The Meditation of the Old Fisherman

Listen to: 

The Meditation of the Old Fisherman (1:08)

by William Butler Yeats 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

You waves, though you dance by my feet like children at play,


Though you glow and you glance, though you purr and you dart;


In the Junes that were warmer than these are, the waves were more gay, 

When I was a boy with never a crack in my heart. 

The herring are not in the tides as they were of old; 

My sorrow! for many a creak gave the creel in the cart 

That carried the take to Sligo town to be sold,


When I was a boy with never a crack in my heart.

And ah, you proud maiden, you are not so fair when his oar 

Is heard on the water, as they were, the proud and apart, 

Who paced in the eve by the nets on the pebbly shore, 

When I was a boy with never a crack in my heart. 

Star-Swirls

Listen to: 

Star-Swirls (1:24)

by Robinson Jeffers 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

A Bard's Epitaph

Listen to: 

A Bard's Epitaph (1:43)

by Robert Burns 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

Is there a whim-inspired fool,


Owre* fast for thought, owre hot for rule,  *over (o’er)

Owre blate* to seek, owre proud to snool˚,  *timid     ˚cringe, cower

Let him draw near;


And owre this grassy heap sing dool*,    *grief

And drap a tear. 

Is there a bard of rustic song,


Who, noteless, steals the crowds among, 

That weekly this area throng,
O, pass not by! 

But, with a frater-feeling strong, 

Here, heave a sigh. 

Is there a man, whose judgment clear 

Can others teach the course to steer, 

Yet runs, himself, life's mad career, 

Wild as the wave, 

Here pause—and, thro' the starting tear, 

Survey this grave. 

The poor inhabitant below


Was quick to learn the wise to know, 

And keenly felt the friendly glow, 

And softer flame;


But thoughtless follies laid him low, 

And stain'd his name! 

Reader, attend! whether thy soul 

Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole, 

Or darkling grubs this earthly hole, 

In low pursuit:
Know, prudent, cautious, self-control 

Is wisdom's root. 

The Oven Bird

(Oven bird: Seiurus aurocapilla)

Listen to: 

The Oven Bird (:58)

by Robert Frost 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

There is a singer everyone has heard,

  Loud, a mid-summer and a mid-wood bird,

  Who makes the solid tree trunks sound again.

  He says that leaves are old and that for flowers

  Mid-summer is to spring as one to ten.

  He says the early petal-fall is past

  When pear and cherry bloom went down in showers

  On sunny days a moment overcast;

  And comes that other fall we name the fall.

  He says the highway dust is over all.

  The bird would cease and be as other birds

  But that he knows in singing not to sing.

  The question that he frames in all but words

  Is what to make of a diminished thing.

The God Called Poetry

Listen to: 

The God Called Poetry (3:16)

by Robert Graves 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

     Now I begin to know at last,

     These nights when I sit down to rhyme,

     The form and measure of that vast

     God we call Poetry, he who stoops

     And leaps me through his paper hoops

     A little higher every time.

     Tempts me to think I'll grow a proper

     Singing cricket or grass-hopper

     Making prodigious jumps in air

     While shaken crowds about me stare

     Aghast, and I sing, growing bolder

     To fly up on my master's shoulder

     Rustling the thick strands of his hair.

     He is older than the seas,

     Older than the plains and hills,

     And older than the light that spills

     From the sun's hot wheel on these.

     He wakes the gale that tears your trees,

     He sings to you from window sills.

     At you he roars, or he will coo,

     He shouts and screams when hell is hot,

     Riding on the shell and shot.

     He smites you down, he succours you,

     And where you seek him, he is not.

     To-day I see he has two heads

     Like Janus--calm, benignant, this;

     That, grim and scowling:  his beard spreads

     From chin to chin"  this god has power

     Immeasurable at every hour:

     He first taught lovers how to kiss,

     He brings down sunshine after shower,

     Thunder and hate are his also,

     He is YES and he is NO.

     The black beard spoke and said to me,

     "Human frailty though you be,

     Yet shout and crack your whip, be harsh!

     They'll obey you in the end:

     Hill and field, river and marsh

     Shall obey you, hop and skip

     At the terrour of your whip,

     To your gales of anger bend."

     The pale beard spoke and said in turn

     "True:  a prize goes to the stern,

     But sing and laugh and easily run

     Through the wide airs of my plain,

     Bathe in my waters, drink my sun,

     And draw my creatures with soft song;

     They shall follow you along

     Graciously with no doubt or pain."

