How dismal this evening. Passing the hamletThe gentle orphan girl still gathers scanty ears of corn.Round and golden her eyes feast on the gathering dusk,Her lap yearning for the heavenly bridegroom. On their way homeThe shepherds found the darling bodyRotting in the briers. I am a shadow far from desolate villages.God’s silenceI drank from the springs of the grove. Cold metal meets my temples.Spiders seek out my heart.There is a light that guts in my mouth. At night I found myself on a heath,Stiffening with dirt and dust from the stars.In the thicket of hazelsCrystal angels once more sounded.

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman De Profundisby Georg Trakl It is a stubble-field where black rain falls.It is a dark-brown tree that stands alone.It is a soughing wind that swirls round empty huts –How dismal this evening. Passing the hamletThe gentle orphan girl still gathers scanty ears of corn.Round and golden her eyes feast on the gathering dusk,Her lap yearning for the heavenly bridegroom. On their way homeThe shepherds found the darling bodyRotting in the briers. I am a shadow far from desolate villages.God’s silenceI drank from the springs of the grove. Cold metal meets my temples.Spiders seek out my heart.There is a light that guts in my mouth. At night I found myself on a heath,Stiffening with dirt and dust from the stars.In the thicket of hazelsCrystal angels once more sounded.

De Profundis by Georg Trakl

Earl of Rochester

John Wilmot

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman Upon NothingBY JOHN WILMOT EARL OF ROCHESTERNothing! thou elder brother even to Shade:That hadst a being ere the world was made,And well fixed, art alone of ending not afraid. Ere Time and Place were, Time and Place were not,When primitive Nothing Something straight begot;Then all proceeded from the great united What. Something, the general attribute of all,Severed from thee, its sole original,Into thy boundless self must undistinguished fall; Yet Something did thy mighty power command,And from fruitful Emptiness’s handSnatched men, beasts, birds, fire, air, and land. Matter the wicked’st offspring of thy race,By Form assisted, flew from thy embrace,And rebel Light obscured thy reverend dusky face. With Form and Matter, Time and Place did join;Body, thy foe, with these did leagues combineTo spoil thy peaceful realm, and ruin all thy line; But turncoat Time assists the foe in vain,And bribed by thee, destroys their short-lived reign,And to thy hungry womb drives back thy slaves again. Though mysteries are barred from laic eyes,And the divine alone with warrant priesInto thy bosom, where truth in private lies, Yet this of thee the wise may truly say,Thou from the virtuous nothing dost delay,And to be part with thee the wicked wisely pray. Great Negative, how vainly would the wiseInquire, define, distinguish, teach, devise,Didst thou not stand to point their blind philosophies! Is, or Is Not, the two great ends of Fate,And True or False, the subject of debate,That perfect or destroy the vast designs of state— When they have racked the politician’s breast,Within thy Bosom most securely rest,And when reduced to thee, are least unsafe and best. But Nothing, why does Something still permitThat sacred monarchs should at council sitWith persons highly thought at best for nothing fit, While weighty Something modestly abstainsFrom princes’ coffers, and from statemen’s brains,And Nothing there like stately Nothing reigns? Nothing! who dwell’st with fools in grave disguiseFor whom they reverend shapes and forms devise,Lawn sleeves, and furs, and gowns, when they like thee look wise: French truth, Dutch prowess, British policy,Hibernian learning, Scotch civility,Spaniards’ dispatch, Danes’ wit are mainly seen in thee. The great man’s gratitude to his best friend,Kings’ promises, whores’ vows—towards thee may bend,Flow swiftly into thee, and in thee ever end.

