The Haunted Oak by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Published: Jan. 18, 2021, 5 a.m.
Duration: 3 minutes 25 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

The Answer by Carl Sandburg

Published: Jan. 14, 2021, 5 a.m.
Duration: 1 minute 36 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

If You Forget Me by Pablo Neruda

Published: Jan. 11, 2021, 5 a.m.
Duration: 2 minutes 6 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

Insomnia by Elizabeth Bishop

Published: Jan. 7, 2021, 5 a.m.
Duration: 1 minute 36 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

Nightclub By Billy Collins

Published: Jan. 4, 2021, 4:40 a.m.
Duration: 3 minutes 20 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

Kubla Khan by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Published: Dec. 31, 2020, 5 a.m.
Duration: 4 minutes 7 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

Various Portents by Alice Oswald

Published: Dec. 28, 2020, 5 a.m.
Duration: 3 minutes 11 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

The Gift of the Magi By O. Henry

Published: Dec. 24, 2020, 5 a.m.
Duration: 16 minutes 19 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

The Magi by W.B. Yeats

Published: Dec. 24, 2020, 2:15 a.m.
Duration: 1 minute 14 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

The Solstice by W.S. Merwin

Published: Dec. 21, 2020, 9:19 p.m.
Duration: 1 minute 9 seconds

Production and Sound By Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

Little Tree by E.E. Cummings

Published: Dec. 21, 2020, 5 a.m.
Duration: 1 minute 44 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

Gymnopédies No. 1 by Adrian Matejka

Published: Dec. 17, 2020, 10 a.m.
Duration: 1 minute 48 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

Those Winter Sundays by Robert Hayden

Published: Dec. 14, 2020, 10 a.m.
Duration: 1 minute 24 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

Will Not Come Back By Robert Lowell

Published: Dec. 10, 2020, 5 a.m.
Duration: 1 minute 50 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

The house was just twinkling in the moon light by Gertude Stein

Published: Dec. 7, 2020, 10 a.m.
Duration: 1 minute 14 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

Nocturne by Lewis Warsh

Published: Dec. 3, 2020, 5:42 a.m.
Duration: 1 minute 32 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

So Many Constellations by Paul Celan

Published: Nov. 30, 2020, 10 a.m.
Duration: 1 minute 57 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

The Radio Animals by Matthea Harvey

Published: Nov. 30, 2020, 10 a.m.
Duration: 1 minute 40 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

Fern Hill by Dylan Thomas

Published: Nov. 26, 2020, 5 a.m.
Duration: 4 minutes 2 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

Published: Nov. 24, 2020, 10:48 a.m.
Duration: N/A

Listed in: Drama

Published: Nov. 24, 2020, 10:48 a.m.
Duration: N/A

Listed in: Drama

Published: Nov. 24, 2020, 10:48 a.m.
Duration: N/A

Listed in: Drama

Published: Nov. 24, 2020, 10:48 a.m.
Duration: N/A

Listed in: Drama

Published: Nov. 24, 2020, 10:48 a.m.
Duration: N/A

Listed in: Drama

A Poem on Hope by Wendell Berry

Published: Nov. 23, 2020, 9 a.m.
Duration: 2 minutes 32 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

This Be The Verse by Philip Larkin

Published: Nov. 19, 2020, 5 a.m.
Duration: 1 minute 36 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

Song of Autumn by Charles Baudelaire

Published: Nov. 16, 2020, 9 a.m.
Duration: 3 minutes 22 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

Strange Meeting by Wilfred Owen

Published: Nov. 11, 2020, 5 a.m.
Duration: 4 minutes 21 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

The Region November by Wallace Stevens

Published: Nov. 9, 2020, 9 a.m.
Duration: 1 minute 28 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

Pocket Poem by Ted Kooser

Published: Nov. 5, 2020, 9 a.m.
Duration: 51 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

Cartographies of Silence by Adrienne Rich

Published: Nov. 2, 2020, 9 a.m.
Duration: 5 minutes 23 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

Poem Beginning with a Line from It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown by Maggie Smith

Published: Oct. 31, 2020, 4 a.m.
Duration: 1 minute 25 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

Antigonish [I met a man who wasn't there] By Hughes Mearns

Published: Oct. 30, 2020, 4 a.m.
Duration: 1 minute 17 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

Abandoned Farmhouse by Ted Kooser

Published: Oct. 29, 2020, 8 a.m.
Duration: 2 minutes 4 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

Darkness by Lord Byron

Published: Oct. 26, 2020, 8 a.m.
Duration: 5 minutes 34 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

Spirits of the Dead by Edgar Allan Poe

Published: Oct. 19, 2020, 8 a.m.
Duration: 1 minute 47 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

All Hallows by Louise Glück

Published: Oct. 15, 2020, 8 a.m.
Duration: 1 minute 6 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

Field of Skulls by Mary Carr

Published: Oct. 12, 2020, 8 a.m.
Duration: 2 minutes 34 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes

Published: Oct. 5, 2020, 8 a.m.
Duration: 7 minutes 47 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

Melancholia, The Thing by Andrei Codrescu

Published: Oct. 1, 2020, 8 a.m.
Duration: 6 minutes 48 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

The Story of Our Lives by Mark Strand

Published: Sept. 26, 2020, 7:13 p.m.
Duration: 12 minutes 12 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

Rain by Jack Gilbert

Published: Sept. 24, 2020, 4 a.m.
Duration: 1 minute 22 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

Rhapsody on a Windy Night by T.S. Eliot

Published: Sept. 21, 2020, 4 a.m.
Duration: 3 minutes 54 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

The Ball Poem by John Berryman

Published: Sept. 17, 2020, 4 a.m.
Duration: 2 minutes 9 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

Fairy Tale by Ron Padgett

Published: Sept. 10, 2020, 4 a.m.
Duration: 1 minute 19 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

This Love by Jacques Prévert

Published: Sept. 7, 2020, 1:58 a.m.
Duration: 3 minutes 41 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

Backyard by Carl Sandburg

Published: Sept. 4, 2020, 4 a.m.
Duration: 1 minute 25 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

She Walks in Beauty by Lord Byron

Published: Sept. 3, 2020, 12:18 a.m.
Duration: 1 minute 57 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

A Short Story Of Falling by Alice Oswald

Published: Aug. 31, 2020, 10:49 p.m.
Duration: 2 minutes 1 second

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

City That Does Not Sleep by Federico García Lorca

Published: Aug. 26, 2020, 10:08 p.m.
Duration: 5 minutes 23 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

I Am Trying To Break Your Heart by Kevin Young

Published: Aug. 24, 2020, 7:08 p.m.
Duration: 1 minute 28 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

Objects & Apparitions by Octavio Paz (Translated by Elizabeth Bishop)

Published: Aug. 20, 2020, 4:38 p.m.
Duration: 3 minutes 33 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

Lullaby by W.H. Auden

Published: Aug. 17, 2020, 10:18 p.m.
Duration: 2 minutes 1 second

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

The Whitsun Weddings by Philip Larkin

Published: Aug. 14, 2020, 12:13 a.m.
Duration: 6 minutes 1 second

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond by E.E. Cummings

Published: Aug. 12, 2020, 4:44 a.m.
Duration: 2 minutes 54 seconds

Production and Sound Design By Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

Francesca by Ezra Pound

Published: Aug. 7, 2020, 4:38 p.m.
Duration: 1 minute 15 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

Confusion of the Senses by Kenneth Rexroth

Published: Aug. 6, 2020, 9:14 p.m.
Duration: 2 minutes 9 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

Light Breaks Where No Sun Shines by Dylan Thomas

Published: Aug. 3, 2020, 4 a.m.
Duration: 2 minutes 9 seconds

Production and Sound Design By Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

Sonnets by the Night-Sea (VI) by George Sterling

Published: July 30, 2020, 6:18 p.m.
Duration: 1 minute 16 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

Bone by Terence Culleton

Published: July 28, 2020, 3:29 a.m.
Duration: 1 minute 31 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

The Day Lady Died by Frank O'Hara

Published: July 24, 2020, 6 p.m.
Duration: 2 minutes 4 seconds

Production and Sound Design By Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

The Paper Nautilus by Marianne Moore

Published: July 22, 2020, 9:36 p.m.
Duration: 1 minute 21 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

Hallucination by F.S. Flint

Published: July 20, 2020, 4 a.m.
Duration: 2 minutes 4 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

The Dentist and The Crocodile by Roald Dahl

Published: July 15, 2020, 6:04 p.m.
Duration: 1 minute 51 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

You Were Wearing by Kenneth Koch

Published: July 13, 2020, 5 a.m.
Duration: 2 minutes

Production and Sound Design By Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

For John Clare by John Ashbery

Published: July 9, 2020, midnight
Duration: 3 minutes 50 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

I Am! By John Clare

Published: July 7, 2020, midnight
Duration: 1 minute 33 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman I Am!BY JOHN CLAREI am—yet what I am none cares or knows;My friends forsake me like a memory lost:I am the self-consumer of my woes—They rise and vanish in oblivious host,Like shadows in love’s frenzied stifled throesAnd yet I am, and live—like vapours tossed Into the nothingness of scorn and noise,Into the living sea of waking dreams,Where there is neither sense of life or joys,But the vast shipwreck of my life’s esteems;Even the dearest that I loved the bestAre strange—nay, rather, stranger than the rest. I long for scenes where man hath never trodA place where woman never smiled or weptThere to abide with my Creator, God,And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept,Untroubling and untroubled where I lieThe grass below—above the vaulted sky.

Listed in: Drama

Howl By Allen Ginsberg

Published: July 2, 2020, 5:27 p.m.
Duration: 22 minutes 29 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman100th Episode

Listed in: Drama

The Fascination of What's Difficult by W.B. Yeats

Published: June 25, 2020, 4:53 p.m.
Duration: 1 minute 11 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman The Fascination of What’s DifficultBY WILLIAM BUTLER YEATSThe fascination of what's difficultHas dried the sap out of my veins, and rentSpontaneous joy and natural contentOut of my heart. There's something ails our coltThat must, as if it had not holy bloodNor on Olympus leaped from cloud to cloud,Shiver under the lash, strain, sweat and joltAs though it dragged road metal. My curse on playsThat have to be set up in fifty ways,On the day's war with every knave and dolt,Theatre business, management of men.I swear before the dawn comes round againI'll find the stable and pull out the bolt.

Listed in: Drama

Little Exercise by Elizabeth Bishop

Published: June 23, 2020, 1:38 a.m.
Duration: 1 minute 30 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman Little ExerciseBY ELIZABETH BISHOPfor Thomas Edwards Wanning Think of the storm roaming the sky uneasilylike a dog looking for a place to sleep in,listen to it growling. Think how they must look now, the mangrove keyslying out there unresponsive to the lightningin dark, coarse-fibred families, where occasionally a heron may undo his head,shake up his feathers, make an uncertain commentwhen the surrounding water shines. Think of the boulevard and the little palm treesall stuck in rows, suddenly revealedas fistfuls of limp fish-skeletons. It is raining there. The boulevardand its broken sidewalks with weeds in every crackare relieved to be wet, the sea to be freshened. Now the storm goes away again in a seriesof small, badly lit battle-scenes,each in "Another part of the field." Think of someone sleeping in the bottom of a row-boattied to a mangrove root or the pile of a bridge;think of him as uninjured, barely disturbed.