     Then speaking from his double head

     The glorious fearful monster said

     "I am YES and I am NO,

     Black as pitch and white as snow,

     Love me, hate me, reconcile

     Hate with love, perfect with vile,

     So equal justice shall be done

     And life shared between moon and sun.

     Nature for you shall curse or smile:

     A poet you shall be, my son.

Wisdom

Listen to: 

Wisdom (:47)

by Sara Teasdale 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

  It was a night of early spring,

    The winter-sleep was scarcely broken;

  Around us shadows and the wind

    Listened for what was never spoken.

  Though half a score of years are gone,

    Spring comes as sharply now as then--

  But if we had it all to do

    It would be done the same again.

  It was a spring that never came;

    But we have lived enough to know

  That what we never have, remains;

    It is the things we have that go.

I Would I Were a Careless Child

Listen to: 

I Would I Were a Careless Child (3:22)

by George Gordon, Lord Byron 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

I would I were a careless child,


Still dwelling in my Highland cave,


Or roaming through the dusky wild,


Or bounding o’er the dark blue wave;


The cumbrous pomp of Saxon pride


Accords not with the freeborn soul,


Which loves the mountain’s craggy side,


And seeks the rocks where billows roll.

Fortune! take back these cultured lands,


Take back this name of splendid sound!


I hate the touch of servile hands,


I hate the slaves that cringe around.


Place me among the rocks I love,


Which sound to Ocean’s wildest roar;


I ask but this – again to rove


Through scenes my youth hath known before.


Few are my years, and yet I feel


The world was ne’er designed for me:


Ah! why do dark’ning shades conceal


The hour when man must cease to be?

Once I beheld a splendid dream,


A visionary scene of bliss:


Truth! – wherefore did thy hated beam


Awake me to a world like this?

I loved – but those I loved are gone;


Had friends – my early friends are fled:


How cheerless feels the heart alone,


When all its former hopes are dead!


Though gay companions o’er the bowl


Dispel awhile the sense of ill

’
Though pleasure stirs the maddening soul,


The heart – the heart – is lonely still.

How dull! to hear the voice of those


Whom rank or chance, whom wealth or power,


Have made, though neither friends nor foes,


Associates of the festive hour.


Give me again a faithful few,


In years and feelings still the same,

And I will fly the midnight crew,


Where boist’rous joy is but a name.

And woman, lovely woman! thou,


My hope, my comforter, my all!


How cold must be my bosom now,


When e’en thy smiles begin to pall!


Without a sigh would I resign


This busy scene of splendid woe,


To make that calm contentment mine,


Which virtue know, or seems to know.

Fain would I fly the haunts of men –


I seek to shun, not hate mankind;


My breast requires the sullen glen,


Whose gloom may suit a darken’d mind.


Oh! that to me the wings were given


Which bear the turtle to her nest!


Then would I cleave the vault of heaven,


To flee away, and be at rest.

Memory

Listen to:

Memory (:58)

by John Clare 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

  I would not that my memory all should die,
  And pass away with every common lot:
  I would not that my humble dust should lie
  In quite a strange and unfrequented spot,
  By all unheeded and by all forgot,
  With nothing save the heedless winds to sigh,
  And nothing but the dewy morn to weep
  About my grave, far hid from the world's eye:
  I fain would have some friend to wander nigh
  And find a path to where my ashes sleep—
  Not the cold heart that merely passes by,
  To read who lies beneath, but such as keep
  Past memories warm with deeds of other years,
  And pay to friendship some few friendly tears.

The Old Man's Funeral

Listen to: 

The Old Man's Funeral (2:57)

by William Cullen Bryant 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

I saw an aged man upon his bier,


His hair was thin and white, and on his brow 

A record of the cares of many a year;— 

Cares that were ended and forgotten now. 

And there was sadness round, and faces bowed,


And woman's tears fell fast, and children wailed aloud. 

Then rose another hoary man and said,


In faltering accents, to that weeping train: 

"Why mourn ye that our aged friend is dead? 

Ye are not sad to see the gathered grain, 

Nor when their mellow fruit the orchards cast,


Nor when the yellow woods let fall the ripened mast. 

"Ye sigh not when the sun, his course fulfilled, 

His glorious course, rejoicing earth and sky, 

In the soft evening, when the winds are stilled, 

Sinks where his islands of refreshment lie,


And leaves the smile of his departure, spread


O'er the warm-colored heaven and ruddy mountain head. 

