Record-a-Poem for Mother’s Day

Moth­er’s Day is tomor­row, and you haven’t got­ten Mom a present yet. No wor­ries, head over to poetryfoundation.org, where you can find a selec­tion of Moth­er’s Day poems — or search for your own. You can even fol­low the direc­tions here to join the Record-a-Poem group on Sound­cloud and then share your poem with Mom. It’ll be bet­ter than any Hall­mark card, that’s for sure.

Kristin Gecan is the media asso­ciate at the Poet­ry Foun­da­tion, which is the pub­lish­er of Poet­ry mag­a­zine and an inde­pen­dent lit­er­ary orga­ni­za­tion com­mit­ted to a vig­or­ous pres­ence for poet­ry in our cul­ture.

Listen to Recordings of Allen Ginsberg & Other Poets on Phone-a-Poem, the 1970s Poetry Hotline

phone_a_poemMuch of what we once used the tele­phone for, we now use the inter­net for. Con­verse­ly, some tasks to which the inter­net now seems per­fect­ly suit­ed were once per­formed, imper­fect­ly, through the phone. Take the case of hear­ing poet­ry read aloud. Today, online poet­ry resources are read­i­ly avail­able; you can hear a vari­ety of poets read­ing their work with a few well-direct­ed clicks of the mouse (see our list below). But in 1976, you’d have had to rely on Phone-a-Poem. Oper­at­ed out of Cam­bridge, Mass­a­chu­setts by poet Peter Pay­ack, the hot­line offered read­ings by his well-known col­leagues, includ­ing Allen Gins­berg, Denise Lev­er­tov, Don­ald Hall, Charles Bern­stein, For­rest Gan­der, and Anne Wald­man.

Pay­ack mailed these famous poets blank cas­settes to fill with poems and then return; into Pay­ack­’s answer­ing machine the tapes would go for eager dialers to hear auto­mat­i­cal­ly played back. “I gave the aver­age per­son a chance to hear a poem, and if they didn’t like it, they could just hang up,” Pay­ack said to the Har­vard Gazette’s Col­in Man­ning. “Usu­al­ly, if you want­ed to hear the poet’s voice you had to go to poet­ry read­ings, which can be intim­i­dat­ing. But this allowed peo­ple to hear the poet’s voice in their own home, so it wouldn’t be intim­i­dat­ing.” Phone-a-Poem went out of com­mis­sion in 2001, but after a recent exhi­bi­tion of Pay­ack­’s cas­settes at Har­vard Uni­ver­si­ty, you can still hear its poems toll free on, yes, the inter­net, through the playlist embed­ded above.

H/T via @kirstinbutler; image via Har­vard Gazette

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Allen Gins­berg Reads His Famous­ly Cen­sored Beat Poem, Howl

Sylvia Plath Reads “Dad­dy”

Rare 1930s Audio: W.B. Yeats Reads Four of His Poems

“PoemTalk” Pod­cast, Where Impre­sario Al Fil­reis Hosts Live­ly Chats on Mod­ern Poet­ry

Bill Mur­ray Reads Wal­lace Stevens Poems — “The Plan­et on The Table” and “A Rab­bit as King of the Ghosts”

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture and writes essays on lit­er­a­ture, film, cities, Asia, and aes­thet­ics. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­lesA Los Ange­les Primer. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

Watch the Finals of the Poetry Out Loud Competition, Live Tonight

“Hav­ing oth­ers’ poems in our minds and hearts means we’re nev­er real­ly alone.”
Karen Kovacik, Indi­ana State Poet Lau­re­ate

Youssef Biaz, recit­ing here, was 16 years old when he was named Poet­ry Out Loud Nation­al Cham­pi­on. Biaz won a $20,000 award and $500 worth of poet­ry books for his high school in Auburn, Alaba­ma. He went on to recite poet­ry at the White House along with Rita Dove, Com­mon, and Bil­ly Collins. His favorite poet, Sharon Olds, just won the Pulitzer Prize for Poet­ry.

This past week­end, kids across the coun­try packed their bags and head­ed to Wash­ing­ton, DC, to recite poet­ry in the eighth con­sec­u­tive year of the nation­al com­pe­ti­tion, Poet­ry Out Loud. The recita­tion com­pe­ti­tion, pre­sent­ed by the Poet­ry Foun­da­tion and the Nation­al Endow­ment for the Arts, brings fifty-three Amer­i­can high school stu­dents to the nation’s cap­i­tal to com­pete for the title of 2013 Poet­ry Out Loud Nation­al Cham­pi­on. It will cul­mi­nate tonight in an evening of recita­tion com­pe­ti­tion at 7pm EDT.