Listed in: Drama

Misery and Splendor by Robert Hass

Published: June 19, 2020, 4:13 a.m.
Duration: 2 minutes 3 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman Misery and SplendorBY ROBERT HASSSummoned by conscious recollection, shewould be smiling, they might be in a kitchen talking,before or after dinner. But they are in this other room,the window has many small panes, and they are on a couchembracing. He holds her as tightly  as he can, she buries herself in his body.Morning, maybe it is evening, lightis flowing through the room. Outside,the day is slowly succeeded by night,succeeded by day. The process wobbles wildlyand accelerates: weeks, months, years. The light in the roomdoes not change, so it is plain what is happening.They are trying to become one creature,and something will not have it. They are tenderwith each other, afraidtheir brief, sharp cries will reconcile them to the momentwhen they fall away again. So they rub against each other,their mouths dry, then wet, then dry.They feel themselves at the center of a powerfuland baffled will. They feelthey are an almost animal,washed up on the shore of a world—or huddled against the gate of a garden—to which they can’t admit they can never be admitted.

Listed in: Drama

The Forgotten Madmen of Ménilmontant by Frank Stanford

Published: June 16, 2020, 6:45 p.m.
Duration: 4 minutes 6 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman The Forgotten Madmen of Ménilmontantafter Jacques Prévert Do not look sadly at days gone bydays below days like a river running under the starsDo not listen to the bluesor speak often with priestsDo not think the rich women enrolled in the college of nightfallwill always smell the same way Everytime the tree works the leaves dream Everytime I carve the dead wing my namein the dark lamp of the outhouseI said everytime I cut my namein the old wood rotten as a tugboatI know I am always with you Everytime the schoolboy’s bad moondowses blood from the virgin’s stone thighsI know I am handsome and young and drunketernal as a weed It will not smell the sameEverytime I open a bottle of wineand see a snake doctor under my bedI know there is something coming and eternallike taking off a white coat over the body of the dead Poets have done this beforePoets have made love and gathered at the cheap jointsthey’ve cut their fingers toasting one another’s death Poets have made loveand remained thickthey’ve gotten cold feet at the crucial momentswhen left alone with the students with sad eyes Do not die in the wintertimefor there is no okra or sailboats It will not smell the samethat twig of blood or the chiffonier Do not listen to hunting dogs in autumnor tie yellow flies for the small lips of desperate friends Poets have done this beforeand they’ve wandered off alone and unheard ofto bury the caul of their own stillborn Like a voice the odor has changed Dust under the hooves of a horserunning side by side with the foga book in the hands of a fool Cheese and fish and spinstersare the body of the poetfor the poet does not eat black breadhe gives it to the poor Everytime a mare throws a foal in an exile’s countryI know I am with youa gun in the hand of a fool The poet forgets in remembrance of youhe is the lunatic’s left hand manon Sundays the acolyte of the moonhe is night following other nightsthe eyes of the blindthe stranger your wife leaves withwhen you’re still talking with your youthstowed away on the ship of deathand it will not smell the same Everytime I see a young mantuck his knife back in his vestI want to say forget it and drink 

Listed in: Drama

During A Transatlantic Call by Robert Lowell

Published: June 11, 2020, 8:15 p.m.
Duration: 1 minute 38 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman 

Listed in: Drama

Phrases by Arthur Rimbaud

Published: June 9, 2020, 9:45 p.m.
Duration: 3 minutes 51 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman PhrasesBY ARTHUR RIMBAUDTRANSLATED BY WALLACE FOWLIEWhen the world is reduced to a single dark wood for our two pairs of dazzled eyes—to a beach for two faithful children—to a musical house for our clear understanding—then I shall find you.      When there is only one old man on earth, lonely, peaceful, handsome, living in unsurpassed luxury, then I am at your feet.      When I have realized all your memories, —when I am the girl who can tie your hands,—then I will stifle you.          When we are very strong, who draws back? or very happy, who collapses from ridicule? When we are very bad, what can they do to us.      Dress up, dance, laugh. I will never be able to throw Love out of the window.          —Comrade of mine, beggar girl, monstrous child! How little you care about the wretched women, and the machinations and my embarrassment. Join us with your impossible voice, oh your voice! the one flatterer of this base despair.    *    *    *        A dark morning in July. The taste of ashes in the air, the smell of wood sweating in the hearth, steeped flowers, the devastation of paths, drizzle over the canals in the fields, why not already playthings and incense?   *    *    *         I stretched out ropes from spire to spire; garlands from window to window; golden chains from star to star, and I dance.   *    *    *       The high pond is constantly streaming. What witch will rise up against the white sunset? What purple flowers are going to descend?           *    *    *   While public funds disappear in brotherly celebrations, a bell of pink are rings in the clouds. *    *    *       Arousing a pleasant taste of Chinese ink, a black powder gently rains on my night, —I lower the jets of the chandelier, throw myself on the bed, and turning toward thedark, I see you, O my daughters and queens!   *    *    *

Listed in: Drama

The Truth the Dead Know By Anne Sexton

Published: June 4, 2020, 7:30 p.m.
Duration: 1 minute 42 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman The Truth the Dead KnowBy Anne SextonFor my Mother, born March 1902, died March 1959and my Father, born February 1900, died June 1959 Gone, I say and walk from church,refusing the stiff procession to the grave,letting the dead ride alone in the hearse.It is June. I am tired of being brave. We drive to the Cape. I cultivatemyself where the sun gutters from the sky,where the sea swings in like an iron gateand we touch. In another country people die. My darling, the wind falls in like stonesfrom the whitehearted water and when we touchwe enter touch entirely. No one's alone.Men kill for this, or for as much. And what of the dead? They lie without shoesin their stone boats. They are more like stonethan the sea would be if it stopped. They refuseto be blessed, throat, eye and knucklebone.  

Listed in: Drama

To Elsie By William Carlos WIlliams

Published: June 4, 2020, 7:25 p.m.
Duration: 3 minutes 21 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman To ElsieBY WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMSThe pure products of Americago crazy—mountain folk from Kentucky or the ribbed north end ofJerseywith its isolate lakes and valleys, its deaf-mutes, thievesold namesand promiscuity between devil-may-care men who have takento railroadingout of sheer lust of adventure— and young slatterns, bathedin filthfrom Monday to Saturday to be tricked out that nightwith gaudsfrom imaginations which have no peasant traditions to give themcharacterbut flutter and flaunt sheer rags—succumbing withoutemotionsave numbed terror under some hedge of choke-cherryor viburnum—which they cannot express— Unless it be that marriageperhapswith a dash of Indian blood will throw up a girl so desolateso hemmed roundwith disease or murder that she'll be rescued by anagent—reared by the state and sent out at fifteen to work insome hard-pressedhouse in the suburbs— some doctor's family, some Elsie—voluptuous waterexpressing with broken brain the truth about us—her greatungainly hips and flopping breasts addressed to cheapjewelryand rich young men with fine eyes as if the earth under our feetwerean excrement of some sky and we degraded prisonersdestinedto hunger until we eat filth while the imagination strainsafter deergoing by fields of goldenrod in the stifling heat of SeptemberSomehowit seems to destroy us It is only in isolate flecks thatsomethingis given off No oneto witnessand adjust, no one to drive the car

Listed in: Drama

Ode on Solitude by Alexander Pope

Published: May 29, 2020, 9:05 p.m.
Duration: 1 minute 38 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman Ode on SolitudeBy Alexander PopeHappy the man, whose wish and care  A few paternal acres bound,Content to breathe his native air,                           In his own ground. Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,  Whose flocks supply him with attire,Whose trees in summer yield him shade,                           In winter fire. Blest, who can unconcernedly find  Hours, days, and years slide soft away,In health of body, peace of mind,                           Quiet by day, Sound sleep by night; study and ease,  Together mixed; sweet recreation;And innocence, which most does please,                           With meditation. Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;  Thus unlamented let me die;Steal from the world, and not a stone                           Tell where I lie.

Listed in: Drama

Mystery and Solitude in Topeka by Mark Strand

Published: May 28, 2020, 4:59 p.m.
Duration: 1 minute 50 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman Mystery and Solitude in TopekaBY MARK STRANDAfternoon darkens into evening. A man falls deeper and deeper into the slow spiral of sleep, into the drift of it, the length of it, through what feels like mist, and comes at last to an open door through which he passes without knowing why, then again without knowing why goes to a room where he sits and waits while the room seems to close around him and the dark is darker than any he has known, and he feels something forming within him without being sure what it is, its hold on him growing, as if a story were about to unfold, in which two characters, Pleasure and Pain, commit the same crime, the one that is his, that he will confess to again and again, until it means nothing.

Listed in: Drama

Soon by Joe Bolton

Published: May 21, 2020, 6:58 p.m.
Duration: 1 minute 58 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman Soonby Joe BoltonSoon, these great stadiums will be empty,Standing coolly at twilight, lit onlyBy the twilight, and there will be no sound,No echo, and no memory of sound. Soon, these mansions along North BoulevardWill fall into disrepair, then will fall,Their foundations given over to grassUnder the vaulted naves of the live oaks.These freeways won’t dream of rush-hour traffic.These towers won’t give you the time of day.These storefronts won’t show the season’s fashion.Nobody will try to take your money.Soon, no one will remember how it wasTo drive home at the end of the long day,To hear a song you thought you’d forgotten,To sleep and rise and not know quite what for.And no one will remember what it wasTo try to live and love and make love liveIn these times we belong to but call ours,Near the end of what looked like forever.after Horace

Listed in: Drama

Pillow by Jana Prikryl

Published: May 19, 2020, 8:39 p.m.
Duration: 1 minute 2 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin SeamanPillowBy Jana PrikrylHow solitaryand resolute you look in the morning.A stoic in your cotton sleeve.Do you dream of walking out rain or shinea truffle balanced on your sternumand passing me on the sidewalk?Or is that a smile because you interpret nothingand statelessness is where you live?How calmly you indulge my moods. See you tonight, by the sovereign chartreuseceramics at the Met.Let's hear what you'd do differently.