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman Upon NothingBY JOHN WILMOT EARL OF ROCHESTERNothing! thou elder brother even to Shade:That hadst a being ere the world was made,And well fixed, art alone of ending not afraid. Ere Time and Place were, Time and Place were not,When primitive Nothing Something straight begot;Then all proceeded from the great united What. Something, the general attribute of all,Severed from thee, its sole original,Into thy boundless self must undistinguished fall; Yet Something did thy mighty power command,And from fruitful Emptiness’s handSnatched men, beasts, birds, fire, air, and land. Matter the wicked’st offspring of thy race,By Form assisted, flew from thy embrace,And rebel Light obscured thy reverend dusky face. With Form and Matter, Time and Place did join;Body, thy foe, with these did leagues combineTo spoil thy peaceful realm, and ruin all thy line; But turncoat Time assists the foe in vain,And bribed by thee, destroys their short-lived reign,And to thy hungry womb drives back thy slaves again. Though mysteries are barred from laic eyes,And the divine alone with warrant priesInto thy bosom, where truth in private lies, Yet this of thee the wise may truly say,Thou from the virtuous nothing dost delay,And to be part with thee the wicked wisely pray. Great Negative, how vainly would the wiseInquire, define, distinguish, teach, devise,Didst thou not stand to point their blind philosophies! Is, or Is Not, the two great ends of Fate,And True or False, the subject of debate,That perfect or destroy the vast designs of state— When they have racked the politician’s breast,Within thy Bosom most securely rest,And when reduced to thee, are least unsafe and best. But Nothing, why does Something still permitThat sacred monarchs should at council sitWith persons highly thought at best for nothing fit, While weighty Something modestly abstainsFrom princes’ coffers, and from statemen’s brains,And Nothing there like stately Nothing reigns? Nothing! who dwell’st with fools in grave disguiseFor whom they reverend shapes and forms devise,Lawn sleeves, and furs, and gowns, when they like thee look wise: French truth, Dutch prowess, British policy,Hibernian learning, Scotch civility,Spaniards’ dispatch, Danes’ wit are mainly seen in thee. The great man’s gratitude to his best friend,Kings’ promises, whores’ vows—towards thee may bend,Flow swiftly into thee, and in thee ever end.

Upon Nothing by John Wilmot Earl of Rochester

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman THE HOLLOW MENby T. S. EliotMistah Kurtz-he dead.A penny for the Old GuyWe are the hollow menWe are the stuffed menLeaning togetherHeadpiece filled with straw. Alas!Our dried voices, when We whisper togetherAre quiet and meaninglessAs wind in dry grassOr rats' feet over broken glassIn our dry cellar Shape without form shade without colour,Paralyzed force, gesture without motion;Those who have crossedWith direct eyes to death's other KingdomRemember us--if at all-- not as lost Violent souls, but onlyAs the hollow menThe stuffed men.IIEyes I dare not meet in dreamsIn death's dream kingdom These do not appear:There the eyes areSunlight on a broken columnThere is a tree swingingAnd voices are In the wind's singingMore distant and more solemnThan a fading starLet me be no nearerIn death's dream kingdom Let me also wearSuch deliberate disguisesRat's coat, crowskin, crossed stavesIn a fieldBehaving as the wind behaves No nearer--Not that final meetingIn the twilight kingdom.IIIThis is the dead landthis is cactus land Here the stone imagesAre raised, here they receiveThe supplication of a dead man's handUnder the twinkle of a fading star.Is it like this In death's other kingdomWaking aloneAt the hour when we areTrembling with tendernessLips that would kiss Form prayers to broken stoneIVThe eyes are not hereThere are no eye hereIn this valley of dying starsIn this hollow valley This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms.In this last of meeting placesWe grope togetherAnd avoid speechGathered on this beach of the tumid river. Sightless, unlessThe eyes reappearAs the perpetual starMultifoliate roseOf death's twilight kingdom The hope onlyOf empty men.VHere we go round the prickly pearPrickly pear prickly pearHere we go round the prickly pear At five o'clock in the morning.Between the ideaAnd the realityBetween the motionAnd the act Falls the ShadowFor Thine is the KingdomBetween the conceptionAnd the creationBetween the emotion And the responseFalls the ShadowLife is very longBetween the desireAnd the spasm Between the potencyAnd the existenceBetween the essenceAnd the descentFalls the Shadow For Thine is the KingdomFor Thine isLife isFor thine is theThis is the way the way the world ends This is the way the way the world endsThis is the way the way the world endsNot with a bang but a whimper.

