Bill Clinton reads Concord Hymn, by Ralph Waldo Emerson

Bill Clinton

Lisa Mickey reads Death of a Naturalist, by Seamus Heaney

Lisa Mickey

Yina Liang reads I'm nobody! Who are you? by Emily Dickinson

Yina Liang

Alexander Scherr reads At the Fishouses, by Elizabeth Bishop

Although it is a cold evening,
down by one of the fishhouses
an old man sits netting,
his net, in the gloaming almost invisible,
a dark purple-brown,
and his shuttle worn and polished.
The air smells so strong of codfish
it makes one’s nose run and one’s eyes water.
The five fishhouses have steeply peaked roofs
and narrow, cleated gangplanks slant up
to storerooms in the gables
for the wheelbarrows to be pushed up and down on.
All is silver: the heavy surface of the sea,
swelling slowly as if considering spilling over,
is opaque, but the silver of the benches,
the lobster pots, and masts, scattered
among the wild jagged rocks,
is of an apparent translucence
like the small old buildings with an emerald moss
growing on their shoreward walls.
The big fish tubs are completely lined
with layers of beautiful herring scales
and the wheelbarrows are similarly plastered
with creamy iridescent coats of mail,
with small iridescent flies crawling on them.
Up on the little slope behind the houses,
set in the sparse bright sprinkle of grass,
is an ancient wooden capstan,
cracked, with two long bleached handles
and some melancholy stains, like dried blood,
where the ironwork has rusted.
The old man accepts a Lucky Strike.
He was a friend of my grandfather.
We talk of the decline in the population
and of codfish and herring
while he waits for a herring boat to come in.
There are sequins on his vest and on his thumb.
He has scraped the scales, the principal beauty,
from unnumbered fish with that black old knife,
the blade of which is almost worn away.

Down at the water’s edge, at the place
where they haul up the boats, up the long ramp
descending into the water, thin silver
tree trunks are laid horizontally
across the gray stones, down and down
at intervals of four or five feet.

Cold dark deep and absolutely clear,
element bearable to no mortal,
to fish and to seals . . . One seal particularly
I have seen here evening after evening.
He was curious about me. He was interested in music;
like me a believer in total immersion,
so I used to sing him Baptist hymns.
I also sang “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God.”
He stood up in the water and regarded me
steadily, moving his head a little.
Then he would disappear, then suddenly emerge
almost in the same spot, with a sort of shrug
as if it were against his better judgment.
Cold dark deep and absolutely clear,
the clear gray icy water . . . Back, behind us,
the dignified tall firs begin.
Bluish, associating with their shadows,
a million Christmas trees stand
waiting for Christmas. The water seems suspended
above the rounded gray and blue-gray stones.
I have seen it over and over, the same sea, the same,
slightly, indifferently swinging above the stones,
icily free above the stones,
above the stones and then the world.
If you should dip your hand in,
your wrist would ache immediately,
your bones would begin to ache and your hand would burn
as if the water were a transmutation of fire
that feeds on stones and burns with a dark gray flame.
If you tasted it, it would first taste bitter,
then briny, then surely burn your tongue.
It is like what we imagine knowledge to be:
dark, salt, clear, moving, utterly free,
drawn from the cold hard mouth
of the world, derived from the rocky breasts
forever, flowing and drawn, and since
our knowledge is historical, flowing, and flown.

At the Fishhouses, by Elizabeth Bishop

William Van Fields reads My Papa's Waltz, by Theodore Roethke

The whiskey on your breath
Could make a small boy dizzy;
But I hung on like death:
Such waltzing was not easy.

We romped until the pans
Slid from the kitchen shelf;
My mother’s countenance
Could not unfrown itself.

The hand that held my wrist
Was battered on one knuckle;
At every step you missed
My right ear scraped a buckle.

You beat time on my head
With a palm caked hard by dirt,
Then waltzed me off to bed
Still clinging to your shirt.

My Papa's Waltz, by Theodore Roethke

Roger Smith reads The Improvement, by John Ashbery

Is that where it happens?
Only yesterday when I came back, I had this
diaphanous disaffection for this room, for spaces,
for the whole sky and whatever lies beyond.
I felt the eggplant, then the rhubarb.
Nothing seems strong enough for
this life to manage, that sees beyond
into particles forming some kind of entity—
so we get dressed kindly, crazy at the moment.
A life of afterwords begins.

We never live long enough in our lives
to know what today is like.
Shards, smiling beaches,
abandon us somehow even as we converse with them.
And the leopard is transparent, like iced tea.