Listed in: Drama

Smoke by Philip Levine

Published: May 14, 2020, 11:55 p.m.
Duration: 4 minutes 16 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin SeamanSMOKEBy Philip LevineCan you imagine the air filled with smoke?It was. The city was vanishing before noonor was it earlier than that? I can't say becausethe light came from nowhere and went nowhere.This was years ago, before you were born, beforeyour parents met in a bus station downtown.She'd come on Friday after work all the wayfrom Toledo, and he'd dressed in his only suit.Back then we called this a date, some timesa blind date, though they'd written back and forthfor weeks. What actually took place is now lost.It's become part of the mythology of a family,the stories told by children around the dinner table.No, they aren't dead, they're just treated that way,as objects turned one way and then anotherto catch the light, the light overflowing with smoke.Go back to the beginning, you insist. Whyis the air filled with smoke? Simple. We had work.Work was something that thrived on fire, that withoutfire couldn't catch its breath or hang on for life.We came out into the morning air, Bernie, Stash,Williams, and I, it was late March, a new warwas starting up in Asia or closer to home,one that meant to kill us, but for a momentthe air held still in the gray poplars and elmsundoing their branches. I understood the moonfor the very first time, why it came and went, whyit wasn't there that day to greet the four of us.Before the bus came a small black bird settledon the curb, fearless or hurt, and turned its beak upas though questioning the day. "A baby crow,"someone said. Your father knelt down on the wet cement,his lunchbox balanced on one knee and stared quietlyfor a long time. "A grackle far from home," he said.One of the four of us mentioned tenderness,a word I wasn't used to, so it wasn't me.The bus must have arrived. I'm not there today.The windows were soiled. We swayed this way and thatover the railroad tracks, across Woodward Avenue,heading west, just like the sun, hidden in smoke.

Listed in: Drama

4 A.M. By Kenneth Fearing

Published: May 12, 2020, 9:57 p.m.
Duration: 4 minutes 27 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman 4 A.M.by Kenneth FearingIt is early evening, still, in Honolulu, and in London, now, itmust be well past dawn;But here, in the Riviera Cafe, on a street that has been lost andforgotten very long ago, as the clock moves steadily towardclosing time,The spark of life is very low, if it burns at all.  And here we are, four lost and forgotten customers in this placethat surely will never again be found,Sitting, at ten-foot intervals, along this lost and forgotten bar,(Wishing the space were further still, for we are still too closefor comfort)Knowing that the bartender, and the elk’s head, and the portraitof F.D.R.,(All gazing at something of interest beyond us and behind us,but very far away)Must somehow be aware of us, too, as we stare at the coldinterior of our lives, reflected in the mirror beneath and inback of them.  Hear how lonely the radio is, as its voice talks on, and on, un-answered;Notice how futile is the nickel dropped in the juke-box by acustomer,How its music proves again that one’s life is either too humdrumor too exciting, too empty or too full, too this, too that;Only the cat that has been sleeping in the window, now yawningand stretching and trotting to the kitchen to sleep again --Only this living toy knows what we feel, knows what we are,really knows what we only think we know.  Soon, too soon, it will be closing time, and the door will be locked;Each of us will be alone, soon, with something ravaging fora name --(Our golden, glorious futures, perhaps).Lock the door now and put out the lights, before some terriblestranger enters and gives, to each of us, an answer that isthe final truth.  They say the Matterhorn at dawn, and the Northern Lights ofthe Arctic, are things that should be seen;They say, they say --------- in time, you will hear them say anything,and everything.What would the elk’s head, or the remote bartender say, if theycould speak?The booth where last night’s love affair began, the spot wherelast year’s homicide occurred, are empty now, and still. 

Listed in: Drama

The Pomegranate by Eavan Boland

Published: May 7, 2020, 9:34 p.m.
Duration: 2 minutes 54 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman The PomegranateBy Eavan BolandThe only legend I have ever loved isthe story of a daughter lost in hell.And found and rescued there.Love and blackmail are the gist of it.Ceres and Persephone the names.And the best thing about the legend isI can enter it anywhere. And have.As a child in exile ina city of fogs and strange consonants,I read it first and at first I wasan exiled child in the crackling dusk ofthe underworld, the stars blighted. LaterI walked out in a summer twilightsearching for my daughter at bed-time.When she came running I was readyto make any bargain to keep her.I carried her back past whitebeamsand wasps and honey-scented buddleias.But I was Ceres then and I knewwinter was in store for every leafon every tree on that road.Was inescapable for each one we passed. And for me.                   It is winterand the stars are hidden.I climb the stairs and stand where I can seemy child asleep beside her teen magazines,her can of Coke, her plate of uncut fruit.The pomegranate! How did I forget it?She could have come home and been safeand ended the story and allour heart-broken searching but she reachedout a hand and plucked a pomegranate.She put out her hand and pulled downthe French sound for apple andthe noise of stone and the proofthat even in the place of death,at the heart of legend, in the midstof rocks full of unshed tearsready to be diamonds by the timethe story was told, a child can behungry. I could warn her. There is still a chance.The rain is cold. The road is flint-coloured.The suburb has cars and cable television.The veiled stars are above ground.It is another world. But what elsecan a mother give her daughter but suchbeautiful rifts in time?If I defer the grief I will diminish the gift.The legend will be hers as well as mine.She will enter it. As I have.She will wake up. She will holdthe papery flushed skin in her hand.And to her lips. I will say nothing.

Listed in: Drama

The Whole Mess...Almost by Gregory Corso

Published: May 1, 2020, 4:55 p.m.
Duration: 2 minutes 34 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman The Whole Mess ... AlmostBY GREGORY CORSOI ran up six flights of stairsto my small furnished room  opened the windowand began throwing outthose things most important in life First to go, Truth, squealing like a fink:“Don’t! I’ll tell awful things about you!”“Oh yeah? Well, I’ve nothing to hide ... OUT!”Then went God, glowering & whimpering in amazement:  “It’s not my fault! I’m not the cause of it all!” “OUT!”  Then Love, cooing bribes: “You’ll never know impotency!  All the girls on Vogue covers, all yours!”I pushed her fat ass out and screamed:“You always end up a bummer!”I picked up Faith Hope Charityall three clinging together:“Without us you’ll surely die!”“With you I’m going nuts! Goodbye!” Then Beauty ... ah, Beauty—As I led her to the windowI told her: “You I loved best in life... but you’re a killer; Beauty kills!”  Not really meaning to drop herI immediately ran downstairsgetting there just in time to catch her  “You saved me!” she criedI put her down and told her: “Move on.” Went back up those six flightswent to the moneythere was no money to throw out.The only thing left in the room was Death  hiding beneath the kitchen sink:“I’m not real!” It cried“I’m just a rumor spread by life ... ”  Laughing I threw it out, kitchen sink and all  and suddenly realized Humorwas all that was left—All I could do with Humor was to say:  “Out the window with the window!”

Listed in: Drama

For the Sleepwalkers by Edward Hirsch

Published: April 29, 2020, 7:03 p.m.
Duration: 1 minute 42 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman For the Sleepwalkersby Edward Hirsch Tonight I want to say something wonderfulfor the sleepwalkers who have so much faithin their legs, so much faith in the invisible arrow carved into the carpet, the worn paththat leads to the stairs instead of the window,the gaping doorway instead of the seamless mirror. I love the way that sleepwalkers are willingto step out of their bodies into the night,to raise their arms and welcome the darkness, palming the blank spaces, touching everything.Always they return home safely, like blind menwho know it is morning by feeling shadows. And always they wake up as themselves again.That’s why I want to say something astonishinglike: Our hearts are leaving our bodies. Our hearts are thirsty black handkerchiefsflying through the trees at night, soaking upthe darkest beams of moonlight, the music of owls, the motion of wind-torn branches.And now our hearts are thick black fistsflying back to the glove of our chests. We have to learn to trust our hearts like that.We have to learn the desperate faith of sleep-walkers who rise out of their calm beds and walk through the skin of another life.We have to drink the stupefying cup of darknessand wake up to ourselves, nourished and surprised. 

Listed in: Drama

Late Spring by W.S. Merwin

Published: April 26, 2020, 4:28 p.m.
Duration: 1 minute 15 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman Late Spring -By W.S. Merwin Coming into the high room again after yearsafter oceans and shadows of hills and the sounds of liesafter losses and feet on stairs after looking and mistakes and forgettingturning there thinking to findno one except those I knewfinally I saw yousitting in whitealready waiting you of whom I had heardwith my own ears since the beginningfor whom more than onceI have opened the doorbelieving you were not far 

Listed in: Drama

In The Corridor by Saskia Hamilton

Published: April 23, 2020, 7:47 p.m.
Duration: 2 minutes 34 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman In the CorridorBy Saskia HamiltonI passed through, I should have paused,there were a hundred doors. One opened.In there, someone whose nameis not yet known to me lived out his middle years in simple terms, two chairs,one place laid for early breakfast, one platewith dry toast and butter softening. Therehis mind raced through writings he had memorized long ago while he triedto get hold of himself. Oncein his youth he had studied with lovein the corners of old paintings matrices of fields and towns,passages intricate and particular, wheat,columns, figures and ground,classically proportioned in lines that were meantto meet, eventually,at vanishing point. They continued,nevertheless; they troubled the eye. He collected sets of books printedin the nineteenth century, unyieldingpages, memoirs of the poets,engravings of rurified private subjects in times of public sector unhappiness,frescoes of human oddity in gatefold printing.Why does it continueto chasten me, he says to no one. It does. It is a painful mistaking,this setting something down,saying aloud, “it is nothing yet”when he’d meant, not anything— but then nothing peeredthrough the keyhole, nothingtook possession. Snow on the roofs,snow in traces on the ground, passersby with wet trouser-cuffslooking to the pavement as the hill rises,light gathering in the riverand gradually spreading. 

Listed in: Drama

All My Pretty Ones by Anne Sexton

Published: April 12, 2020, 7:40 p.m.
Duration: 3 minutes 37 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin SeamanAll My Pretty OnesBy Anne SextonFather, this year’s jinx rides us apartwhere you followed our mother to her cold slumber;a second shock boiling its stone to your heart,  leaving me here to shuffle and disencumber  you from the residence you could not afford:  a gold key, your half of a woolen mill,twenty suits from Dunne’s, an English Ford,  the love and legal verbiage of another will,  boxes of pictures of people I do not know.I touch their cardboard faces. They must go. But the eyes, as thick as wood in this album,  hold me. I stop here, where a small boywaits in a ruffled dress for someone to come ...  for this soldier who holds his bugle like a toy  or for this velvet lady who cannot smile.  Is this your father’s father, this commodorein a mailman suit? My father, time meanwhile  has made it unimportant who you are looking for.  I’ll never know what these faces are all about.  I lock them into their book and throw them out. This is the yellow scrapbook that you beganthe year I was born; as crackling now and wrinkly  as tobacco leaves: clippings where Hoover outran  the Democrats, wiggling his dry finger at meand Prohibition; news where the Hindenburg went  down and recent years where you went flush  on war. This year, solvent but sick, you meant  to marry that pretty widow in a one-month rush.  But before you had that second chance, I cried  on your fat shoulder. Three days later you died. These are the snapshots of marriage, stopped in places.  Side by side at the rail toward Nassau now;here, with the winner’s cup at the speedboat races,  here, in tails at the Cotillion, you take a bow,here, by our kennel of dogs with their pink eyes,  running like show-bred pigs in their chain-link pen;  here, at the horseshow where my sister wins a prize;  and here, standing like a duke among groups of men.  Now I fold you down, my drunkard, my navigator,  my first lost keeper, to love or look at later. I hold a five-year diary that my mother kept  for three years, telling all she does not say  of your alcoholic tendency. You overslept,she writes. My God, father, each Christmas Day  with your blood, will I drink down your glass  of wine? The diary of your hurly-burly years  goes to my shelf to wait for my age to pass.  Only in this hoarded span will love persevere.  Whether you are pretty or not, I outlive you,bend down my strange face to yours and forgive you.

