Great POEMS that are meant to be READ ALOUD

by Terry 10 Replies latest jw friends

• 

  Terry

  Here is a favorite of mine by Vachel Lindsay.

  I urge you to read it out loud and really give it a rhythmic beat!

  General William Booth Enters Into Heaven

  By Vachel Lindsay

  [BASS DRUM BEATEN LOUDLY] Booth led boldly with his big bass drum— (Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?) The Saints smiled gravely and they said: “He’s come.” (Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?) Walking lepers followed, rank on rank, Lurching bravoes from the ditches dank, Drabs from the alleyways and drug fiends pale— Minds still passion-ridden, soul-powers frail:— Vermin-eaten saints with mouldy breath, Unwashed legions with the ways of Death— (Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?)
  [BANJOS] Every slum had sent its half-a-score The round world over. (Booth had groaned for more.) Every banner that the wide world flies Bloomed with glory and transcendent dyes. Big-voiced lasses made their banjos bang, Tranced, fanatical they shrieked and sang:— “Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?” Hallelujah! It was queer to see Bull-necked convicts with that land make free. Loons with trumpets blowed a blare, blare, blare On, on upward thro’ the golden air! (Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?)
  [BASS DRUM SLOWER AND SOFTER] Booth died blind and still by Faith he trod, Eyes still dazzled by the ways of God. Booth led boldly, and he looked the chief Eagle countenance in sharp relief, Beard a-flying, air of high command Unabated in that holy land.
  [SWEET FLUTE MUSIC] Jesus came from out the court-house door, Stretched his hands above the passing poor. Booth saw not, but led his queer ones there Round and round the mighty court-house square. Yet in an instant all that blear review Marched on spotless, clad in raiment new. The lame were straightened, withered limbs uncurled And blind eyes opened on a new, sweet world.
  [BASS DRUM LOUDER] Drabs and vixens in a flash made whole! Gone was the weasel-head, the snout, the jowl! Sages and sibyls now, and athletes clean, Rulers of empires, and of forests green!
  [GRAND CHORUS OF ALL INSTRUMENTS. TAMBOURINES TO THE FOREGROUND] The hosts were sandalled, and their wings were fire! (Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?) But their noise played havoc with the angel-choir. (Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?) O shout Salvation! It was good to see Kings and Princes by the Lamb set free. The banjos rattled and the tambourines Jing-jing-jingled in the hands of Queens.
  [REVERENTLY SUNG. NO INSTRUMENTS] And when Booth halted by the curb for prayer He saw his Master thro’ the flag-filled air. Christ came gently with a robe and crown For Booth the soldier, while the throng knelt down. He saw King Jesus. They were face to face, And he knelt a-weeping in that holy place. Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?
• 

  Band on the Run

  I have great trouble silently reading poetry. My library has a whole section of audio CDs of poetry. I was so excited. My first trial was listening to T.S. Eliot read his Wasteland. It was such a disappointment. Poets may not be the best readers/performers of their poems. I had no idea what he was saying and saying so quickly. It took me about eight hours to read the poem and all the annotations.

  Do you know of any good audio recordings?
• 

  TheSilence

  How The Grinch Stole Christmas

  by Dr. Suess

  Every Who
  Down in Who-ville
  Liked Christmas a lot...

  But the Grinch,
  Who lived just North of Who-ville,
  Did NOT!

  The Grinch hated Christmas! The whole Christmas season!
  Now, please don't ask why. No one quite knows the reason.
  It could be that his head wasn't screwed on quite right.
  It could be, perhaps, that his shoes were too tight.
  But I think that the most likely reason of all
  May have been that his heart was two sizes too small.

  But,
  Whatever the reason,
  His heart or his shoes,
  He stood there on Christmas Eve, hating the Whos,
  Staring down from his cave with a sour, Grinchy frown
  At the warm lighted windows below in their town.
  For he knew every Who down in Who-ville beneath
  Was busy now, hanging a mistleoe wreath.

  "And they're hanging their stockings!" he snarled with a sneer.
  "Tomorrow is Christmas! It's practically here!"
  Then he growled, with his grinch fingers nervously drumming,
  "I MUST find a way to keep Christmas from coming!"
  For, tomorrow, he knew...

  ...All the Who girls and boys
  Would wake up bright and early. They'd rush for their toys!
  And then! Oh, the noise! Oh, the noise! Noise! Noise! Noise!
  That's one thing he hated! The NOISE! NOISE! NOISE! NOISE!

  Then the Whos, young and old, would sit down to a feast.
  And they'd feast! And they'd feast!
  And they'd FEAST! FEAST! FEAST! FEAST!
  They would start on Who-pudding, and rare Who-roast-beast
  Which was something the Grinch couldn't stand in the least!