I wake up, my face pressed
in the dewy mess of a dream. It mattered,
because of the dream, and because dreams are by nature sad
even when there's a lot of exclaiming and beating
as there was in this one. I want the openness
of the dream turned inside out, exploded
into pieces of meaning by its own unasked questions,
beyond the calculations of heaven. Then the larkspur
would don its own disproportionate weight,
and trees return to the starting gate.
See, our lips bend.

The Improvement, by John Ashbery

Naomi Beckwith reads The Children of the Poor, by Gwendolyn Brooks

Naomi Beckwith

Hana Bajramovic reads The Idea of Order at Key West, by Wallace Stevens

Hana Bajramovic

Tom Moran reads The Waking, by Theodore Roethke

Tom Moran

Enriqueta Cano reads Sonnet XVII, by Pablo Neruda

Pablo Neruda

Jessica Cotzin reads The Lost Pilot, by James Tate

Jessica Cotzin

Emilio Aponte-Sierra reads Traveler, There Is No Road, by Antonio Machado

Antonio Machado

John Ashbery: Demure on importance of his poetry

American poet John Ashbery talks to TIME about fame, poverty, art criticism and why he hates the sound of his own voice.

John Ashbery: Love for French writers and culture

The Poet's View offers unprecedented access into the life and work of some of America's finest poets. These films are warmly insightful portraits recorded in the personal setting of each poet's home and at various locations.

The series was produced by the Academy of American Poets with generous assistance from the Wallace Stevens Fund. The director/producer was Mel Stuart, whose credits include the original Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory and many critically acclaimed documentaries. 

The full series is available on DVD, and includes portraits of John Ashberry, Louise Gluck, Anthony Hecht, Kay Ryan, and W. S. Merwin.

John Ashbery: Hear and read it, to know his poetry

John Ashbery was born in 1927 in Rochester, New York, and grew up on a farm near Lake Ontario. He has authored more than thirty books of poetry, fiction, drama, and criticism, his work has been translated into more than twenty-five languages, and he has won numerous American literary awards for his poetry, including a MacArthur Fellowship, two Guggenheim Fellowships, and a National Humanities Medal. His book Self-Portrait in a Convex Mirror (1975) won the Pulitzer Prize, the National Book Critics Circle Award, and the National Book Award. For many years, Ashbery taught graduate and undergraduate poetry courses at Brooklyn College and Bard College, and his most recent book of poems is Quick Question, published in 2012.

Radio Panel on Yeats and Politics

Rónán McDonald on Yeats, Ireland and Modern World

Roy Foster on Yeats as the Arch Poet

Charles Bryant Recites The Cold Heaven

Suddenly I saw the cold and rook-delighting heaven
That seemed as though ice burned and was but the more ice,
And thereupon imagination and heart were driven
So wild that every casual thought of that and this
Vanished, and left but memories, that should be out of season
With the hot blood of youth, of love crossed long ago;
And I took all the blame out of all sense and reason,
Until I cried and trembled and rocked to and fro,
Riddled with light. Ah! when the ghost begins to quicken,
Confusion of the death-bed over, is it sent
Out naked on the roads, as the books say, and stricken
By the injustice of the skies for punishment?

The Cold Heaven, by William Butler Yeats

WB Yeats Introduces and Recites his Poetry

Yeats made these recordings for the wireless in 1932, 1934 and the last on 28 October 1937 when he was 72. He died on January 28 1939. The photograph shows him sitting before the microphone in 1937.

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

The Lake Isle of Innisfree, by William Butler Yeats

WB Yeats Recites The Lake Isle of Innisfree

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

The Lake Isle of Innisfree, by William Butler Yeats

Lady, weeping at the crossroads {9}

"promise broken," by painting by Kris Lewis

Put your hand behind the wainscot,
You have done your part;
Find the penknife there and plunge it
Into your false heart.

~WH Auden
from "Lady, weeping at the crossroads"

Lady, weeping at the crossroads {8}

"the black gold futures," painting by Kris Lewis

Cross the silent ballroom,
Doubt and danger past;
Blow the cobwebs from the mirror
See yourself at last.

~WH Auden
from "Lady, weeping at the crossroads"

Lady, weeping at the crossroads {7}

"angeles forest," painting by Kris Lewis

There stands the deserted castle
Ready to explore;
Enter, climb the marble staircase,
Open the locked door.