Listed in: Drama

Waiting by Raymond Carver

Published: April 11, 2020, 5:52 p.m.
Duration: 1 minute 37 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman Waitingby Raymond CarverLeft off the highway anddown the hill. At thebottom, hang another left.Keep bearing left. The roadwill make a Y. Left again.There’s a creek on the left.Keep going. Just beforethe road ends, there’ll beanother road. Take itand no other. Otherwise,your life will be ruinedforever. There’s a log housewith a shake roof, on the left.It’s not that house. It’sthe next house, just overa rise. The housewhere trees are laden withfruit. Where phlox, forsythia,and marigold grow. It’sthe house where the womanstands in the doorwaywearing the sun in her hair. The onewho’s been waitingall this time.The woman who loves you.The one who can say,“What’s kept you?”  

Listed in: Drama

This Morning by Charles Simic

Published: April 9, 2020, 1:21 a.m.
Duration: 2 minutes 9 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman This Morningby Charles Simic Enter without knocking, hard-working ant.I'm just sitting here mulling overWhat to do this dark, overcast day?It was a night of the radio turned down low,Fitful sleep, vague, troubling dreams.I woke up lovesick and confused.I thought I heard Estella in the garden singingAnd some bird answering her,But it was the rain. Dark tree tops swayingAnd whispering. "Come to me my desire,"I said. And she came to me by and by,Her breath smelling of mint, her tongueWetting my cheek, and then she vanished.Slowly day came, a gray streak of daylightTo bathe my hands and face in.Hours passed, and then you crawledUnder the door, and stopped before me.You visit the same tailors the mourners do,Mr. Ant. I like the silence between us,The quiet--that holy state even the rainKnows about. Listen to her begin to fall,As if with eyes closed,Muting each drop in her wild-beating heart.

Listed in: Drama

Upon Nothing by John Wilmot Earl of Rochester

Published: April 1, 2020, 4:27 p.m.
Duration: 3 minutes 36 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman Upon NothingBY JOHN WILMOT EARL OF ROCHESTERNothing! thou elder brother even to Shade:That hadst a being ere the world was made,And well fixed, art alone of ending not afraid. Ere Time and Place were, Time and Place were not,When primitive Nothing Something straight begot;Then all proceeded from the great united What. Something, the general attribute of all,Severed from thee, its sole original,Into thy boundless self must undistinguished fall; Yet Something did thy mighty power command,And from fruitful Emptiness’s handSnatched men, beasts, birds, fire, air, and land. Matter the wicked’st offspring of thy race,By Form assisted, flew from thy embrace,And rebel Light obscured thy reverend dusky face. With Form and Matter, Time and Place did join;Body, thy foe, with these did leagues combineTo spoil thy peaceful realm, and ruin all thy line; But turncoat Time assists the foe in vain,And bribed by thee, destroys their short-lived reign,And to thy hungry womb drives back thy slaves again. Though mysteries are barred from laic eyes,And the divine alone with warrant priesInto thy bosom, where truth in private lies, Yet this of thee the wise may truly say,Thou from the virtuous nothing dost delay,And to be part with thee the wicked wisely pray. Great Negative, how vainly would the wiseInquire, define, distinguish, teach, devise,Didst thou not stand to point their blind philosophies! Is, or Is Not, the two great ends of Fate,And True or False, the subject of debate,That perfect or destroy the vast designs of state— When they have racked the politician’s breast,Within thy Bosom most securely rest,And when reduced to thee, are least unsafe and best. But Nothing, why does Something still permitThat sacred monarchs should at council sitWith persons highly thought at best for nothing fit, While weighty Something modestly abstainsFrom princes’ coffers, and from statemen’s brains,And Nothing there like stately Nothing reigns? Nothing! who dwell’st with fools in grave disguiseFor whom they reverend shapes and forms devise,Lawn sleeves, and furs, and gowns, when they like thee look wise: French truth, Dutch prowess, British policy,Hibernian learning, Scotch civility,Spaniards’ dispatch, Danes’ wit are mainly seen in thee. The great man’s gratitude to his best friend,Kings’ promises, whores’ vows—towards thee may bend,Flow swiftly into thee, and in thee ever end.

Listed in: Drama

De Profundis by Georg Trakl

Published: March 31, 2020, 8:50 p.m.
Duration: 2 minutes 20 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman De Profundisby Georg Trakl It is a stubble-field where black rain falls.It is a dark-brown tree that stands alone.It is a soughing wind that swirls round empty huts –How dismal this evening. Passing the hamletThe gentle orphan girl still gathers scanty ears of corn.Round and golden her eyes feast on the gathering dusk,Her lap yearning for the heavenly bridegroom. On their way homeThe shepherds found the darling bodyRotting in the briers. I am a shadow far from desolate villages.God’s silenceI drank from the springs of the grove. Cold metal meets my temples.Spiders seek out my heart.There is a light that guts in my mouth. At night I found myself on a heath,Stiffening with dirt and dust from the stars.In the thicket of hazelsCrystal angels once more sounded. 

Listed in: Drama

The Applicant by Sylvia Plath

Published: March 26, 2020, 5:28 p.m.
Duration: 2 minutes 38 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin SeamanThe ApplicantBY SYLVIA PLATHFirst, are you our sort of a person?Do you wearA glass eye, false teeth or a crutch,A brace or a hook,Rubber breasts or a rubber crotch,Stitches to show something's missing? No, no? ThenHow can we give you a thing?Stop crying.Open your hand.Empty? Empty. Here is a handTo fill it and willingTo bring teacups and roll away headachesAnd do whatever you tell it.Will you marry it?It is guaranteedTo thumb shut your eyes at the endAnd dissolve of sorrow.We make new stock from the salt.I notice you are stark naked.How about this suit——Black and stiff, but not a bad fit.Will you marry it?It is waterproof, shatterproof, proofAgainst fire and bombs through the roof.Believe me, they'll bury you in it.Now your head, excuse me, is empty.I have the ticket for that.Come here, sweetie, out of the closet.Well, what do you think of that?Naked as paper to startBut in twenty-five years she'll be silver,In fifty, gold.A living doll, everywhere you look.It can sew, it can cook,It can talk, talk, talk.It works, there is nothing wrong with it.You have a hole, it's a poultice.You have an eye, it's an image.My boy, it's your last resort.Will you marry it, marry it, marry it.

Listed in: Drama

Published: March 23, 2020, 2:43 p.m.
Duration: N/A

Listed in: Drama

Published: March 23, 2020, 2:43 p.m.
Duration: N/A

Listed in: Drama

For Love by Robert Creeley

Published: March 19, 2020, 8:27 p.m.
Duration: 2 minutes 25 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin SeamanFor Loveby Robert Creeleyfor BobbieYesterday I wanted tospeak of it, that sense above  the others to meimportant because allthat I know derivesfrom what it teaches me.  Today, what is it that  is finally so helpless,different, despairs of its own  statement, wants toturn away, endlesslyto turn away.If the moon did not ...no, if you did notI wouldn’t either, but  what would I notdo, what prevention, what  thing so quickly stopped.  That is love yesterday  or tomorrow, notnow. Can I eatwhat you give me. Ihave not earned it. Must  I think of everythingas earned. Now love also  becomes a reward soremote from me I haveonly made it with my mind.Here is tedium,despair, a painfulsense of isolation and  whimsical if pompousself-regard. But that image  is only of the mind’svague structure, vague to me  because it is my own.Love, what do I thinkto say. I cannot say it.What have you become to ask,  what have I made you into,companion, good company,  crossed legs with skirt, or  soft body underthe bones of the bed.Nothing says anything  but that which it wishes  would come true, fears  what else might happen insome other place, some  other time not this one.  A voice in my place, an  echo of that only in yours.Let me stumble intonot the confession but  the obsession I begin with  now. For youalso (also)some time beyond place, or  place beyond time, no  mind left tosay anything at all,that face gone, now.Into the company of love  it all returns.

Listed in: Drama

All Night, All Night by Delmore Schwartz

Published: March 15, 2020, 7:37 p.m.
Duration: 5 minutes 36 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin SeamanAll Night, All Nightby Delmore SchwartzRode in the train all night, in the sick light. A birdFlew parallel with a singular will. In daydream's moods andattitudesThe other passengers slumped, dozed, slept, read,Waiting, and waiting for place to be displacedOn the exact track of safety or the rack of accident. Looked out at the night, unable to distinguishLights in the towns of passage from the yellow lightsNumb on the ceiling. And the bird flew parallel and stillAs the train shot forth the straight line of its whistle,Forward on the taut tracks, piercing empty, familiar -- The bored center of this vision and condition looked andlookedDown through the slick pages of the magazine (seekingThe seen and the unseen) and his gaze fell down the wellOf the great darkness under the slick glitter,And he was only one among eight million riders andreaders. And all the while under his empty smile the shaking drumOf the long determined passage passed through himBy his body mimicked and echoed. And then the trainLike a suddenly storming rain, began to rush and thresh--The silent or passive night, pressing and impressingThe patients' foreheads with a tightening-like imageOf the rushing engine proceeded by a shaft of lightPiercing the dark, changing and transforming the silenceInto a violence of foam, sound, smoke and succession. A bored child went to get a cup of water,And crushed the cup because the water too wasBoring and merely boredom's struggle.The child, returning, looked over the shoulderOf a man reading until he annoyed the shoulder.A fat woman yawned and felt the liquid dropsDrip down the fleece of many dinners. And the bird flew parallel and parallel flewThe black pencil lines of telephone posts, crucified,At regular intervals, post after postOf thrice crossed, blue-belled, anonymous trees. And then the bird cried as if to all of us: 0 your life, your lonely lifeWhat have you ever done with it,And done with the great gift of consciousness?What will you ever do with your life before death'sknifeProvides the answer ultimate and appropriate? As I for my part felt in my heart as one who falls,Falls in a parachute, falls endlessly, and feel the vastDraft of the abyss sucking him down and down,An endlessly helplessly falling and appalled clown: This is the way that night passes by, thisIs the overnight endless trip to the famous unfathomableabyss.  