"Why weep ye then for him, who, having won

The bound of man's appointed years, at last, 

Life's blessings all enjoyed, life's labors done, 

Serenely to his final rest has passed; 

While the soft memory of his virtues, yet,


Lingers like twilight hues, when the bright sun is set? 

"His youth was innocent; his riper age


Marked with some act of goodness every day; 

And watched by eyes that loved him, calm and sage, 

Faded his late declining years away. 

Meekly he gave his being up, and went


To share the holy rest that waits a life well spent. 

"That life was happy; every day he gave 

Thanks for the fair existence that was his; 

For a sick fancy made him not her slave, 

To mock him with her phantom miseries. 

No chronic tortures racked his aged limb,


For luxury and sloth had nourished none for him. 

"And I am glad that he has lived thus long, 

And glad that he has gone to his reward; 

Nor can I deem that Nature did him wrong, 

Softly to disengage the vital cord.


For when his hand grew palsied, and his eye


Dark with the mists of age, it was his time to die." 

Song

Cupid by Nikolai Argunov
Listen to: 

Song (1:41)

by Sir John Suckling 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

The crafty boy that full oft essay’d

To pierce my stubborn and resisting breast,

But still the bluntness of his darts betrayed,

Resolv’d at last of setting up his rest.

            Either my wild unruly heart to tame,

            Or quit his godhead, and his bow disclaim.

So all his lovely looks, his pleasing fires,

All his sweet motions, all his taking smiles,

All that awakes, all that inflames desires,

All that by sweet commands, all that beguiles,

            He does into one pair of eyes convey,

            And there begs leave that he himself may stay.

And there he brings me, where his ambush lay,

Secure and careless, to a stranger land;

And never warning me – which was foul play –

Does make me close by all this beauty stand.

            Where first struck dead, I did at last recover,

            To know that I might only live to love her.

So I’ll be sworn I do, and do confess,

The blind lad’s power, whilst he inhabits there;

But I’ll be even with him, nevertheless,

If e’er I chance to meet with him elsewhere.

            If other eyes invite the boy to tarry,

            I’ll fly to hers as to a sanctuary.

The Forgeries of Jealousy

(Vivien Leigh as Titania  in A Midsummer Night’s Dream at the Old Vic Theatre in London in 1937)
Today, June 20, 2020 is Midsummer Day.

Listen to:

The Forgeries of Jealousy (2:39)

by William Shakespeare 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

from A Midsummer Night's Dream, Act II, scene i

A wood near Athens

Oberon, King of the Fairies, is brawling with his queen, Titania. He accuses her of being unfaithful to him with Theseus. Titania responds:

These are the forgeries of jealousy:

And never, since the middle summer's spring,

Met we on hill, in dale, forest or mead,

By paved fountain or by rushy brook,

Or in the beachéd margent of the sea,

To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind,

But with thy brawls thou hast disturb'd our sport.

Therefore the winds, piping to us in vain,

As in revenge, have suck'd up from the sea

Contagious fogs; which falling in the land

Have every pelting river made so proud

That they have overborne their continents:

The ox hath therefore stretch'd his yoke in vain,

The ploughman lost his sweat, and the green corn

Hath rotted ere his youth attain'd a beard;

The fold stands empty in the drowned field,

And crows are fatted with the murrion flock;

The nine men's morris is fill'd up with mud,

And the quaint mazes in the wanton green

For lack of tread are undistinguishable:

The human mortals want their winter here;

No night is now with hymn or carol blest:

Therefore the moon, the governess of floods,

Pale in her anger, washes all the air,

That rheumatic diseases do abound:

And thorough this distemperature we see

The seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts

Far in the fresh lap of the crimson rose,

And on old Hiems' thin and icy crown

An odorous chaplet of sweet summer buds

Is, as in mockery, set: the spring, the summer,

The childing autumn, angry winter, change

Their wonted liveries, and the mazed world,

By their increase, now knows not which is which:

And this same progeny of evils comes

From our debate, from our dissension;

We are their parents and original.

The Panther

Listen to: 

The Panther (1:01)

By Rainer Maria Rilke

Translated by Jessie Lemont 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

His weary glance, from passing by the bars, 

Has grown into a dazed and vacant stare;

It seems to him there are a thousand bars 

And out beyond those bars the empty air.

The pad of his strong feet, that ceaseless sound 

Of supple tread behind the iron bands,

Is like a dance of strength circling around, 

While in the circle, stunned, a great will stands.