~WH Auden
from "Lady, weeping at the crossroads"

Lady, weeping at the crossroads {6}

"feathers," painting by Kris Lewis

Push on to the world's end, pay the
Dread guard with a kiss,
Cross the rotten bridge that totters
Over the abyss.

~WH Auden
from "Lady, weeping at the crossroads"

Lady, weeping at the crossroads {5}

"lake," painting by Kris Lewis

Wear out patience in the lowest
Dungeons of the sea,
Searching through the stranded shipwrecks
For the golden key.

WH Auden
from "Lady, weeping at the crossroads"

Lady, weeping at the crossroads {4}

"fighting the tides," painting by Kris Lewis

Run until you hear the ocean's
Everlasting cry;
Deep though it may be and bitter
You must drink it dry.

WH Auden
from "Lady, weeping at the crossroads"

Lady, weeping at the crossroads {3}

"winterlast," painting by Kris Lewis

Starless are the nights of travel,
Bleak the winter wind;
Run with terror all before you
And regret behind.

WH Auden
from "Lady, weeping at the crossroads"

Lady, weeping at the crossroads {2}

"lifeboat," painting by Kris Lewis

Bribe the birds then on the branches,
Bribe them to be dumb,
Stare the hot sun out of heaven
That the night may come.

WH Auden
from "Lady, weeping at the crossroads"

Lady, weeping at the crossroads {1}

"rose," painting by Kris Lewis

Lady, weeping at the crossroads,
Would you meet your love
In the twilight with his greyhounds,
And the hawk on his glove?

by WH Auden
from "Lady, weeping at the crossroads"

Tom O'Bedlam Recites Wild Swans at Coole

The trees are in their autumn beauty,
The woodland paths are dry,
Under the October twilight the water
Mirrors a still sky;
Upon the brimming water among the stones
Are nine-and-fifty swans.

The nineteenth autumn has come upon me
Since I first made my count;
I saw, before I had well finished,
All suddenly mount
And scatter wheeling in great broken rings
Upon their clamorous wings.

I have looked upon those brilliant creatures,
And now my heart is sore.
All's changed since I, hearing at twilight,
The first time on this shore,
The bell-beat of their wings above my head,
Trod with a lighter tread.

Unwearied still, lover by lover,
They paddle in the cold
Companionable streams or climb the air;
Their hearts have not grown old;
Passion or conquest, wander where they will,
Attend upon them still.

But now they drift on the still water,
Mysterious, beautiful;
Among what rushes will they build,
By what lake's edge or pool
Delight men's eyes when I awake some day
To find they have flown away?

Wild Swans at Coole, by William Butler Yeats

Dylan Thomas Recites Leda and the Swan

A sudden blow: the great wings beating still
Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed
By the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill,
He holds her helpless breast upon his breast.

How can those terrified vague fingers push
The feathered glory from her loosening thighs?
And how can body, laid in that white rush,
But feel the strange heart beating where it lies?

A shudder in the loins engenders there
The broken wall, the burning roof and tower
And Agamemnon dead.
                                        Being so caught up,
So mastered by the brute blood of the air,
Did she put on his knowledge with his power
Before the indifferent beak could let her drop?

Leda and the Swan, by WB Yeats

Dylan Thomas Recites The Long-Legged Fly

That civilization may not sink,
Its great battle lost,
Quiet the dog, tether the pony
To a distant post;
Our master Caesar is in the tent
Where the maps are spread,
His eyes fixed upon nothing,
A hand under his head.
Like a long-legged fly upon the stream
His mind moves upon silence.

That the topless towers be burnt
And men recall that face,
Move most gently if move you must
In this lonely place.
She thinks, part woman, three parts a child,
That nobody looks; her feet
Practise a tinker shuffle
Picked up on a street.
Like a long-legged fly upon the stream
Her mind moves upon silence.

That girls at puberty may find
The first Adam in their thought,
Shut the door of the Pope's chapel,
Keep those children out.
There on that scaffolding reclines
Michael Angelo.
With no more sound than the mice make
His hand moves to and fro.
Like a long-legged fly upon the stream
His mind moves upon silence.

The Long-Legged Fly,William Butler Yeats

What is poetry? a meta-rational musing

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It is the spirit of who we are and what things are, so the only way poetry is truly found in translation is when our souls speak to one another.

What is poetry? a non-rational flight

(image credit)

There is experience, there is emotion, there are symbolism and imagination in poetry.

What is poetry? a rational analogy

(image credit)

There is a mechanism and a procedure to poetry, so the poet constructs a poem accordingly.