Are you a fan of Lovecraft’s stories but maybe not his poetry? I thought that was the case with me until listening to H.P. Lovecraft’s Fungi from Yuggoth and other Poems. Magnificently read by Will Hart with music by Graham Plowman, the experience was head and shoulders above merely reading the poems. I have already listened to most of the tracks more than once.
Visit CthulhuWho1’s Blog for more information and various links including a lengthy sample on YouTube.
In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud,
It perched for vespers nine;
Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white,
Glimmered the white Moon-shine.
From “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner” by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Illustration “The Albatross” by Gustave Doré (1876 edition)
Samuel Taylor Coleridge was born on October 21, 1772. “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner” gave us this familiar quote:
Water, water, every where,
Nor any drop to drink.
The beautifully illustrated edition may be read free online or downloaded from The University of Adelaide. Plain text is available from Project Gutenberg which also has two audio versions.
Nine fathom deep he had followed us
Edna St. Vincent Millay
February 22, 1892 – October 19, 1950
The railroad track is miles away,
And the day is loud with voices speaking,
Yet there isn’t a train goes by all day
But I hear its whistle shrieking.
All night there isn’t a train goes by,
Though the night is still for sleep and dreaming
But I see its cinders red on the sky,
And hear its engine steaming.
My heart is warm with the friends I make,
And better friends I’ll not be knowing,
Yet there isn’t a train I wouldn’t take,
No matter where it’s going.
* * * * *
Travel is included in Second April.
It is National Poetry Day in the UK and Ireland. I just found out that each year is themed. The theme for 2014 is Remember.
For a Monument at Silbury-Hill by Robert Southey
This mound in some remote and dateless day
Rear’d o’er a Chieftain of the Age of Hills,
May here detain thee Traveller! from thy road
Not idly lingering. In his narrow house
Some Warrior sleeps below: his gallant deeds
Haply at many a solemn festival
The Bard has harp’d, but perish’d is the song
Of praise, as o’er these bleak and barren downs
The wind that passes and is heard no more.
Go Traveller on thy way, and contemplate
Glory’s brief pageant, and remember then
That one good deed was never wrought in vain.
Autumn by Emily Dickinson
The morns are meeker than they were,
The nuts are getting brown;
The berry’s cheek is plumper,
The rose is out of town.
The maple wears a gayer scarf,
The field a scarlet gown.
Lest I should be old-fashioned,
I’ll put a trinket on.