  And THEN
  They'd do something he liked least of all!
  Every Who down in Who-ville, the tall and the small,
  Would stand close together, with Christmas bells ringing.
  They'd stand hand-in-hand. And the Whos would start singing!

  They'd sing! And they'd sing!
  AND they'd SING! SING! SING! SING!
  And the more the Grinch thought of the Who-Christmas-Sing
  The more the Grinch thought, "I must stop this whole thing!
  "Why for fifty-three years I've put up with it now!
  I MUST stop Christmas from coming!
  ...But HOW?"

  Then he got an idea!
  An awful idea!
  THE GRINCH
  GOT A WONDERFUL, AWFUL IDEA!

  "I know just what to do!" The Grinch Laughed in his throat.
  And he made a quick Santy Claus hat and a coat.
  And he chuckled, and clucked, "What a great Grinchy trick!
  "With this coat and this hat, I'll look just like Saint Nick!"

  "All I need is a reindeer..."
  The Grinch looked around.
  But since reindeer are scarce, there was none to be found.
  Did that stop the old Grinch...?
  No! The Grinch simply said,
  "If I can't find a reindeer, I'll make one instead!"
  So he called his dog Max. Then he took some red thread
  And he tied a big horn on top of his head.

  THEN
  He loaded some bags
  And some old empty sacks
  On a ramshakle sleigh
  And he hitched up old Max.

  Then the Grinch said, "Giddyap!"
  And the sleigh started down
  Toward the homes where the Whos
  Lay a-snooze in their town.

  All their windows were dark. Quiet snow filled the air.
  All the Whos were all dreaming sweet dreams without care
  When he came to the first house in the square.
  "This is stop number one," The old Grinchy Claus hissed
  And he climbed to the roof, empty bags in his fist.

  Then he slid down the chimney. A rather tight pinch.
  But if Santa could do it, then so could the Grinch.
  He got stuck only once, for a moment or two.
  Then he stuck his head out of the fireplace flue
  Where the little Who stockings all hung in a row.
  "These stockings," he grinned, "are the first things to go!"

  Then he slithered and slunk, with a smile most unpleasant,
  Around the whole room, and he took every present!
  Pop guns! And bicycles! Roller skates! Drums!
  Checkerboards! Tricycles! Popcorn! And plums!
  And he stuffed them in bags. Then the Grinch, very nimbly,
  Stuffed all the bags, one by one, up the chimney!

  Then he slunk to the icebox. He took the Whos' feast!
  He took the Who-pudding! He took the roast beast!
  He cleaned out that icebox as quick as a flash.
  Why, that Grinch even took their last can of Who-hash!

  Then he stuffed all the food up the chimney with glee.
  "And NOW!" grinned the Grinch, "I will stuff up the tree!"

  And the Grinch grabbed the tree, and he started to shove
  When he heard a small sound like the coo of a dove.
  He turned around fast, and he saw a small Who!
  Little Cindy-Lou Who, who was not more than two.

  The Grinch had been caught by this little Who daughter
  Who'd got out of bed for a cup of cold water.
  She stared at the Grinch and said, "Santy Claus, why,
  "Why are you taking our Christmas tree? WHY?"

  But, you know, that old Grinch was so smart and so slick
  He thought up a lie, and he thought it up quick!
  "Why, my sweet little tot," the fake Santy Claus lied,
  "There's a light on this tree that won't light on one side.
  "So I'm taking it home to my workshop, my dear.
  "I'll fix it up there. Then I'll bring it back here."

  And his fib fooled the child. Then he patted her head
  And he got her a drink and he sent he to bed.
  And when Cindy-Lou Who went to bed with her cup,
  HE went to the chimney and stuffed the tree up!

  Then the last thing he took
  Was the log for their fire.
  Then he went up the chimney himself, the old liar.
  On their walls he left nothing but hooks, and some wire.

  And the one speck of food
  The he left in the house
  Was a crumb that was even too small for a mouse.

  Then
  He did the same thing
  To the other Whos' houses

  Leaving crumbs
  Much too small
  For the other Whos' mouses!

  It was quarter past dawn...
  All the Whos, still a-bed
  All the Whos, still a-snooze
  When he packed up his sled,
  Packed it up with their presents! The ribbons! The wrappings!
  The tags! And the tinsel! The trimmings! The trappings!

  Three thousand feet up! Up the side of Mount Crumpit,
  He rode to the tiptop to dump it!
  "Pooh-pooh to the Whos!" he was grinch-ish-ly humming.
  "They're finding out now that no Christmas is coming!
  "They're just waking up! I know just what they'll do!
  "Their mouths will hang open a minute or two
  "The all the Whos down in Who-ville will all cry BOO-HOO!"

  "That's a noise," grinned the Grinch,
  "That I simply must hear!"
  So he paused. And the Grinch put a hand to his ear.
  And he did hear a sound rising over the snow.
  It started in low. Then it started to grow...