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman THE HOLLOW MEN by T. S. Eliot Mistah Kurtz-he dead. A penny for the Old GuyWe are the hollow men We are the stuffed men Leaning together Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!Our dried voices, when  We whisper together Are quiet and meaningless As wind in dry grass Or rats' feet over broken glass In our dry cellar  Shape without form shade without colour, Paralyzed force, gesture without motion;Those who have crossed With direct eyes to death's other Kingdom Remember us--if at all-- not as lost  Violent souls, but only As the hollow men The stuffed men.IIEyes I dare not meet in dreams In death's dream kingdom  These do not appear: There the eyes are Sunlight on a broken column There is a tree swingingAnd voices are  In the wind's singing More distant and more solemn Than a fading star Let me be no nearer In death's dream kingdom  Let me also wear Such deliberate disguises Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves In a field Behaving as the wind behaves  No nearer--Not that final meeting In the twilight kingdom.IIIThis is the dead land this is cactus land  Here the stone images Are raised, here they receive The supplication of a dead man's hand Under the twinkle of a fading star.Is it like this  In death's other kingdom Waking alone At the hour when we are Trembling with tenderness Lips that would kiss  Form prayers to broken stoneIVThe eyes are not here There are no eye here In this valley of dying stars In this hollow valley  This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms.In this last of meeting places We grope together And avoid speech Gathered on this beach of the tumid river. Sightless, unless The eyes reappear As the perpetual star Multifoliate rose Of death's twilight kingdom  The hope only Of empty men.VHere we go round the prickly pear Prickly pear prickly pear Here we go round the prickly pear  At five o'clock in the morning.Between the idea And the reality Between the motion And the act  Falls the Shadow For Thine is the KingdomBetween the conception And the creation Between the emotion  And the response Falls the Shadow Life is very longBetween the desire And the spasm  Between the potency And the existence Between the essence And the descent Falls the Shadow  For Thine is the KingdomFor Thine is Life is For thine is theThis is the way the way the world ends  This is the way the way the world ends This is the way the way the world ends Not with a bang but a whimper.

The Hollow Men by T.S. Eliot

As One Listens to the Rain by Octavio Paz

Emily Dickinson

I Felt A Funeral, in My Brain by Emily Dickinson

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman The Laughing Heart by Charles Bukowskiyour life is your lifedon’t let it be clubbed into dank submission.be on the watch.there are ways out.there is light somewhere.it may not be much light butit beats the darkness.be on the watch.the gods will offer you chances.know them.take them.you can’t beat death butyou can beat death in life, sometimes.and the more often you learn to do it,the more light there will be.your life is your life.know it while you have it.you are marvelousthe gods wait to delightin you.

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman <h3>The Laughing Heart by Charles Bukowski</h3>your life is your life don’t let it be clubbed into dank submission. be on the watch. there are ways out. there is light somewhere. it may not be much light but it beats the darkness. be on the watch. the gods will offer you chances. know them. take them. you can’t beat death but you can beat death in life, sometimes. and the more often you learn to do it, the more light there will be. your life is your life. know it while you have it. you are marvelous the gods wait to delight in you.