Listed in: Drama

The Night Where You No Longer Live by Meghan O'Rourke

Published: March 13, 2020, 1:04 a.m.
Duration: 1 minute 41 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman The Night Where You No Longer Liveby Meghan O'Rourke Was it like lifting a veilAnd was the grass treacherous, the green grass Did you think of your own mother Was it like a virusDid the software flicker And was this the beginningWas it like that Was there gas station food and was it a long trip  And is there sun thereor dronesor punishmentor growth  Was it a blackout And did you still create meAnd what was I like on the first day of my life  Were we two from the startAnd was our time an entranceor an ending  Did we stand in the heated roomDid we look at the painting Did the snow appear coldWere our feet red with it, with the wet snow And then what were our namesDid you love me or did I misunderstand Is it terrible  Do you intend to come back Do you hear the world’s keening Will you stay the night

Listed in: Drama

The Night City by W.S. Graham

Published: March 6, 2020, 8:16 p.m.
Duration: 1 minute 40 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin SeamanThe Night CityBY W. S. GRAHAMUnmet at Euston in a dreamOf London under Turner’s steamMisting the iron gantries, IFound myself running awayFrom Scotland into the golden city. I ran down Gray’s Inn Road and ranTill I was under a black bridge.This was me at nineteenLate at night arriving betweenThe buildings of the City of London. And the I (O I have fallen down)Fell in my dream beside the BankOf England’s wall to be, meWith my money belt of Northern ice.I found Eliot and he said yes And sprang into a Holmes cab.Boswell passed me in the fogGoing to visit Whistler whoWas with John Donne who had just seenPaul Potts shouting on Soho Green. Midnight. I hear the moonLight chiming on St Paul’s. The City is empty. NightWatchmen are drinking their tea, The Fire had burnt out.The Plague’s pits had closedAnd gone into literature. Between the big buildingsI sat like a flea crouchedIn the stopped works of a watch.

Listed in: Drama

Mirrors by Jorge Luis Borges

Published: Feb. 28, 2020, 6:33 p.m.
Duration: 3 minutes 40 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman               MirrorsBy Jorge Luis Borges I have been horrified before all mirrorsnot just before the impenetrable glass,the end and the beginning of that space,inhabited by nothing but reflections, but faced with specular water, mirroringthe other blue within its bottomless sky,incised at times by the illusory flightof inverted birds, or troubled by a ripple, or face to face with the unspeaking surfaceof ghostly ebony whose very hardnessreflects, as if within a dream, the whitenessof spectral marble or a spectral rose. Now, after so many troubling yearsof wandering beneath the wavering moon,I ask myself what accident of fortunehanded to me this terror of all mirrors– mirrors of metal and the shrouded mirrorof sheer mahogany which in the twilightof its uncertain red softens the facethat watches and in turn is watched by it. I look on them as infinite, elementalfulfillers of a very ancient pactto multiply the world, as in the actof generation, sleepless and dangerous. They extenuate this vain and dubious worldwithin the web of their own vertigo.Sometimes at evening they are clouded overby someone's breath, someone who is not dead. The glass is watching us. And if a mirrorhangs somewhere on the four walls of my room,I am not alone. There's an other, a reflectionwhich in the dawn enacts its own dumb show. Everything happens, nothing is rememberedin those dimensioned cabinets of glassin which, like rabbits in fantastic stories,we read the lines of text from right to left. Claudius, king for an evening, king in a dream,did not know he was a dream until the dayon which an actor mimed his felonywith silent artifice, in a tableau. Strange, that there are dreams, that there are mirrors.Strange that the ordinary, worn-out waysof every day encompass the imaginedand endless universe woven by reflections. God (I've begun to think) implants a promisein all that insubstantial architecturethat makes light out of the impervious surfaceof glass, and makes the shadow out of dreams. God has created nights well-populatedwith dreams, crowded with mirror images,so that man may feel that he is nothing morethan vain reflection. That's what frightens us.                         Spanish; trans. Alastair Reid

Listed in: Drama

Crossroads in the Past by John Ashbery

Published: Feb. 21, 2020, 2:31 a.m.
Duration: 2 minutes 8 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman Crossroads in the PastBY JOHN ASHBERYThat night the wind stirred in the forsythia bushes,but it was a wrong one, blowing in the wrong direction.“That’s silly. How can there be a wrong direction?‘It bloweth where it listeth,’ as you know, just as we dowhen we make love or do something else there are no rules for.” I tell you, something went wrong there a while back.Just don’t ask me what it was. Pretend I’ve dropped the subject.No, now you’ve got me interested, I want to knowexactly what seems wrong to you, how something could seem wrong to you. In what way do things get to be wrong?I’m sitting here dialing my cellphonewith one hand, digging at some obscure pebbles with my shovelwith the other. And then something like braids will stand out, on horsehair cushions. That armchair is really too lugubrious.We’ve got to change all the furniture, fumigate the house,talk our relationship back to its beginnings. Say, you knowthat’s probably what’s wrong—the beginnings concept, I mean.I aver there are no beginnings, though there were perhaps somesometime. We’d stopped, to look at the poster the movie theater had placed freestanding on the sidewalk. The lobby cardsdrew us in. It was afternoon, we found ourselvessitting at the end of a row in the balcony; the theater was unexpectedlycrowded. That was the day we first realized we didn’t fullyknow our names, yours or mine, and we left quietlyamid the gray snow falling. Twilight had already set in.

Listed in: Drama

Fears and Scruples by Robert Browning

Published: Feb. 16, 2020, 3:48 a.m.
Duration: 3 minutes 23 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman Fears and Scruples  (1876)by Robert Browning  Here's my case. Of old I used to love him,    This same unseen friend, before I knew:Dream there was none like him, none above him,—    Wake to hope and trust my dream was true.Loved I not his letters full of beauty?    Not his actions famous far and wide?Absent, he would know I vowed him duty;    Present, he would find me at his side.Pleasant fancy! for I had but letters,    Only knew of actions by hearsay:He himself was busied with my betters;    What of that? My turn must come some day."Some day" proving—no day! Here's the puzzle.    Passed and passed my turn is. Why complain?He's so busied! If I could but muzzle    People's foolish mouths that give me pain!"Letters?" (hear them!) "You a judge of writing?    Ask the experts! How they shake the headO'er these characters, your friend's inditing—    Call them forgery from A to Z!"Actions? Where's your certain proof" (they bother)    "He, of all you find so great and good,He, he only, claims this, that, the other    Action—claimed by men, a multitude?"I can simply wish I might refute you,    Wish my friend would,—by a word, a wink,—Bid me stop that foolish mouth,—you brute you!    He keeps absent,—why, I cannot think.Never mind! Though foolishness may flout me,    One thing's sure enough: 'tis neither frost,No, nor fire, shall freeze or burn from out me    Thanks for truth—though falsehood, gained—though lost.All my days, I'll go the softlier, sadlier,    For that dream's sake! How forget the thrillThrough and through me as I thought "The gladlier    Lives my friend because I love him still!"Ah, but there's a menace some one utters!    "What and if your friend at home play tricksPeep at hide-and-seek behind the shutters?    Mean your eyes should pierce through solid bricks?"What and if he, frowning, wake you, dreamy?    Lay on you the blame that bricks—conceal?Say 'At least I saw who did not see me,    Does see now, and presently shall feel'?""Why, that makes your friend a monster!" say you:    "Had his house no window? At first nod,Would you not have hailed him?" Hush, I pray you!    What if this friend happen to be—God?

Listed in: Drama

Crossing Brooklyn Ferry by Walt Whitman

Published: Feb. 4, 2020, 9:27 p.m.
Duration: 15 minutes 1 second

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seamanhttps://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45470/crossing-brooklyn-ferry 

Listed in: Drama

One Night in Balthazar by Fanny Howe

Published: Jan. 28, 2020, 11:49 p.m.
Duration: 1 minute 57 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin SeamanOne Night in BalthazarBy Fanny Howe The hotel bar downstairswas dirty and dark and almost emptyexcept for him whom I didn’t know I lost my balancebecause evil is aroused by absence  Outside on the islanda brick city had grown up and old A person could only nibble on its shadows  Where was my beloved? The cornerstone was familiarbut unrecognizableand I didn’t understand why infinity was seeping into my hair   Somebody said:“He’s out of his bottle” I guess it meantTemporarily out of service and empty. But then there was Arsenebeside the last remaining cabinwandering with his eyes on the camera  Dynamite in his pocketand a piece of thread to trap a rabbit.  Evil is a growing thingIt has its own gravityand never answers to its nameIt is a hole into chaos. It is real Arsene held me in his armsHe was drunk as usualand his nipple smelled of rum But still I loved him—loved him madly!—as if he was the one

Listed in: Drama

Unlit Matches by Rye Tippett

Published: Jan. 21, 2020, 8:36 p.m.
Duration: 1 minute 35 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

A Terror is More Certain by Bob Kaufman

Published: Jan. 13, 2020, 4:33 p.m.
Duration: 3 minutes 14 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin SeamanA Terror is More Certain . . .BY BOB KAUFMANA terror is more certain than all the rare desirable popular songs Iknow, than even now when all of my myths have become . . . , & walkaround in black shiny galoshes & carry dirty laundry to & fro, & readgreat books & don’t know criminals intimately, & publish fat books ofthe month & have wifeys that are lousy in bed & never realize howbad my writing is because i am poor & symbolize myself.A certain desirable is more terror to me than all that’s rare. Howcome they don’t give an academic award to all the movie stars thatdie? they’re still acting, ain’t they? even if they are dead, it shouldnot be held against them, after all they still have the public on theirside, how would you like to be a dead movie star & have people sit-ting on your grave?A rare me is more certain than desirable, that’s all the terror, thereare too many basketball players in this world & too much progressin the burial industry, lets have old fashioned funerals & standaround & forgive & borrow wet handkerchiefs, & sneak out fordrinks & help load the guy into the wagon, & feel sad & make adate with the widow & believe we don’t see all of the people sink-ing into the subways going to basketball games & designing babysitters at Madison Square Garden.A certain me is desirable, what is so rare as air in a Poem, why can’ti write a foreign movie like all the other boys my age, I confess to allthe crimes committed during the month of April, but not to savemy own neck, which is adjustable, & telescopes into any size noose,I’m doing it to save Gertrude Stein’s reputation, who is secretlyflying model airplanes for the underground railroad stern gang ofoz, & is the favorite in all the bouts . . . not officially opened yetHolland tunnel is the one who writes untrue phone numbers.A desirable poem is more rare than rare, & terror is certain, whowants to be a poet & work a twenty four hour shift, they never askyou first, who wants to listen to the radiator play string quartets allnight. I want to be allowed not to be, suppose a man wants toswing on the kiddie swings, should people be allowed to stab himwith queer looks & drag him off to bed & its no fun on top of alady when her hair is full of shiny little machines & your assreflected in that television screen, who wants to be a poet if youfuck on t.v. & all those cowboys watching. 

