This poem needs to be read with more passion than even what the author did in his version. This performance communicates the fever that people feel towards a life on or around the sea and the comforting end with a friend and peaceful sleep.
I LOVE Barbara Barnes' voice!! (And Barbara herself!!) My 2 favorite roles of hers were Margaret 'Meg' from the video game Rule of Rose, and Susan Welles from William Gibson's ALIEN III Audio Drama. I didn't know she was a poet!! I'll have to buy her book!!
LA CATEDRAL iii In twilight's tender grasp, where shadows twirl, A cathedral of dreams, in whispers unfurl. Its stones sing with silver and gold's gleam, A harmony divine, like a poet's dream. La Catedral, a symphony in stone, Where passion's echoes in soft whispers are sown. With each note, a solace, a comforting balm, In its embrace, our hearts find their calm. Through ancient corridors, love's tale weaves, Guitar strings dance, as each heart believes. Emotions vast, untamed, set free, In this hallowed place, where souls meet in glee. La Catedral, a sanctuary of sound, Where deepest yearnings of the soul are found. With each chord struck, a closeness we feel, To its rhythm, where dreams gently steal. In silence, beneath the starry night's glow, We pour our souls in melodies that flow. Within La Catedral, where dreams alight, In every refrain, love takes its flight. A beacon in darkness, guiding our way, La Catedral, where memories sway. With each gentle pluck, a story told, In its halls, where love's mark takes hold. So let us linger in this sacred space, Where time and music tenderly embrace. In La Catedral, our spirits soar high, In the symphony of night, forever nigh. :: 04.02.2024 ::
LOVE IS EVER NEAR & FOREVER Oh Goddess! Hear these awkward lines, wrung By sweet memory's force and fond reflection, Pardon that your secrets I have sung Even to your tender ear's direction: Perchance today was but a dream, or did I spy The winged Psyche with wide-open eye? Through a forest I wandered, lost in reverie, Then suddenly, struck with surprise, I beheld two figures, side by side they lie In deep grass, under the whispering trees Of leaves and blooms that softly sigh, Beside a brooklet, scarcely seen: Among hushed, fragrant flowers, with eyes of blue, Silver-white, budding Tyrian hue, They rest serenely on the grass; Their arms entwined, and wings too; Their lips not meeting, yet no farewell, As if parted by gentle slumber's spell, Yet poised to share countless kisses At the tender dawn of love's golden bliss: The winged girl I knew, but who are you, O fortunate dove, her true Psyche too! Oh most recently born and lovely vision, Surpassing all Olympus' old dominion! Fairer than Phoebe's starry height, Or Vesper, sky's enamored light; Fairer than these, though without shrine, Nor altar decked with flowers fine; No choir of maidens to sing through the night, No voice, no lyre, no flute, no fragrant smoke, From censer swung in rhythmic stroke; No sacred grove, no oracle's sight, No dreams of seers in the pale moon's light. Oh brightest one! Though late for ancient rites, Too late for the lyre's devoted flights, When forest boughs were deemed sacred, And air, water, fire, held holy: Yet in these days, far from joyful cries, Your radiant wings among fading deities, I see and sing, inspired by my own sight. So let me be your chorus, and lament Through the quiet hours of night; Your voice, your lyre, your flute, your sweet incense, From the swinging censer's dance; Your sacred space, grove, prophecy's essence, Divine dreams seen through the seer's glance. Yes, I'll be your priest, and raise a shrine In my mind's unexplored deeps, Where thoughts, newly formed with pleasant pain, Murmur like pines in gentle breeze; Far and wide, dark-clustered trees Adorn the steep, rugged peaks; There, amidst breezes, streams, birds, and bees, The moss-clad Dryads find peaceful sleep; In this vast stillness, a rosy sanctuary blooms, Woven with the lattice of creative mind's looms, With buds, bells, and nameless stars that gleam, Imaginary blooms of fanciful dreams, Each cultivated, yet never the same; All the gentle pleasures of elusive thought, For you to cherish and claim, With a bright torch and a window left unbarred, To welcome warm Love's flame! :: 04.10.2024 ::
i felt a breath i felt a breath like hope once beneath the pain another in grand love i believed ______ and it walked with me through sun and storms this i heard and learned while growing in life and surely i knew the chriping bird who follows me it sang a song of love and it's feathers covered me. :: 04.10.2024 ::
Poorly spoken. No attention to the punctuation of the text. Stopping at the end of each line because it's ' a poem ' even when clearly the text is continuous. Pausing for silly dramatic effect in mid sentence. A example of how a poem should not be read.
Brilliantly dramatic reading that's all about the eyes untill at 1:00 when she does a lip tremble and closes her eyes at the turn before delivering the final couplet. It's one of the best I've seen.
Nicely done. Memorized years ago, I found the ending poor stuff. Where's the rhyme? Then I heard David & Ben Crystal talk about & demonstrate Tudor pronunciation. Check it out & try it yourself. Cheers!
...Quand je serai mort , ne chante pas pour moi de chansons tristes, ne plante pas de roses sur ma tombe, ne la mets pas à l'ombre d'un cyprès, ne laisse au dessus de moi que l'herbe verte mouillée de pluie et de rosée. Et si tu veux, souviens toi... Et si tu veux, oublie... Je ne verrai point les ombres, je ne sentirai plus la pluie, je n'entendrai point le rossignol continuer de chanter, comme s'il était heureux et rêvant à travers le crépuscule qui, ni ne se lève, ni ne se couche, heureux, je pourrais me souvenir, heureux, je pourrais oublier. (Christina Rossetti) 🙂😔
The “haply” in this poem is a term used in Victorian England 1800s as Per chance or perhaps. Not meant to be happily, as in I would be happy to…. The change of this word does not mean what you think during the time this poem was written.
Magnifique ce texte...Quand je serai mort , ne chante pas pour moi de chansons tristes, ne plante pas de roses sur ma tombe, ne la mets pas à l'ombre d'un cyprès, ne laisse au dessus de moi que l'herbe verte mouillée de pluie et de rosée. Et si tu veux, souviens toi... Et si tu veux, oublie... Je ne verrai point les ombres, je ne sentirai plus la pluie, je n'entendrai point le rossignol continuer de chanter, comme s'il était heureux et rêvant à travers le crépuscule qui, ni ne se lève, ni ne se couche, heureux, je pourrais me souvenir, heureux, je pourrais oublier. (Christina Rossetti, poétesse britannique du XIX siècle 1830/1894) 😔
I've listened to about ten renditions of this poem. You captured the clever playfulness of it. (No one can touch the Brits when it comes to the dramatic arts--no one.) Bra--vo!
Smiley recitations of 116 are not so great, really, because they tend to destroy the gravity which is one of the components of the poem's magic. Also, this novel trend of close-up views of the actor-however beautiful as in this case-tend to shift the focus on the face instead of the text and are a bit 'creepy' if you will.