The Laughing Heart by Charles Bukowski

One Art By Elizabeth Bishop

Wallace Stevens

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman   The Auroras of Autumnby Wallace StevensIThis is where the serpent lives, the bodiless.His head is air. Beneath his tip at nightEyes open and fix on us in every sky.Or is this another wriggling out of the egg,Another image at the end of the cave,Another bodiless for the body's slough?This is where the serpent lives. This is his nest,These fields, these hills, these tinted distances,And the pines above and along and beside the sea.This is form gulping after formlessness,Skin flashing to wished-for disappearancesAnd the serpent body flashing without the skin.This is the height emerging and its baseThese lights may finally attain a poleIn the midmost midnight and find the serpent there,In another nest, the master of the mazeOf body and air and forms and images,Relentlessly in possession of happiness.This is his poison: that we should disbelieveEven that. His meditations in the ferns,When he moved so slightly to make sure of sun,Made us no less as sure. We saw in his head,Black beaded on the rock, the flecked animal,The moving grass, the Indian in his glade.IIFarewell to an idea . . . A cabin stands,Deserted, on a beach. It is white,As by a custom or according toAn ancestral theme or as a consequenceOf an infinite course. The flowers against the wallAre white, a little dried, a kind of markReminding, trying to remind, of a whiteThat was different, something else, last yearOr before, not the white of an aging afternoon,Whether fresher or duller, whether of winter cloudOr of winter sky, from horizon to horizon.The wind is blowing the sand across the floor.Here, being visible is being white,Is being of the solid of white, the accomplishmentOf an extremist in an exercise . . .The season changes. A cold wind chills the beach.The long lines of it grow longer, emptier,A darkness gathers though it does not fallAnd the whiteness grows less vivid on the wall.The man who is walking turns blankly on the sand.He observes how the north is always enlarging the change,With its frigid brilliances, its blue-red sweepsAnd gusts of great enkindlings, its polar green,The color of ice and fire and solitude.IIIFarewell to an idea . . . The mother's face,The purpose of the poem, fills the room.They are together, here, and it is warm,With none of the prescience of oncoming dreams.It is evening. The house is evening, half dissolved.Only the half they can never possess remains,Still-starred. It is the mother they possess,Who gives transparence to their present peace.She makes that gentler that can gentle be.And yet she too is dissolved, she is destroyed.She gives transparence. But she has grown old.The necklace is a carving not a kiss.The soft hands are a motion not a touch.The house will crumble and the books will burn.They are at ease in a shelter of the mindAnd the house is of the mind and they and time,Together, all together. Boreal nightWill look like frost as it approaches themAnd to the mother as she falls asleepAnd as they say good-night, good-night. UpstairsThe windows will be lighted, not the rooms.A wind will spread its windy grandeurs roundAnd knock like a rifle-butt against the door.The wind will command them with invincible sound.IVFarewell to an idea . . . The cancellings,The negations are never final. The father sitsIn space, wherever he sits, of bleak regard,As one that is strong in the bushes of his eyes.He says no to no and yes to yes. He says yesTo no; and in saying yes he says farewell.He measures the velocities of change.He leaps from heaven to heaven more rapidlyThan bad angels leap from heaven to hell in flam es.But now he sits in quiet and green-a-day.He assumes the great speeds of space and flutters themFrom cloud to cloudless, cloudless to keen clearIn flights of eye and ear, the highest eyeAnd the lowest ear, the deep ear that discerns,At evening, things that attend it until it hearsThe supernatural preludes of its own,At the moment when the angelic eye definesIts actors approaching, in company, in their masks.Master O master seated by the fireAnd yet in space and motionless and yetOf motion the ever-brightening origin,Profound, and yet the king and yet the crown,Look at this present throne. What company,In masks, can choir it with the naked wind?