But there are times the pupils of his eyes 

Dilate, the strong limbs stand alert, apart, 

Tense with the flood of visions that arise 

Only to sink and die within his heart.

Shelley's Skylark

Listen to: 

Shelley's Skylark (1:44)

by Thomas Hardy 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

The neighbourhood of Leghorn: March, 1887

   Somewhere afield here something lies

   In Earth’s oblivious eyeless trust

   That moved a poet to prophecies—

   A pinch of unseen, unguarded dust

   The dust of the lark that Shelley heard,

   And made immortal through times to be;—

   Though it only lived like another bird,

   And knew not its immortality.

   Lived its meek life; then, one day, fell—

   A little ball of feather and bone;

   And how it perished, when piped farewell,

   And where it wastes, are alike unknown.

   Maybe it rests in the loam I view,

   Maybe it throbs in a myrtle’s green,

   Maybe it sleeps in the coming hue

   Of a grape on the slopes of yon inland scene.

   Go find it, faeries, go and find

   That tiny pinch of priceless dust,

   And bring a casket silver-lined,

   And framed of gold that gems encrust;

   And we will lay it safe therein,

   And consecrate it to endless time;

   For it inspired a bard to win

   Ecstatic heights in thought and rhyme.

On the Cliffs, Newport

Listen to: 

On the Cliffs, Newport (1:18)

by Alan Seeger 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

Tonight a shimmer of gold lies mantled o'er 

Smooth lovely Ocean. Through the lustrous gloom 

A savor steals from linden trees in bloom

And gardens ranged at many a palace door. 

Proud walls rise here, and, where the moonbeams pour 

Their pale enchantment down the dim coast-line, 

Terrace and lawn, trim hedge and flowering vine, 

Crown with fair culture all the sounding shore. 

How sweet, to such a place, on such a night, 

From halls with beauty and festival a-glare,

To come distract and, stretched on the cool turf, 

Yield to some fond, improbable delight,

While the moon, reddening, sinks, and all the air 

Sighs with the muffled tumult of the surf! 

Sympathy

Listen to: 

Sympathy (1:28)

by Paul Laurence Dunbar 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

  I know what the caged bird feels, alas!

    When the sun is bright on the upland slopes;

  When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass,

  And the river flows like a stream of glass;

    When the first bird sings and the first bud opes,

  And the faint perfume from its chalice steals--

  I know what the caged bird feels!

  I know why the caged bird beats his wing

    Till its blood is red on the cruel bars;

  For he must fly back to his perch and cling

  When he fain would be on the bough a-swing;

    And a pain still throbs in the old, old scars

  And they pulse again with a keener sting--

  I know why he beats his wing!

  I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,

    When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,--

  When he beats his bars and he would be free;

  It is not a carol of joy or glee,

    But a prayer that he sends from his heart's deep core,

  But a plea, / that upward to Heaven he flings--

  I know why the caged bird sings!

She Lay All Naked

(Painting by Amadeo Modigliani)

Listen to: 

She Lay All Naked (2:08)

by Anonymous 

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

She lay all naked in her bed, 

    And I myself lay by; 

No veil but curtains about her spread, 

    No covering but I: 

Her head upon her shoulders seeks 

    To hang in careless wise, 

And full of blushes was her cheeks, 

    And of wishes were her eyes. 

Her blood still fresh into her face, 

    As on a message came, 

To say that in another place 

    It meant another game; 

Her cherry lip moist, plump, and fair, 

    Millions of kisses crown, 

Which ripe and uncropped dangle there, 

    And weigh the branches down.

Her breasts, that welled so plump and high 

    Bred pleasant pain in me, 

For all the world I do defy 

    The like felicity; 

Her thighs and belly, soft and fair,

    To me were only shown:

To have seen such meat, and not to have eat,

    Would have angered any stone. 

Her knees lay upward gently bent,

    And all lay hollow under,

As if on easy terms, they meant 

    To fall unforced asunder; 

Just so the Cyprian Queen did lie, 

    Expecting in her bower; 

When too long stay had kept the boy 

    Beyond his promised hour.

‘Dull clown,’ quoth she, ‘why dost delay 

    such proffered bliss to take?

Canst thou find out no other way 

    Similitudes to make?’

Mad with delight I – thundering -

    Throw my arms about her, 

But pox upon’t ’twas but a dream. 

    And so I lay without her.