Listed in: Drama

Aubade by Philip Larkin

Published: Jan. 4, 2020, 3:35 a.m.
Duration: 4 minutes 3 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin SeamanAubadeby Philip LarkinI work all day, and get half-drunk at night.    Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare.    In time the curtain-edges will grow light.    Till then I see what’s really always there:    Unresting death, a whole day nearer now,    Making all thought impossible but how    And where and when I shall myself die.    Arid interrogation: yet the dreadOf dying, and being dead,Flashes afresh to hold and horrify. The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse    —The good not done, the love not given, time    Torn off unused—nor wretchedly because    An only life can take so long to climbClear of its wrong beginnings, and may never;    But at the total emptiness for ever,The sure extinction that we travel toAnd shall be lost in always. Not to be here,    Not to be anywhere,And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true. This is a special way of being afraidNo trick dispels. Religion used to try,That vast moth-eaten musical brocadeCreated to pretend we never die,And specious stuff that says No rational beingCan fear a thing it will not feel, not seeingThat this is what we fear—no sight, no sound,    No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with,    Nothing to love or link with,The anaesthetic from which none come round. And so it stays just on the edge of vision,    A small unfocused blur, a standing chill    That slows each impulse down to indecision.    Most things may never happen: this one will,    And realisation of it rages outIn furnace-fear when we are caught without    People or drink. Courage is no good:It means not scaring others. Being brave    Lets no one off the grave.Death is no different whined at than withstood. Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape.    It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know,    Have always known, know that we can’t escape,    Yet can’t accept. One side will have to go.Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring    In locked-up offices, and all the uncaringIntricate rented world begins to rouse.The sky is white as clay, with no sun.Work has to be done.Postmen like doctors go from house to house.

Listed in: Drama

3 Winter Poems by W.S. Merwin, Wilhelm Müller & Mark Strand

Published: Dec. 23, 2019, 7:09 p.m.
Duration: 3 minutes 11 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin SeamanPoems Read:The Solstice By W.S. MerwinDer Leiermann by Wilhelm Müller&Snowfall by Mark Strand

Listed in: Drama

WALK ON ALL FOURS: CODE IN DOG by Andrei Codrescu

Published: Dec. 20, 2019, 6:26 p.m.
Duration: 3 minutes 36 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman I remember walking out of the ocean. What struggle!Millions of mollusk years and shell games that hurt.I remember getting up from all fours and looking downon all my astonished variously shaped former friends.Not one of them wanted to look up at me now I was up.Bipedal and lonely until there were a bunch of others.I remember the first scene in 2001 where I killed another.I remember that every time I bent down to be closerto the busy world of things that crawled loped or burrowedI was condescending and they moved away from me.I remember towering over everything that wasn’t me.I remember the day I howled in pain because my back gave out.That was the day I knew my body was weakly hingedat the place where it first stood up, and I wanted down again.Lord, help me walk on all fours again. I know that it’s late.We only grow taller now like the towers we can’t stop building.Since we got language not one nonhuman creature deignsto speak to us though we pretend in vain to understand them.Animals find it more understandable when we shoot themthen when we kneel down and pretend we are their friends.We do kneel down often to pray not to commune but praythat we won’t suffer from the back pain that is our sign of Cain.I remember that I can still return to water and do flipsbut I’m in charge now of all the things I covered over.I remember kneeling to gods who were so tall I couldn’t see them.Their heads were in the clouds, we barely reached their sandals.Even the mono god was so tall he dropped the tablets on Mosesand made lightning to scare us all to the death we knew was coming.In the little world I live in I sell diminishment at one dollar an inchand practice quadripedal yoga every morning in my living roomhoping to walk one day into the street with my quadripedal brood.It will be the day of no pain and of trading language for nozzling.If we succeed it won’t be so hard to hope that learning screens hurtsless than when we first left the ocean, equally pushed by hubris.Our new weak spot is memory. A bad back and a lousy memorymay smooth our way to becoming humble and wild again and good.

Listed in: Drama

Three poems from Alphabet de Soleils by Gilberte H. Dallas

Published: Dec. 19, 2019, 7:35 p.m.
Duration: 7 minutes 4 seconds

Three poems from Alphabet de soleilsCThe banner of your body floats in the Brandenburg wind.An old woman wants to come in, Ican see her through the door, her red felt handpressing in vain on the latch, scrapsof her cries come at me like the barbaricsong of a violin mending the night;I’m going to slip a rose under the doora black-blooded rose, maybe she’ll go away?And I could wallow in the bramble hammockbut her voice hiccups: OpheliaMy name is Ophelia, open the door, O-phe-lia…—What do I care about her grotesque distortionsWhat lie will she bring me? Whydoesn’t she extend it to me through the sheetsof sand the way she extends her name…OpheliaOphelia, her shadow ricochets in the auraof my dusk. Ophelia, her voice grateslike a leper’s rattle, philia, figlia…KLet’s catapult the conchoidal colocynthLet’s catapult the choephori of the coliddors of the tifthand the mitten cruncher, the tomcat cruncher, crunchers of sheepnote cruncher, crunch-in-your-mouth and in arms and in deaths.Let’s catapult the lynx and the oriole’s cochineal mantillalet’s catapult the mangoand the mongoose, shoo!OI’ve plunged my insatiable thirst into the seaweed of your body at rest on the anvil, splendid carrion, treasure of the Galapagos I’ve plunged my hands into your entrails and taken out the Black Lady’s stone dress, stones of grasses, of water and sky, stones of suns and sons.I’ve plunged my hands into your womb, I’ve taken out the wooden horse, white as a star, its tulip harness.I’ve plunged my hands and face into your rotting flesh and taken out your heart gnawed by a big cat, your heart that continues to beat in the pit of my hands more alive than Koh-i-Noor, more precious than the sea’s chariot.I’ve embraced your stiff breasts, beautiful as permanence, and your mouth, crocus of ash said: hate.Your eyes repeated it again as I raised your eyelids oh! Madeleine.Then with a turn I excavated the pearl inlaid in your temple.What erupted were voracious breezes that made your mind a tatter of blue.

Listed in: Drama

Untitled [Do you still remember: falling stars] by Rainer Maria Rilke

Published: Dec. 11, 2019, 10:39 p.m.
Duration: 1 minute 20 seconds

Untitled [Do you still remember: falling stars]Do you still remember: falling stars,how they leapt slantwise through the skylike horses over suddenly held-out hurdlesof our wishes—did we have so many?—for stars, innumerable, leapt everywhere;almost every gaze upward becamewedded to the swift hazard of their play,and our heart felt like a single thingbeneath that vast disintegration of their brilliance—and was whole, as if it would survive them!

Listed in: Drama

The Distant Steps (Los Pasos Lejanos) by Cesar Vallejo

Published: Dec. 5, 2019, 5:30 p.m.
Duration: 2 minutes 16 seconds

Production and Sound Design By Kevin Seaman"the distant steps"By Cesar Vallejo my father sleeps. his august frontispiece  portrays a gentle heart;it is now so placid...  if there's something bitter, should be me..  there is solitude in our home; we pray;  there is no buzz today to share.  my father awakes, as it resoundsthe Egypt's gap, the farewell with no meaning..  now it is so close;  if there's something far on, should be me.  then my mother walks beyond the gardens,  enjoying this feel now already disenchanted.  she is so delicate,  fluid, brief and beloved.   the solitude in our home has no riots,  no news, no flora, without child roots.  and if something is broken at afternoon  which bends and breaks  are those two leaned old folks.  for them my heart still stands. 

Listed in: Drama

The Laughing Heart by Charles Bukowski

Published: Nov. 27, 2019, 7:34 p.m.
Duration: 1 minute 7 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman The Laughing Heart by Charles Bukowskiyour life is your lifedon’t let it be clubbed into dank submission.be on the watch.there are ways out.there is light somewhere.it may not be much light butit beats the darkness.be on the watch.the gods will offer you chances.know them.take them.you can’t beat death butyou can beat death in life, sometimes.and the more often you learn to do it,the more light there will be.your life is your life.know it while you have it.you are marvelousthe gods wait to delightin you.

Listed in: Drama

Old Angel Midnight Book 1 by Jack Kerouac

Published: Nov. 19, 2019, 2:33 p.m.
Duration: 3 minutes 24 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

Shadwell Stair by Wilfred Owen

Published: Nov. 8, 2019, 8:11 p.m.
Duration: 1 minute 48 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman Shadwell Stairby Wilfred Owen I am the ghost of Shadwell Stair.      Along the wharves by the water-house,      And through the cavernous slaughter-house,I am the shadow that walks there.  Yet I have flesh both firm and cool,      And eyes tumultuous as the gems      Of moons and lamps in the full ThamesWhen dusk sails wavering down the pool.  Shuddering the purple street-arc burns      Where I watch always; from the banks      Dolorously the shipping clanksAnd after me a strange tide turns.  I walk till the stars of London wane      And dawn creeps up the Shadwell Stair.      But when the crowing syrens blareI with another ghost am lain.

Listed in: Drama

The Dance by Wendell Berry

Published: Nov. 6, 2019, 9:34 p.m.
Duration: 1 minute 59 seconds

Production, Composition and Sound Design by Kevin SeamanThe Danceby Wendell BerryI would have each couple turn,join and unjoin, be lostin the greater turningof other couples, wovenin the circle of a dance,the song of long time flowingover them, so they may return,turn again in to themselvesout of desire greater than their own,belonging to all, to each,to the dance, and to the songthat moves them through the night.What is fidelity? To whatdoes it hold? The pointof departure, or the turning roadthat is departure and absenceand the way home? What we areand what we were onceare far estranged. For thosewho would not change, timeis infidelity. But we are marrieduntil death, and are betrothedto change. By silence, so,I learn my song. I earnmy sunny fields by absence, onceand to come. And I love youas I love the dance that brings youout of the multitudein which you come and go.Love changes, and in change is true.

Listed in: Drama

The Hollow Men by T.S. Eliot

Published: Oct. 28, 2019, 7:47 p.m.
Duration: 4 minutes 53 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman THE HOLLOW MENby T. S. EliotMistah Kurtz-he dead.A penny for the Old GuyWe are the hollow menWe are the stuffed menLeaning togetherHeadpiece filled with straw. Alas!Our dried voices, when We whisper togetherAre quiet and meaninglessAs wind in dry grassOr rats' feet over broken glassIn our dry cellar Shape without form shade without colour,Paralyzed force, gesture without motion;Those who have crossedWith direct eyes to death's other KingdomRemember us--if at all-- not as lost Violent souls, but onlyAs the hollow menThe stuffed men.IIEyes I dare not meet in dreamsIn death's dream kingdom These do not appear:There the eyes areSunlight on a broken columnThere is a tree swingingAnd voices are In the wind's singingMore distant and more solemnThan a fading starLet me be no nearerIn death's dream kingdom Let me also wearSuch deliberate disguisesRat's coat, crowskin, crossed stavesIn a fieldBehaving as the wind behaves No nearer--Not that final meetingIn the twilight kingdom.IIIThis is the dead landthis is cactus land Here the stone imagesAre raised, here they receiveThe supplication of a dead man's handUnder the twinkle of a fading star.Is it like this In death's other kingdomWaking aloneAt the hour when we areTrembling with tendernessLips that would kiss Form prayers to broken stoneIVThe eyes are not hereThere are no eye hereIn this valley of dying starsIn this hollow valley This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms.In this last of meeting placesWe grope togetherAnd avoid speechGathered on this beach of the tumid river. Sightless, unlessThe eyes reappearAs the perpetual starMultifoliate roseOf death's twilight kingdom The hope onlyOf empty men.VHere we go round the prickly pearPrickly pear prickly pearHere we go round the prickly pear At five o'clock in the morning.Between the ideaAnd the realityBetween the motionAnd the act Falls the ShadowFor Thine is the KingdomBetween the conceptionAnd the creationBetween the emotion And the responseFalls the ShadowLife is very longBetween the desireAnd the spasm Between the potencyAnd the existenceBetween the essenceAnd the descentFalls the Shadow For Thine is the KingdomFor Thine isLife isFor thine is theThis is the way the way the world ends This is the way the way the world endsThis is the way the way the world endsNot with a bang but a whimper.