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman The Auroras of Autumnby Wallace StevensIThis is where the serpent lives, the bodiless.His head is air. Beneath his tip at nightEyes open and fix on us in every sky.Or is this another wriggling out of the egg,Another image at the end of the cave,Another bodiless for the body's slough?This is where the serpent lives. This is his nest,These fields, these hills, these tinted distances,And the pines above and along and beside the sea.This is form gulping after formlessness,Skin flashing to wished-for disappearancesAnd the serpent body flashing without the skin.This is the height emerging and its baseThese lights may finally attain a poleIn the midmost midnight and find the serpent there,In another nest, the master of the mazeOf body and air and forms and images,Relentlessly in possession of happiness.This is his poison: that we should disbelieveEven that. His meditations in the ferns,When he moved so slightly to make sure of sun,Made us no less as sure. We saw in his head,Black beaded on the rock, the flecked animal,The moving grass, the Indian in his glade.IIFarewell to an idea . . . A cabin stands,Deserted, on a beach. It is white,As by a custom or according toAn ancestral theme or as a consequenceOf an infinite course. The flowers against the wallAre white, a little dried, a kind of markReminding, trying to remind, of a whiteThat was different, something else, last yearOr before, not the white of an aging afternoon,Whether fresher or duller, whether of winter cloudOr of winter sky, from horizon to horizon.The wind is blowing the sand across the floor.Here, being visible is being white,Is being of the solid of white, the accomplishmentOf an extremist in an exercise . . .The season changes. A cold wind chills the beach.The long lines of it grow longer, emptier,A darkness gathers though it does not fallAnd the whiteness grows less vivid on the wall.The man who is walking turns blankly on the sand.He observes how the north is always enlarging the change,With its frigid brilliances, its blue-red sweepsAnd gusts of great enkindlings, its polar green,The color of ice and fire and solitude.IIIFarewell to an idea . . . The mother's face,The purpose of the poem, fills the room.They are together, here, and it is warm,With none of the prescience of oncoming dreams.It is evening. The house is evening, half dissolved.Only the half they can never possess remains,Still-starred. It is the mother they possess,Who gives transparence to their present peace.She makes that gentler that can gentle be.And yet she too is dissolved, she is destroyed.She gives transparence. But she has grown old.The necklace is a carving not a kiss.The soft hands are a motion not a touch.The house will crumble and the books will burn.They are at ease in a shelter of the mindAnd the house is of the mind and they and time,Together, all together. Boreal nightWill look like frost as it approaches themAnd to the mother as she falls asleepAnd as they say good-night, good-night. UpstairsThe windows will be lighted, not the rooms.A wind will spread its windy grandeurs roundAnd knock like a rifle-butt against the door.The wind will command them with invincible sound.IVFarewell to an idea . . . The cancellings,The negations are never final. The father sitsIn space, wherever he sits, of bleak regard,As one that is strong in the bushes of his eyes.He says no to no and yes to yes. He says yesTo no; and in saying yes he says farewell.He measures the velocities of change.He leaps from heaven to heaven more rapidlyThan bad angels leap from heaven to hell in flam es.But now he sits in quiet and green-a-day.He assumes the great speeds of space and flutters themFrom cloud to cloudless, cloudless to keen clearIn flights of eye and ear, the highest eyeAnd the lowest ear, the deep ear that discerns,At evening, things that attend it until it hearsThe supernatural preludes of its own,At the moment when the angelic eye definesIts actors approaching, in company, in their masks.Master O master seated by the fireAnd yet in space and motionless and yetOf motion the ever-brightening origin,Profound, and yet the king and yet the crown,Look at this present throne. What company,In masks, can choir it with the naked wind?