If you can’t make it to DC for the free event this year, which fea­tures host Anna Dea­vere Smith and singer-cel­list Ben Sollee, view the live web­cast of Poet­ry Out Loud, or host a view­ing par­ty and bid a cel­e­bra­to­ry adieu to Nation­al Poet­ry Month.

Kristin Gecan is the media asso­ciate at the Poet­ry Foun­da­tion, which is the pub­lish­er of Poet­ry mag­a­zine and an inde­pen­dent lit­er­ary orga­ni­za­tion com­mit­ted to a vig­or­ous pres­ence for poet­ry in our cul­ture. The site also fea­tures an archive of more than 10,000 poems. Fol­low the Poet­ry Foun­da­tion on Twit­ter, Tum­blr, Face­book, or Pin­ter­est

A Look Back at Jim Carroll: How the Poet and Basketball Diaries Author Finally Finished His First Novel

Like so many denizens of the New York that pro­duced Warhol and The Vel­vet Under­ground, then grit­ty punk rock, hip-hop, and no wave, poet Jim Car­roll didn’t fare so well into Bloomberg-era NYC, a developer’s par­adise and des­ti­na­tion for urban pro­fes­sion­als and tourists, but not so much a haven for strug­gling artists. As the city changed, its cre­ative char­ac­ters either rose above its shift­ing demo­graph­ics, moved away, or—as Car­roll did—retreated. Car­roll, who died in 2009 at 60, spent his last years in the upper Man­hat­tan neigh­bor­hood of Inwood—once a bustling Irish-Catholic enclave—living in the same build­ing where he’d grown up and writ­ing against time to fin­ish his first and only nov­el, The Pet­ting Zoo. His last years were by no means trag­ic, how­ev­er. Giv­en the tumult of his ear­ly years as an addict, and the long list of friends from the down­town New York scene that Car­roll lost along the way—to over­dos­es, AIDS, can­cer, suicide—I’d say he was a lit­er­ary sur­vivor, who died (at his writ­ing desk, it’s said) doing what he loved most.

Car­roll came to main­stream con­scious­ness with the release of a 1995 film star­ring Leonar­do DiCaprio, based on the book Carroll’s most known for: the 1978 mem­oir The Bas­ket­ball Diaries, a col­lec­tion of teenage jour­nal entries from his dou­ble life as a high school bas­ket­ball star and junkie hus­tler. But even with that movie’s nods to Carroll’s mature years as a poet and musi­cian, it’s doubt­ful that few peo­ple came away with much more than a vague sense of what the street-wise Catholic school­boy DiCaprio char­ac­ter had gone on to do. Which is a shame, because Car­roll real­ly was a ter­rif­ic writer, from his debut poet­ry pub­li­ca­tions in the 60s and on through­out the next three decades. Even in the obscu­ri­ty and semi-seclu­sion of his lat­er years, he wrote wise, inci­sive essays and crit­i­cism (such as this 2002 review of Kurt Cobain’s pub­lished Jour­nals for the Los Ange­les Times). And despite the mem­oir and film’s pop­u­lar­i­ty, Car­roll con­sid­ered him­self pri­mar­i­ly a poet, in the sym­bol­ist tra­di­tion of his lit­er­ary heroes Rilke, Rim­baud, and Ash­bery. (See Car­roll at top, in his harsh New York accent, read from his 1986 col­lec­tion of poems, The Book of Nods.)

In a man­ner of speak­ing, Car­roll suf­fered the curse of one-hit-won­derism, except in his case, he was lucky enough to have two hits—the mem­oir (and lat­er film) and the song, “Peo­ple Who Died,” from Catholic Boy, his debut album with the Jim Car­roll Band (video above), which even made it onto the E.T. sound­track (giv­ing Car­roll roy­al­ties for life). The band came about with the encour­age­ment of Carroll’s fel­low poet and for­mer room­mate Pat­ti Smith, after Car­roll kicked hero­in and moved to Cal­i­for­nia. Car­roll wrote songs for Blue Oys­ter Cult and Boz Scaggs and col­lab­o­rat­ed with Ran­cid, Son­ic Youth’s Lee Ranal­do, Pat­ti Smith gui­tarist Lenny Kaye, and gui­tarist Anton Sanko (on his 1998 return to music, Pools of Mer­cury). His years in rock and roll trans­mut­ed through most of the nineties into dra­mat­ic read­ings, spo­ken word per­for­mances, and live­ly mono­logues, such as those col­lect­ed on the 1991 release Pray­ing Man­tis. In the track below, “The Loss of Amer­i­can Inno­cence,” Car­roll deliv­ers some sham­bling, and pret­ty fun­ny, sto­ries about the char­ac­ters in his nov­el-in-progress.

