Tag Archives: poetry

Robert Burns Reads To A Mouse

Almost frightening.



Reverie In Open Air by Rita Dove

Reverie in Open Air

By Rita Dove

I acknowledge my status as a stranger:
Inappropriate clothes, odd habits
Out of sync with wasp and wren.
I admit I don’t know how
To sit still or move without purpose.
I prefer books to moonlight, statuary to trees.

But this lawn has been leveled for looking,
So I kick off my sandals and walk its cool green.
Who claims we’re mere muscle and fluids?
My feet are the primitives here.
As for the rest—ah, the air now
Is a tonic of absence, bearing nothing
But news of a breeze.

This Living Hand Now Warm and Capable by John Keats

The above recording was recorded to celebrate Halloween this year. It is the anniversary of John Keats birth. A man that only lived to 25. Think of all the other poems he could have written. Anyway, as to not make you more sad, I will not comment any further on that detail. The poem’s words are below. Also, there are plenty of other poems I could have read for Halloween. Click here to check out a collection of “Halloween Poems” put together by the poetry foundation. There are also other John Keats poems that could put you in a spooky mood such as this one, Tis the Witching Time of Night.

“This living hand, now warm and capable”


This living hand, now warm and capable

Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold

And in the icy silence of the tomb,

So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights

That thou would wish thine own heart dry of blood

So in my veins red life might stream again,

And thou be conscience-calm’d–see here it is–

I hold it towards you.

Ode to The Republic by Tony Hoagland

click here for to read a different version as published in New Ohio Review.

The version I read was as published in Tony’s collection Application for Release From the Dream published by Graywolf Press. You can buy an ebook via Amazon and Google Play Books. Or check for it at a local or independent book store.

A Barred Owl by Richard Wilbur

Please take a moment to relax, close your eyes, and listen to a reading of a fine poem. Okay, you don’t have to close your eyes.

A Barred Owl

By Richard Wilbur

The warping night air having brought the boom
Of an owl’s voice into her darkened room,
We tell the wakened child that all she heard
Was an odd question from a forest bird,
Asking of us, if rightly listened to,
“Who cooks for you?” and then “Who cooks for you?”

Words, which can make our terrors bravely clear,
Can also thus domesticate a fear,
And send a small child back to sleep at night
Not listening for the sound of stealthy flight
Or dreaming of some small thing in a claw
Borne up to some dark branch and eaten raw.