The Auroras of Autumn (Canto 1-4) by Wallace Stevens

Delmore Schwartz

Production and Sound Design by Kevin SeamanAll Night, All Nightby Delmore SchwartzRode in the train all night, in the sick light. A birdFlew parallel with a singular will. In daydream's moods andattitudesThe other passengers slumped, dozed, slept, read,Waiting, and waiting for place to be displacedOn the exact track of safety or the rack of accident. Looked out at the night, unable to distinguishLights in the towns of passage from the yellow lightsNumb on the ceiling. And the bird flew parallel and stillAs the train shot forth the straight line of its whistle,Forward on the taut tracks, piercing empty, familiar -- The bored center of this vision and condition looked andlookedDown through the slick pages of the magazine (seekingThe seen and the unseen) and his gaze fell down the wellOf the great darkness under the slick glitter,And he was only one among eight million riders andreaders. And all the while under his empty smile the shaking drumOf the long determined passage passed through himBy his body mimicked and echoed. And then the trainLike a suddenly storming rain, began to rush and thresh--The silent or passive night, pressing and impressingThe patients' foreheads with a tightening-like imageOf the rushing engine proceeded by a shaft of lightPiercing the dark, changing and transforming the silenceInto a violence of foam, sound, smoke and succession. A bored child went to get a cup of water,And crushed the cup because the water too wasBoring and merely boredom's struggle.The child, returning, looked over the shoulderOf a man reading until he annoyed the shoulder.A fat woman yawned and felt the liquid dropsDrip down the fleece of many dinners. And the bird flew parallel and parallel flewThe black pencil lines of telephone posts, crucified,At regular intervals, post after postOf thrice crossed, blue-belled, anonymous trees. And then the bird cried as if to all of us: 0 your life, your lonely lifeWhat have you ever done with it,And done with the great gift of consciousness?What will you ever do with your life before death'sknifeProvides the answer ultimate and appropriate? As I for my part felt in my heart as one who falls,Falls in a parachute, falls endlessly, and feel the vastDraft of the abyss sucking him down and down,An endlessly helplessly falling and appalled clown: This is the way that night passes by, thisIs the overnight endless trip to the famous unfathomableabyss.

Production and Sound Design by Kevin SeamanAll Night, All Nightby Delmore SchwartzRode in the train all night, in the sick light. A birdFlew parallel with a singular will. In daydream's moods andattitudesThe other passengers slumped, dozed, slept, read,Waiting, and waiting for place to be displacedOn the exact track of safety or the rack of accident. Looked out at the night, unable to distinguishLights in the towns of passage from the yellow lightsNumb on the ceiling. And the bird flew parallel and stillAs the train shot forth the straight line of its whistle,Forward on the taut tracks, piercing empty, familiar -- The bored center of this vision and condition looked andlookedDown through the slick pages of the magazine (seekingThe seen and the unseen) and his gaze fell down the wellOf the great darkness under the slick glitter,And he was only one among eight million riders andreaders. And all the while under his empty smile the shaking drumOf the long determined passage passed through himBy his body mimicked and echoed. And then the trainLike a suddenly storming rain, began to rush and thresh--The silent or passive night, pressing and impressingThe patients' foreheads with a tightening-like imageOf the rushing engine proceeded by a shaft of lightPiercing the dark, changing and transforming the silenceInto a violence of foam, sound, smoke and succession. A bored child went to get a cup of water,And crushed the cup because the water too wasBoring and merely boredom's struggle.The child, returning, looked over the shoulderOf a man reading until he annoyed the shoulder.A fat woman yawned and felt the liquid dropsDrip down the fleece of many dinners. And the bird flew parallel and parallel flewThe black pencil lines of telephone posts, crucified,At regular intervals, post after postOf thrice crossed, blue-belled, anonymous trees. And then the bird cried as if to all of us: 0 your life, your lonely lifeWhat have you ever done with it,And done with the great gift of consciousness?What will you ever do with your life before death'sknifeProvides the answer ultimate and appropriate? As I for my part felt in my heart as one who falls,Falls in a parachute, falls endlessly, and feel the vastDraft of the abyss sucking him down and down,An endlessly helplessly falling and appalled clown: This is the way that night passes by, thisIs the overnight endless trip to the famous unfathomableabyss.

All Night, All Night by Delmore Schwartz

The best podcast episodes on non-current politics. Covering topics such as universal basic income, democracy, poverty & justice and more. For anyone interested in learning more about politics that affect that world, not just now, but in the longer term. Add episodes you're interested into your queue below!

OwlTail

Roger Ailes started Fox News and is described by many as one of the main drivers of the polarisation of US politics. 
If you don't know about Ailie you should. A great place to start is the ShowTime miniseries "The Loudest Voice". 
This interview is with Joe Lindsley who worked directly for Ailes for 2 years. 
"Very earlier on, Roger called me Ailes Junior. He told my dad, 'I've never met anyone more like me than Joe.'" As the protégé of Fox News chairman Roger Ailes, Joe Lindsley was closer to the man who built Fox News than any Fox executive.
Lindsley recounts how Ailes would routinely ask him to change media coverage of stories based on 'who is good and bad' and how Ailes said 'there is no such thing as truth'. 
This interview corroborates much of the TV miniseries "The Loudest Voice".