Car­roll had been telling these sto­ries about Bil­ly the down­town painter and a cer­tain chat­ty raven since the late 80s. As the mono­logues crys­tal­lized into short prose pieces, he slow­ly, painstak­ing­ly assem­bled them into The Pet­ting Zoo, which saw pub­li­ca­tion in 2010. It took him twen­ty years, and he didn’t live to see it pub­lished, but he left a final lega­cy behind, and it’s a flawed but seri­ous work worth read­ing. In 2010, Carroll’s long­time friends Pat­ti Smith and Lenny Kaye cel­e­brat­ed the novel’s pub­li­ca­tion with read­ings and per­for­mances at the Barnes and Noble in Union Square. Below, see Smith read an excerpt from The Pet­ting Zoo. The sound’s a bit tin­ny and the cam­era shakes, but it’s worth it to see liv­ing leg­end Smith read from Carroll’s leg­endary final song.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Pat­ti Smith Reads Her Final Words to Robert Map­plethor­pe

The Life and Con­tro­ver­sial Work of Pho­tog­ra­ph­er Robert Map­plethor­pe Pro­filed in 1988 Doc­u­men­tary

Rock and Roll Heart, 1998 Doc­u­men­tary Retraces the Remark­able Career of Lou Reed

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Wash­ing­ton, DC. Fol­low him @jdmagness

Rare Audio: Samuel Beckett Reads From His Novel Watt

Samuel Beck­ett was noto­ri­ous­ly shy around record­ing devices. He would spend hours in a stu­dio work­ing with actors, but when it came to record­ing a piece in his own voice he was elu­sive. Only a hand­ful of record­ings are known to exist. So the audio above of Beck­ett read­ing a pair of his poems is extreme­ly rare.

The record­ings were made in 1965 by Lawrence Har­vey, pro­fes­sor of com­par­a­tive lit­er­a­ture at Dart­mouth Col­lege, who trav­eled to Paris to meet with Beck­ett a num­ber of times from 1961 to 1965 while research­ing his 1970 book Samuel Beck­ett, Poet and Crit­ic. At one point dur­ing their dis­cus­sions, Beck­ett recit­ed sev­er­al pas­sages from his third but sec­ond-pub­lished nov­el, Watt. The book was writ­ten in Eng­lish in the 1940s, most­ly while Beck­ett was hid­ing from the Nazis in south­ern France. It’s an exper­i­men­tal nov­el (Beck­ett called it an “exer­cise”) about a seek­er named Watt who jour­neys to the house of the enig­mat­ic Mr. Knott and works for a time as his ser­vant. “Watt” and “Knott” are often inter­pret­ed as stand-ins for the ques­tion “what?” and unan­swer­able “not,” or “naught.”

The two poems recit­ed by Beck­ett are from his 37 intrigu­ing Adden­da at the end of Watt. Har­vey also record­ed Beck­ett read­ing a prose pas­sage from the book. The full four-minute tape is now in the col­lec­tion of the Bak­er Library at Dart­mouth. The short clip above is from the 1993 film Wait­ing For Beck­ett. The image qual­i­ty is poor and there are dis­tract­ing Dutch sub­ti­tles, so per­haps the best way to enjoy the read­ing is to scroll down and look instead at Beck­et­t’s words while you lis­ten to his voice. He begins with the 4th Adden­da, lat­er pub­lished as “Tail­piece” in Col­lect­ed Poems, 1930–1978:

who may tell the tale
of the old man?
weigh absence in a scale?
mete want with a span?
the sum assess
of the world’s woes?
noth­ing­ness
in words enclose?

The images in the poem are, accord­ing to schol­ars S.E. Gontars­ki and Chris Ack­er­ley in their essay “Samuel Beck­et­t’s Watt,” a rework­ing by Beck­ett of the bib­li­cal pas­sage Isa­iah 40:12, which says, “Who hath mea­sured the waters in the hol­low of his hand, and met­ed out heav­en with a span, and com­pre­hend­ed the dust of the earth in a mea­sure, and weighed the moun­tains in scales, and the hills in a bal­ance?” The next poem is the 23rd Adden­da. It tells of Wat­t’s long and fruit­less jour­ney through bar­ren lands:

