This would be in my top ten...
https://soundcloud.com/ludifex/sets/ale ... waste-land
Favourite Readings
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Antcliff
- Perspicacious Poster
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- Location: At the end of stanza 3
I very recently discovered these reading from In Parenthesis by the author himself. They are down the page on this blog. https://bebrowed.wordpress.com/2014/02/ ... renthesis/
We fray into the future, rarely wrought
Save in the tapestries of afterthought.
Richard Wilbur
Save in the tapestries of afterthought.
Richard Wilbur
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bodkin
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- Location: Two inches behind my eyes just above the bridge of my nose.
Just listening. I wouldn't have said I knew Prufrock at all memorised, but I do generally know what's coming next. And I wouldn't have imagined I had the TSE performance especially stored in my head, but I am noting each bit that JI delivers differently.
http://www.ianbadcoe.uk/
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bodkin
- Perspicacious Poster
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- Location: Two inches behind my eyes just above the bridge of my nose.
If I have a critique of TSE, it is that he does throw a too obvious rhyme in fairly regularly "is it"/"visit" etc etc...
http://www.ianbadcoe.uk/
Not sure if this sonnet actually works anymore with our increased understanding of fevers and the progress of scientific knowledge. Fevers are a sign that our body is fighting a disease. Maybe even the great Shakespeare was fallible. Is this possible or am I misreading the poem?
Cheers,
Tristan
SONNET 147
My love is as a fever, longing still
For that which longer nurseth the disease,
Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,
The uncertain sickly appetite to please.
My reason, the physician to my love,
Angry that his prescriptions are not kept,
Hath left me, and I desperate now approve
Desire is death, which physic did except.
Past cure I am, now reason is past care,
And frantic-mad with evermore unrest;
My thoughts and my discourse as madmen's are,
At random from the truth vainly express'd;
For I have sworn thee fair and thought thee bright,
Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.
Cheers,
Tristan
SONNET 147
My love is as a fever, longing still
For that which longer nurseth the disease,
Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,
The uncertain sickly appetite to please.
My reason, the physician to my love,
Angry that his prescriptions are not kept,
Hath left me, and I desperate now approve
Desire is death, which physic did except.
Past cure I am, now reason is past care,
And frantic-mad with evermore unrest;
My thoughts and my discourse as madmen's are,
At random from the truth vainly express'd;
For I have sworn thee fair and thought thee bright,
Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.