Listed in: Drama

This living hand, now warm and capable by John Keats

Published: Oct. 25, 2019, 9:06 p.m.
Duration: 1 minute 22 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman "This living hand, now warm and capable"By John KeatsThis living hand, now warm and capableOf earnest grasping, would, if it were coldAnd in the icy silence of the tomb,So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nightsThat thou would wish thine own heart dry of bloodSo in my veins red life might stream again,And thou be conscience-calm’d–see here it is–I hold it towards you.

Listed in: Drama

The Listeners by Walter De La Mere

Published: Oct. 9, 2019, 4:20 p.m.
Duration: 2 minutes 39 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin SeamanThe ListenersBy Walter De La Mere‘Is there anybody there?’ said the Traveller,Knocking on the moonlit door;And his horse in the silence champed the grassesOf the forest’s ferny floor:And a bird flew up out of the turret,Above the Traveller’s head:And he smote upon the door again a second time;‘Is there anybody there?’ he said.But no one descended to the Traveller;No head from the leaf-fringed sillLeaned over and looked into his grey eyes,Where he stood perplexed and still.But only a host of phantom listenersThat dwelt in the lone house thenStood listening in the quiet of the moonlightTo that voice from the world of men:Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair,That goes down to the empty hall,Hearkening in an air stirred and shakenBy the lonely Traveller’s call.And he felt in his heart their strangeness,Their stillness answering his cry,While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,’Neath the starred and leafy sky;For he suddenly smote on the door, evenLouder, and lifted his head:—‘Tell them I came, and no one answered,That I kept my word,’ he said.Never the least stir made the listeners,Though every word he spakeFell echoing through the shadowiness of the still houseFrom the one man left awake:Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,And the sound of iron on stone,And how the silence surged softly backward,When the plunging hoofs were gone.

Listed in: Drama

October by Robert Frost

Published: Oct. 4, 2019, 3:31 p.m.
Duration: 1 minute 31 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman OctoberBY ROBERT FROSTO hushed October morning mild, Thy leaves have ripened to the fall; Tomorrow’s wind, if it be wild, Should waste them all. The crows above the forest call; Tomorrow they may form and go. O hushed October morning mild, Begin the hours of this day slow. Make the day seem to us less brief. Hearts not averse to being beguiled, Beguile us in the way you know. Release one leaf at break of day; At noon release another leaf; One from our trees, one far away. Retard the sun with gentle mist; Enchant the land with amethyst. Slow, slow! For the grapes’ sake, if they were all, Whose leaves already are burnt with frost, Whose clustered fruit must else be lost— For the grapes’ sake along the wall.

Listed in: Drama

The Man Moth by Elizabeth Bishop

Published: Oct. 1, 2019, 2:59 p.m.
Duration: 5 minutes 23 seconds

Production and Sound Design By Kevin SeamanThe Man-Moth” (written 1935, published 1936)_Man-Moth: Newspaper misprint for “mammoth.”Here, above, cracks in the buildings are filled with battered moonlight.The whole shadow of Man is only as big as his hat.It lies at his feet like a circle for a doll to stand on,and he makes an inverted pin, the point magnetized to the moon.He does not see the moon; he observes only her vast properties,feeling the queer light on his hands, neither warm nor cold,of a temperature impossible to record in thermometers.But when the Man-Mothpays his rare, although occasional, visits to the surface,the moon looks rather different to him. He emergesfrom an opening under the edge of one of the sidewalksand nervously begins to scale the faces of the buildings.He thinks the moon is a small hole at the top of the sky,proving the sky quite useless for protection.He trembles, but must investigate as high as he can climb.Up the façades,his shadow dragging like a photographer’s cloth behind himhe climbs fearfully, thinking that this time he will manageto push his small head through that round clean openingand be forced through, as from a tube, in black scrolls on the light.(Man, standing below him, has no such illusions.)But what the Man-Moth fears most he must do, althoughhe fails, of course, and falls back scared but quite unhurt.Then he returnsto the pale subways of cement he calls his home. He flits,he flutters, and cannot get aboard the silent trainsfast enough to suit him. The doors close swiftly.The Man-Moth always seats himself facing the wrong wayand the train starts at once at its full, terrible speed,without a shift in gears or a gradation of any sort.He cannot tell the rate at which he travels backwards.Each night he mustbe carried through artificial tunnels and dream recurrent dreams.Just as the ties recur beneath his train, these underliehis rushing brain. He does not dare look out the window,for the third rail, the unbroken draught of poison,runs there beside him. He regards it as a diseasehe has inherited the susceptibility to. He has to keephis hands in his pockets, as others must wear mufflers.If you catch him,hold up a flashlight to his eye. It’s all dark pupil,an entire night itself, whose haired horizon tightensas he stares back, and closes up the eye. Then from the lidsone tear, his only possession, like the bee’s sting, slips.Slyly he palms it, and if you’re not paying attentionhe’ll swallow it. However, if you watch, he’ll hand it over,cool as from underground springs and pure enough to drink.

Listed in: Drama

The Auroras of Autumn (Canto 5-10) by Wallace Stevens

Published: Sept. 23, 2019, 8:14 p.m.
Duration: 15 minutes 34 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman   The Auroras of Autumn Canto 5-10VThe mother invites humanity to her houseAnd table. The father fetches tellers of talesAnd musicians who mute much, muse much, on the tales.The father fetches negresses to dance,Among the children, like curious ripenessesOf pattern in the dance's ripening.For these the musicians make insidious tones,Clawing the sing-song of their instruments.The children laugh and jangle a tinny time.The father fetches pageants out of air,Scenes of the theatre, vistas and blocks of woodsAnd curtains like a naive pretence of sleep.Among these the musicians strike the instinctive poem.The father fetches his unherded herds,Of barbarous tongue, slavered and panting halvesOf breath, obedient to his trumpet's touch.This then is Chatillon or as you please.We stand in the tumult of a festival.What festival? This loud, disordered mooch?These hospitaliers? These brute-like guests?These musicians dubbing at a tragedy,A-dub, a-dub, which is made up of this:That there are no lines to speak? There is no play.Or, the persons act one merely by being here.VIIt is a theatre floating through the clouds,Itself a cloud, although of misted rockAnd mountains running like water, wave on wave,Through waves of light. It is of cloud transformedTo cloud transformed again, idly, the wayA season changes color to no end,Except the lavishing of itself in change,As light changes yellow into gold and goldTo its opal elements and fire's delight,Splashed wide-wise because it likes magnificenceAnd the solemn pleasures of magnificent spaceThe cloud drifts idly through half-thought-of forms.The theatre is filled with flying birds,Wild wedges, as of a volcano's smoke, palm-eyedAnd vanishing, a web in a corridorOr massive portico. A capitol,It may be, is emerging or has justCollapsed. The denouement has to be postponed . . .This is nothing until in a single man contained,Nothing until this named thing nameless isAnd is destroyed. He opens the door of his houseOn flames. The scholar of one candle seesAn Arctic effulgence flaring on the frameOf everything he is. And he feels afraid.VIIIs there an imagination that sits enthronedAs grim as it is benevolent, the justAnd the unjust, which in the midst of summer stopsTo imagine winter? When the leaves are dead,Does it take its place in the north and enfold itself,Goat-leaper, crystalled and luminous, sittingIn highest night? And do these heavens adornAnd proclaim it, the white creator of black, jettedBy extinguishings, even of planets as may be,Even of earth, even of sight, in snow,Except as needed by way of majesty,In the sky, as crown and diamond cabala?It leaps through us, through all our heavens leaps,Extinguishing our planets, one by one,Leaving, of where we were and looked, of whereWe knew each other and of each other thought,A shivering residue, chilled and foregone,Except for that crown and mystical cabala.But it dare not leap by chance in its own dark.It must change from destiny to slight caprice.And thus its jetted tragedy, its steleAnd shape and mournful making move to findWhat must unmake it and, at last, what can,Say, a flippant communication under the moon.VIIIThere may be always a time of innocence.There is never a place. Or if there is no time,If it is not a thing of time, nor of place,Existing in the idea of it, alone,In the sense against calamity, it is notLess real. For the oldest and coldest philosopher,There is or may be a time of innocenceAs pure principle. Its nature is its end,That it should be, and yet not be, a thingThat pinches the pity of the pitiful man,Like a book at evening beautiful but untrue,Like a book on rising beautiful and true.It is like a thing of ether that existsAlmost as predicate. But it exists,It exists, it is visible, it is, it is.So, then, these lights are not a spell of light,A saying out of a cloud, but innocence.An innocence of the earth and no false signOr symbol of malice. That we partake thereof,Lie down like children in this holiness,As if, awake, we lay in the quiet of sleep,As if the innocent mother sang in the darkOf the room and on an accordion, half-heard,Created the time and place in which we breathed . . .IXAnd of each other thought—in the idiomOf the work, in the idiom of an innocent earth,Not of the enigma of the guilty dream.We were as Danes in Denmark all day longAnd knew each other well, hale-hearted landsmen,For whom the outlandish was another dayOf the week, queerer than Sunday. We thought alikeAnd that made brothers of us in a homeIn which we fed on being brothers, fedAnd fattened as on a decorous honeycomb.This drama that we live—We lay sticky with sleep.This sense of the activity of fate—The rendezvous, when she came alone,By her coming became a freedom of the two,An isolation which only the two could share.Shall we be found hanging in the trees next s pring?Of what disaster in this the imminence:Bare limbs, bare trees and a wind as sharp as salt?The stars are putting on their glittering belts.They throw around their shoulders cloaks that flashLike a great shadow's last embellishment.It may come tomorrow in the simplest word,Almost as part of innocence, almost,Almost as the tenderest and the truest part.XAn unhappy people in a happy world—Read, rabbi, the phases of this difference.An unhappy people in an unhappy world—Here are too many mirrors for misery.A happy people in an unhappy world—It cannot be. There's nothing there to rollOn the expressive tongue, the finding fang.A happy people in a happy world—Buffo! A ball, an opera, a bar.Turn back to where we were when we began:An unhappy people in a happy world.Now, solemnize the secretive syllables.Read to the congregation, for todayAnd for tomorrow, this extremity,This contrivance of the spectre of the spheres,Contriving balance to contrive a whole,The vital, the never-failing genius,Fulfilling his meditations, great and small.In these unhappy he meditates a whole,The full of fortune and the full of fate,As if he lived all lives, that he might know,In hall harridan, not hushful paradise,To a haggling of wind and weather, by these lightsLike a blaze of summer straw, in winter's nick.