A 1st hand account of Roger Ailes

"Very earlier on, Roger called me Ailes Junior. He told my dad, 'I've never met anyone more like me than Joe.'" As the protégé of Fox News chairman Roger Ailes, Joe Lindsley was closer to the man who built Fox News than any Fox executive. He helped write Ailes' speeches, sat next to him at executive meetings, and went to church with his family on Sundays. What moved the ambitious twenty-something to abandon the conservative media titan? For a deeper dive into his epic odyssey, check out Joe's memoir — Fake News / True Story: www.inkshares.com/books/fake-news-true-story

Reckonings

"Very earlier on, Roger called me Ailes Junior. He told my dad, 'I've never met anyone more like me than Joe.'" As the protégé of Fox News chairman Roger Ailes, Joe Lindsley was closer to the man who built Fox News than any Fox executive. He helped write Ailes' speeches, sat next to him at executive meetings, and went to church with his family on Sundays. What moved the ambitious twenty-something to abandon the conservative media titan? For a deeper dive into his epic odyssey, check out Joe's memoir — Fake News / True Story: <a href="https://gate.sc/?url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.inkshares.com%2Fbooks%2Ffake-news-true-story&amp;token=d4a977-1-1558671273247" rel="nofollow noopener" target="_blank">www.inkshares.com/books/fake-news-true-story</a>

#18 || The defection of a Roger Ailes warrior

Former British Prime Minister Tony Blair sits down with Glenn Thrush in London to discuss the relationship between American and British politics, his close relationship with the Clintons, Brexit, and the danger of approaching politics with a closed-mind.

POLITICO's Off Message

Former British Prime Minister Tony Blair sits down with Glenn Thrush in London to discuss the relationship between American and British politics, his close relationship with the Clintons, Brexit, and the danger of approaching politics with a closed-mind.

Tony Blair: Centrism may be dead

Best Non-Current Politics Podcasts

The best podcast episodes on global issues affecting everyone. Covering topics such as the #metoo movement, climate change, the impact of technology and some of the biggest global issues facing us right now. For anyone interested in learning more about the world, and some of the issues we're facing, pick an episode below and start listening! Add episodes you're interested into your queue below!

Elizabeth Kolbert covers climate change for the New Yorker. She's the Pulitzer prize-winning author of The Sixth Extinction. And she recently wrote a paragraph I can't stop thinking about. "The problem with global warming—and the reason it continues to resist illustration, even as the streets flood and the forests die and the mussels rot on the shores—is that experience is an inadequate guide to what’s going on. The climate operates on a time delay. When carbon dioxide is added to the atmosphere, it takes decades—in a technical sense, millennia—for the earth to equilibrate. This summer’s fish kill was a product of warming that had become inevitable twenty or thirty years ago, and the warming that’s being locked in today won’t be fully felt until today’s toddlers reach middle age. In effect, we are living in the climate of the past, but already we’ve determined the climate’s future."Kolbert lives, to an unusual degree, in the planet's future. She travels to the places around the world where the climate of tomorrow is visible today. She has watched glaciers melting, and seen species dying. And she is able to convey both the science and the cost with a rare lucidity. Talking with Kolbert left me with an unnerving thought. We look back on past eras in human history and judge them morally failed. We think of the Spanish Inquisition or the Mongol hordes and believe ourselves civilized, rational, moral in a way our ancestors weren't. But if the science is right, and we do unto our descendants what the data says we are doing to them, we will be judged monsters. And it will be all the worse because we knew what we were doing and we knew how to stop, but we decided it was easier to disbelieve the science or ignore the consequences. Kolbert and I talk about the consequences, but also about what would be necessary to stabilize the climate and back off the mass extinction event that is currently underway. We discuss geoengineering, political will, the environmental cost of meat, and what individuals can and can't do. We talk about Trump's cabinet, about whether technological innovation will save us, and if pricing carbon is enough. We talk about whether hope remains a realistic emotion when it comes to our environmental future.Books:-Edward Abbe’s “Desert Solitaire”-Rachel Carson’s “Silent Spring”-David G. Haskell’s “The Forest Unseen”-Bill McKibben’s “The End of Nature” Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Vox Conversations