Watt will not
abate one jot
but of what

of the com­ing to
of the being at
of the going from
Knot­t’s habi­tat

of the long way
of the short stay
of the going back home
the way he had come

of the emp­ty heart
of the emp­ty hands
of the dim mind way­far­ing
through bar­ren lands

of a flame with dark winds
hedged about
going out
gone out

of the emp­ty heart
of the emp­ty hands
of the dark mind stum­bling
through bar­ren lands

that is of what
Watt will not
abate one jot

If Beck­ett seems to mis­pro­nounce cer­tain con­so­nant sounds, it may have some­thing to do with a surgery he had in Novem­ber of 1964 to remove a tumor in his jaw. The surgery tem­porar­i­ly left Beck­ett with a hole in the roof of his mouth. Accord­ing to a 1998 arti­cle by Peter Swaab in The Times Lit­er­ary Sup­ple­ment, the record­ings were prob­a­bly made in March of 1965, when Beck­ett was await­ing a fol­low-up surgery to fix his palate. Still, many lis­ten­ers have been struck by the beau­ty of the record­ings. As Swaab writes:

Beck­et­t’s voice is unex­pect­ed­ly soft, and seems more suit­ed to the serene­ly com­mis­er­a­tive vein of his writ­ing than the sple­net­ic and cyn­i­cal one. He reads the poems a lot more slow­ly than the prose–with a pro­nounced chant­i­ng mel­liflu­ous­ness.… The over­all effect of these rare and fas­ci­nat­ing record­ings is of a deliv­ery like that which Beck­ett rec­om­mend­ed to the actor David War­rilow for Ohio Impromp­tu, “calm, steady, designed to soothe”–or (to bring in two of the cen­tral words in Watt) a “mur­mur” meant to “assuage.” The tape evi­dent­ly records a sort of rehearsal, and the per­fec­tion­ist Beck­ett would sure­ly not have been sat­is­fied with it, but it is good to know that his voice has not alto­geth­er dis­ap­peared.

via A Piece of Mono­logue

Spe­cial thanks to Dr. Mark Nixon, read­er in Mod­ern Lit­er­a­ture at the Uni­ver­si­ty of Read­ing and direc­tor of the Beck­ett Inter­na­tion­al Foun­da­tion, for con­firm­ing the authen­tic­i­ty of the record­ing and point­ing us on the way to more infor­ma­tion.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Samuel Beck­ett Speaks

Samuel Beck­ett Directs His Absur­dist Play Wait­ing for Godot (1985)

Find Works by Beck­ett in our Free Audio Books and Free eBooks col­lec­tions

Dennis Hopper Reads From Rainer Maria Rilke’s Timeless Guide to Creativity, Letters to a Young Poet

For almost a cen­tu­ry, writ­ers and oth­er cre­ative peo­ple have found inspi­ra­tion and a pro­found sense of val­i­da­tion in the Bohemi­an-Aus­tri­an poet Rain­er Maria Rilke’s posthu­mous­ly pub­lished Let­ters to a Young Poet. Many a sen­si­tive soul has felt as if Rilke’s let­ters, writ­ten to a young man who had asked him for advice on whether to become a poet, were addressed direct­ly to him or her. One of those peo­ple was the actor Den­nis Hop­per.

“Rilke’s Let­ters to a Young Poet is a great book,” Hop­per says in this short film from 2007. “For me the let­ters are a cre­do of cre­ativ­i­ty and a source of inspi­ra­tion. After read­ing Rilke it became clear to me that I had no choice in the mat­ter. I had to cre­ate.” The ten-minute film, Must I Write?, was direct­ed by Her­mann Vaske and pho­tographed by Rain Li. Hop­per reads the first of the book’s ten let­ters, in which Rilke tells the young man to stop seek­ing approval from oth­ers:

You are look­ing out­ward, and that above all you should not do now. Nobody can help and coun­sel you, nobody. There is only one sin­gle way. Go into your­self. Search for the rea­son that bids you write; find out whether it is spread­ing out its roots in the deep­est places in your heart, acknowl­edge to your­self whether you would have to die if it were denied you to write. This above all–ask your­self in the stillest hour of your night: must I write? Delve into your­self for a deep answer. And if this should be affir­ma­tive, if you may meet this earnest ques­tion with a strong and sim­ple “I must,” then build your life accord­ing to this neces­si­ty; your life even into its most indif­fer­ent and slight­est hour must be a sign of this urge and a tes­ti­mo­ny to it.