Listed in: Drama

The Auroras of Autumn (Canto 1-4) by Wallace Stevens

Published: Sept. 12, 2019, 2:26 p.m.
Duration: 10 minutes 46 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman   The Auroras of Autumnby Wallace StevensIThis is where the serpent lives, the bodiless.His head is air. Beneath his tip at nightEyes open and fix on us in every sky.Or is this another wriggling out of the egg,Another image at the end of the cave,Another bodiless for the body's slough?This is where the serpent lives. This is his nest,These fields, these hills, these tinted distances,And the pines above and along and beside the sea.This is form gulping after formlessness,Skin flashing to wished-for disappearancesAnd the serpent body flashing without the skin.This is the height emerging and its baseThese lights may finally attain a poleIn the midmost midnight and find the serpent there,In another nest, the master of the mazeOf body and air and forms and images,Relentlessly in possession of happiness.This is his poison: that we should disbelieveEven that. His meditations in the ferns,When he moved so slightly to make sure of sun,Made us no less as sure. We saw in his head,Black beaded on the rock, the flecked animal,The moving grass, the Indian in his glade.IIFarewell to an idea . . . A cabin stands,Deserted, on a beach. It is white,As by a custom or according toAn ancestral theme or as a consequenceOf an infinite course. The flowers against the wallAre white, a little dried, a kind of markReminding, trying to remind, of a whiteThat was different, something else, last yearOr before, not the white of an aging afternoon,Whether fresher or duller, whether of winter cloudOr of winter sky, from horizon to horizon.The wind is blowing the sand across the floor.Here, being visible is being white,Is being of the solid of white, the accomplishmentOf an extremist in an exercise . . .The season changes. A cold wind chills the beach.The long lines of it grow longer, emptier,A darkness gathers though it does not fallAnd the whiteness grows less vivid on the wall.The man who is walking turns blankly on the sand.He observes how the north is always enlarging the change,With its frigid brilliances, its blue-red sweepsAnd gusts of great enkindlings, its polar green,The color of ice and fire and solitude.IIIFarewell to an idea . . . The mother's face,The purpose of the poem, fills the room.They are together, here, and it is warm,With none of the prescience of oncoming dreams.It is evening. The house is evening, half dissolved.Only the half they can never possess remains,Still-starred. It is the mother they possess,Who gives transparence to their present peace.She makes that gentler that can gentle be.And yet she too is dissolved, she is destroyed.She gives transparence. But she has grown old.The necklace is a carving not a kiss.The soft hands are a motion not a touch.The house will crumble and the books will burn.They are at ease in a shelter of the mindAnd the house is of the mind and they and time,Together, all together. Boreal nightWill look like frost as it approaches themAnd to the mother as she falls asleepAnd as they say good-night, good-night. UpstairsThe windows will be lighted, not the rooms.A wind will spread its windy grandeurs roundAnd knock like a rifle-butt against the door.The wind will command them with invincible sound.IVFarewell to an idea . . . The cancellings,The negations are never final. The father sitsIn space, wherever he sits, of bleak regard,As one that is strong in the bushes of his eyes.He says no to no and yes to yes. He says yesTo no; and in saying yes he says farewell.He measures the velocities of change.He leaps from heaven to heaven more rapidlyThan bad angels leap from heaven to hell in flam es.But now he sits in quiet and green-a-day.He assumes the great speeds of space and flutters themFrom cloud to cloudless, cloudless to keen clearIn flights of eye and ear, the highest eyeAnd the lowest ear, the deep ear that discerns,At evening, things that attend it until it hearsThe supernatural preludes of its own,At the moment when the angelic eye definesIts actors approaching, in company, in their masks.Master O master seated by the fireAnd yet in space and motionless and yetOf motion the ever-brightening origin,Profound, and yet the king and yet the crown,Look at this present throne. What company,In masks, can choir it with the naked wind?

Listed in: Drama

The Hound of Heaven by Francis Thompson

Published: Sept. 4, 2019, 8:01 p.m.
Duration: 12 minutes 31 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

Love 20¢ The First 1/4 Mile by Kenneth Fearing

Published: Sept. 3, 2019, 6:03 p.m.
Duration: 2 minutes 57 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

Sleeping on the Wing by Frank O'Hara

Published: Aug. 29, 2019, 6:54 p.m.
Duration: 3 minutes 26 seconds

Production And Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

Cicadas And by Nathan Hoks

Published: Aug. 21, 2019, 9:30 p.m.
Duration: 1 minute 24 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman Nathan Hoks is the author of two books of poetry, Reveilles and The Narrow Circle, which was a winner of the 2012 National Poetry Series and published by Penguin. His translations, poems, and critical writings have appeared in journals such as The Colorado Review, jubilat, Crazyhorse, Lit, Circumference, Octopus Magazine, and Verse. A graduate of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, Hoks works as an editor and letterpress printer for Convulsive Editions, a micro-press that publishes chapbooks and broadsides.

Listed in: Drama

Stone by Charles Simic

Published: Aug. 14, 2019, 4:43 p.m.
Duration: 2 minutes 15 seconds

Production and Sound Design By Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

Three Robinson Poems by Weldon Kees

Published: July 31, 2019, 8:06 p.m.
Duration: 8 minutes 2 seconds

Production and Sound Design By Kevin Seaman Poems included: Robinson, Robinson at Home, Relating to Robinson

Listed in: Drama

The Moon by Carlos Pantado

Published: July 22, 2019, 4:21 p.m.
Duration: 2 minutes 22 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

Chicago by Carl Sandburg

Published: July 10, 2019, 7:50 p.m.
Duration: 2 minutes 48 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

A Supermarket in California by Allen Ginsberg

Published: July 4, 2019, 5:36 a.m.
Duration: 3 minutes 21 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

The Young Fools (Les Ingenus) by Paul Verlaine

Published: June 5, 2019, 5:01 p.m.
Duration: 2 minutes 21 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

The Garden by Moonlight by Amy Lowell

Published: May 18, 2019, 8:28 p.m.
Duration: 2 minutes 4 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

Two English Poems by Jorge Luis Borges

Published: April 30, 2019, 3:31 p.m.
Duration: 4 minutes 30 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

Learning the Planets by Len Roberts

Published: April 26, 2019, 3:17 p.m.
Duration: 3 minutes 8 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

Balcony by Frederico Garcia Lorca

Published: April 10, 2019, 7:53 p.m.
Duration: 56 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

Light Blue by Frank Stanford

Published: April 2, 2019, 5:56 p.m.
Duration: 2 minutes 6 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

Retired Ballerinas, Central Park West by Lawrence Ferlinghetti

Published: March 22, 2019, 8:02 p.m.
Duration: 1 minute 51 seconds

Production and Sound Design By Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

For the Anniversary of My Death by W.S. Merwin

Published: March 16, 2019, 3:27 p.m.
Duration: 1 minute 39 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

Ocean City: Early March by Elizabeth Spires

Published: March 14, 2019, 2:09 p.m.
Duration: 3 minutes 17 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

Preludes by T.S. Eliot

Published: March 5, 2019, 4 p.m.
Duration: 2 minutes 47 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

Meditations in an Emergency by Frank O'Hara

Published: Feb. 12, 2019, 7:21 p.m.
Duration: 4 minutes 53 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

Evening Song by Georg Trakl

Published: Feb. 7, 2019, 6:52 p.m.
Duration: 1 minute 20 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

Evening Twilight by Charles Baudelaire

Published: Jan. 22, 2019, 6:21 p.m.
Duration: 3 minutes 13 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

Burning the Christmas Greens by William Carlos Williams

Published: Dec. 23, 2018, 10:36 p.m.
Duration: 3 minutes 18 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

The Mysterious Arrival of an Unusual Letter by Mark Strand

Published: Dec. 19, 2018, 8:46 p.m.
Duration: 1 minute 21 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

A Visit From St. Nicholas (‘Twas The Night Before Christmas) by Clement Clarke Moore

Published: Dec. 8, 2018, 3:32 p.m.
Duration: 3 minutes 56 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

As One Listens to the Rain by Octavio Paz

Published: Dec. 7, 2018, 12:13 a.m.
Duration: 3 minutes 32 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

The Snowman by Wallace Stevens

Published: Nov. 28, 2018, 10:15 p.m.
Duration: 1 minute 11 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

Aimless Love by Billy Collins

Published: Nov. 21, 2018, 10:08 p.m.
Duration: 2 minutes 16 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

Break of Day by Jorge Luis Borges

Published: Nov. 14, 2018, 5:08 p.m.
Duration: 3 minutes 21 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

Returning, We Hear The Larks by Isaac Rosenberg

Published: Nov. 6, 2018, 8:15 p.m.
Duration: 1 minute 36 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

Autumn Sky by Charles Simic

Published: Nov. 4, 2018, 10:20 p.m.
Duration: 1 minute 35 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

Theme in Yellow by Carl Sandburg

Published: Oct. 30, 2018, 4:56 p.m.
Duration: 49 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe

Published: Oct. 24, 2018, 3:50 p.m.
Duration: 10 minutes 8 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

Black Cat by Rainer Maria Rilke

Published: Oct. 19, 2018, 4:13 a.m.
Duration: 1 minute 33 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

I Felt A Funeral, in My Brain by Emily Dickinson

Published: Oct. 13, 2018, 7:12 p.m.
Duration: 1 minute 32 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

Epilogue by Robert Lowell

Published: Oct. 9, 2018, 4:48 p.m.
Duration: 1 minute 43 seconds

Production and Sound Design by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

One Art by Elizabeth Bishop

Published: Oct. 2, 2018, 3:19 p.m.
Duration: 2 minutes 4 seconds

Sound Design and Production by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

This is Just to Say by William Carlos Williams

Published: Sept. 26, 2018, 6:10 p.m.
Duration: 33 seconds

Sound Design and Production by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

Lines for Winter by Mark Strand

Published: Sept. 26, 2018, 2:52 p.m.
Duration: 1 minute 10 seconds

Sound Design and Production by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

When I Heard the Learn'd Astronomer by Walt Whitman

Published: Sept. 26, 2018, 2:07 a.m.
Duration: 1 minute 3 seconds

Sound Design and Production by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama

Karintha by Jean Toomer

Published: Sept. 23, 2018, 10:17 p.m.
Duration: 6 minutes 7 seconds

Sound Design and Production by Kevin Seaman

Listed in: Drama