Elizabeth Kolbert covers climate change for the New Yorker. She's the Pulitzer prize-winning author of The Sixth Extinction. And she recently wrote a paragraph I can't stop thinking about. "The problem with global warming—and the reason it continues to resist illustration, even as the streets flood and the forests die and the mussels rot on the shores—is that experience is an inadequate guide to what’s going on. The climate operates on a time delay. When carbon dioxide is added to the atmosphere, it takes decades—in a technical sense, millennia—for the earth to equilibrate. This summer’s fish kill was a product of warming that had become inevitable twenty or thirty years ago, and the warming that’s being locked in today won’t be fully felt until today’s toddlers reach middle age. In effect, we are living in the climate of the past, but already we’ve determined the climate’s future."Kolbert lives, to an unusual degree, in the planet's future. She travels to the places around the world where the climate of tomorrow is visible today. She has watched glaciers melting, and seen species dying. And she is able to convey both the science and the cost with a rare lucidity. Talking with Kolbert left me with an unnerving thought. We look back on past eras in human history and judge them morally failed. We think of the Spanish Inquisition or the Mongol hordes and believe ourselves civilized, rational, moral in a way our ancestors weren't. But if the science is right, and we do unto our descendants what the data says we are doing to them, we will be judged monsters. And it will be all the worse because we knew what we were doing and we knew how to stop, but we decided it was easier to disbelieve the science or ignore the consequences. Kolbert and I talk about the consequences, but also about what would be necessary to stabilize the climate and back off the mass extinction event that is currently underway. We discuss geoengineering, political will, the environmental cost of meat, and what individuals can and can't do. We talk about Trump's cabinet, about whether technological innovation will save us, and if pricing carbon is enough. We talk about whether hope remains a realistic emotion when it comes to our environmental future.Books:-Edward Abbe’s “Desert Solitaire”-Rachel Carson’s “Silent Spring”-David G. Haskell’s “The Forest Unseen”-Bill McKibben’s “The End of Nature” Learn more about your ad choices. Visit <a href="https://megaphone.fm/adchoices" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">megaphone.fm/adchoices</a>

Elizabeth Kolbert: We have locked in centuries of climate change

Jordan Peterson and Joe Rogan delve deep on free speech for 3 hours! Somehow it gets more interesting through the episode, not less! Hear why often it's best to "be tolerant of the intolerable".
Canada tried to pass laws compelling people to use pronouns like zi and zur. Should you be compelled to call someone a certain pronoun? Jordan Peterson pushed back saying he had no problems using pronouns like zi and zur for people who have non-traditional genders, but that he had a problem being compelled by law to use certain pronouns. 
"I disapprove of what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it." Voltaire. 
We have gone from homosexuality being illegal in most of the west 60 years ago to same sex marriage being legal today. "Free speech is the master value because it is the value which allows us to update all other values." Sam Harris.

Free speech, only a small topic!

Jordan Peterson is a clinical psychologist and tenured professor of psychology at the University of Toronto. https://www.youtube.com/user/JordanPetersonVideos  100% off the Future Authoring Program code: "ChangeYourself" - The offer is valid until the end of Nov 30th.

The Joe Rogan Experience

Jordan Peterson is a clinical psychologist and tenured professor of psychology at the University of Toronto. <a href="https://www.youtube.com/user/JordanPetersonVideos" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">https://www.youtube.com/user/JordanPetersonVideos</a> 100% off the Future Authoring Program code: "ChangeYourself" - The offer is valid until the end of Nov 30th.

Words in the Air

Weekly hand curated podcast episodes for learning