Hop­per is read­ing from the 1934 trans­la­tion by M.D. Hert­er Nor­ton. There are a few minor slips, in which Hop­per devi­ates slight­ly from the text. Most seri­ous­ly, he inverts the mean­ing of a pas­sage near the end by adding (at the 7:23 mark) the word “not” to Rilke’s phrase, “Per­haps it will turn out that you are called to be an artist.” That pas­sage, one of the most mem­o­rable in the book, reads:

A work of art is good if it has sprung from neces­si­ty. In this nature of its ori­gin lies the judge­ment of it: there is no oth­er. There­fore, my dear sir, I know no oth­er advice for you save this: to go into your­self and test the deeps in which your life takes rise; at its source you will find the answer to the ques­tion whether you must cre­ate. Accept it, just as it sounds, with­out inquir­ing into it. Per­haps it will turn out that you are called to be an artist. Then take that des­tiny upon your­self and bear it, its bur­den and its great­ness, with­out ever ask­ing what rec­om­pense might come from out­side. For the cre­ator must be a world for him­self and find every­thing in him­self and in Nature to whom he has attached him­self.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Den­nis Hop­per Reads Rud­yard Kipling on the John­ny Cash Show

E.E. Cummings Recites ‘Anyone Lived in a Pretty How Town,’ 1953

Here’s a great read­ing by E.E. Cum­mings of his famous and wide­ly anthol­o­gized poem, “any­one lived in a pret­ty how town.” The poem has a bit­ter­sweet qual­i­ty, deal­ing with the lone­li­ness of the indi­vid­ual amid the crush­ing con­for­mi­ty of soci­ety, but in a play­ful way, like a nurs­ery rhyme with delight­ful­ly shuf­fled syn­tax.  It is the sto­ry of “any­one,” who lived in “a pret­ty how town” and was loved by “noone.” With the author’s idio­syn­crat­ic omis­sion of some spac­ing, cap­i­tal­iza­tion and punc­tu­a­tion, the poem begins:

any­one lived in a pret­ty how town
(with up so float­ing many bells down)
spring sum­mer autumn win­ter
he sang his did­n’t he danced his did.

Women and men(both lit­tle and small)
cared for any­one not at all
they sowed their isn’t they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain

The poem was first pub­lished as “No. 29” in Cum­mings’s 1940 col­lec­tion 50 Poems. (Click here to open the full text of the poem in a new win­dow.) The record­ing was made on May 28, 1953, when Cum­mings was a vis­it­ing pro­fes­sor at Har­vard. It is avail­able from Harper­Au­dio as part of a one-hour col­lec­tion, Essen­tial E.E. Cum­mings.

You can find the poem list­ed in our col­lec­tions of Free Audio Books and Free eBooks.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Allen Gins­berg Reads His Famous­ly Cen­sored Beat Poem, Howl

Lis­ten to J.R.R. Tolkien Read Poems from The Fel­low­ship of the Ring, in Elvish and Eng­lish (1952)

Tom Waits Reads Charles Bukowski’s Poem, “The Laugh­ing Heart”

Pier Pao­lo Pasoli­ni Talks and Reads Poet­ry with Ezra Pound (1967)

So You Want to Be a Writer?: Charles Bukowski Explains the Dos & Don’ts

Here’s a quick video that serves as an adden­dum to last week’s post, “Don’t Try”: Charles Bukowski’s Con­cise Phi­los­o­phy of Art and Life. As you’ll recall, Bukowski’s head­stone is engraved with the sim­ple say­ing, “Don’t Try,” and, if you look back at his let­ters, the cryp­tic expres­sion could be inter­pret­ed in any num­ber of ways. (See our sum­ma­ry.) But, thanks to Andrew Sul­li­van, we can take anoth­er good whack at mak­ing sense of Bukowski’s immor­tal words. Released in a posthu­mous­ly pub­lished col­lec­tion in 2003, the Bukows­ki poem  “So You Want to be a Writer?” (above) warns the read­er:

if you have to sit for hours
star­ing at your com­put­er screen
or hunched over your
type­writer
search­ing for words,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it for mon­ey or
fame,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don’t do it.

Lat­er, the poem con­tin­ues:

when it is tru­ly time,
and if you have been cho­sen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die
or it dies in you.

So here’s anoth­er way to inter­pret, “Don’t try.” Either you’ve got it, or you don’t. And you’ll know it if you do.

The video above comes from the Spo­ken Vers­es YouTube col­lec­tion. Tom O’Bed­lam always does a nice job with the read­ings. In this case, I’m not so sure about the visu­al selec­tions in the clip. But it’s not a per­fect world.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

“Don’t Try”: Charles Bukowski’s Con­cise Phi­los­o­phy of Art and Life

Charles Bukows­ki: Depres­sion and Three Days in Bed Can Restore Your Cre­ative Juices (NSFW)

Tom Waits Reads Charles Bukows­ki

The Last Faxed Poem of Charles Bukows­ki

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