  But the sound wasn't sad!
  Why, this sound sounded merry!
  It couldn't be so!
  But it WAS merry! VERY!

  He stared down at Who-ville!
  The Grinch popped his eyes!
  Then he shook!
  What he saw was a shocking surprise!

  Every Who down in Who-ville, the tall and the small,
  Was singing! Without any presents at all!
  He HADN'T stopped Christmas from coming!
  IT CAME!
  Somehow or other, it came just the same!

  And the Grinch, with his grinch-feet ice-cold in the snow,
  Stood puzzling and puzzling: "How could it be so?
  It came without ribbons! It came without tags!
  "It came without packages, boxes or bags!"
  And he puzzled three hours, `till his puzzler was sore.
  Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn't before!
  "Maybe Christmas," he thought, "doesn't come from a store.
  "Maybe Christmas...perhaps...means a little bit more!"

  And what happened then...?
  Well...in Who-ville they say
  That the Grinch's small heart
  Grew three sizes that day!
  And the minute his heart didn't feel quite so tight,
  He whizzed with his load through the bright morning light
  And he brought back the toys! And the food for the feast!
  And he...

  ...HE HIMSELF...!
  The Grinch carved the roast beast!
• 

  TheSilence

  My apologies, I couldn't help myself... carry on. ;)

  Jackie
• 

  00DAD

  Rudyard Kipling's The Charge of the Light Brigade!
• 

  PaintedToeNail

  There once was a Jehovah' Witness,

  Who made it his business,

  To tell everyone it was so late,

  Armeggdon had a special date,

  '75 fly by and now he is witless.
• 

  Terry

  This Lindsay poem will not be "politically correct" to our more enlightened ears. But, the imagery and rhythm are an extraordinary time capsule of the mindset of a creative genius in a time of prevalent race ignorance. W. E. B. Du Bois wrote a scathing critique in 1916, in effect saying Lindsay's poverty of knowledge about black people disabled him from contributing anything to the literature. With that caveat, here is a poem that strikes my mind as a flawed masterpiece.

  Vachel Lindsay. 1879–

  The Congo

  F AT black bucks in a wine-barrel room,
  Barrel-house kings, with feet unstable,
  Sagged and reeled and pounded on the table,
  A deep rolling bass. Pounded on the table,
  Beat an empty barrel with the handle of a broom,	5
  Hard as they were able,
  Boom, boom, BOOM,
  With a silk umbrella and the handle of a broom,
  Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, BOOM.
  THEN I had religion, THEN I had a vision.	10
  I could not turn from their revel in derision.
  THEN I SAW THE CONGO, CREEPING THROUGH THE BLACK,
  More deliberate. Solemnly chanted. CUTTING THROUGH THE JUNGLE WITH A GOLDEN TRACK.
  Then along that riverbank
  A thousand miles	15
  Tattooed cannibals danced in files;
  Then I heard the boom of the blood-lust song
  And a thigh-bone beating on a tin-pan gong.
  A rapidly piling climax of speed and racket. And "BLOOD" screamed the whistles and the fifes of the warriors,
  "BLOOD" screamed the skull-faced, lean witch-doctors,	20
  "Whirl ye the deadly voo-doo rattle,
  Harry the uplands,
  Steal all the cattle,
  Rattle-rattle, rattle-rattle,
  Bing!	25
  Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, BOOM,"
  A roaring, epic, rag-time tune
  With a philosophic pause. From the mouth of the Congo
  To the Mountains of the Moon.
  Death is an Elephant,	30
  Torch-eyed and horrible,
  Shrilly and with a heavily accented meter. Foam-flanked and terrible.
  BOOM, steal the pygmies,
  BOOM, kill the Arabs,
  BOOM, kill the white men,	35
  Like the wind in the chimney. HOO, HOO, HOO.
  Listen to the yell of Leopold's ghost
  Burning in Hell for his hand-maimed host.
  Hear how the demons chuckle and yell
  Cutting his hands off, down in Hell.	40
  Listen to the creepy proclamation,
  Blown through the lairs of the forest-nation,
  Blown past the white-ants' hill of clay,
  Blown past the marsh where the butterflies play:—
  "Be careful what you do,	45
  Or Mumbo-Jumbo, God of the Congo,
  All the o sounds very golden. Heavy accents very heavy. Light accents very light. Last line whispered. And all of the other
  Gods of the Congo,
  Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you,
  Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you,	50
  Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you."
  II. THEIR IRREPRESSIBLE HIGH SPIRITS Wild crap-shooters with a whoop and a call
  Rather shrill and high. Danced the juba in their gambling-hall
  And laughed fit to kill, and shook the town,
  And guyed the policemen and laughed them down	55
  With a boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, BOOM....
  THEN I SAW THE CONGO, CREEPING THROUGH THE BLACK,
  Read exactly as in first section. CUTTING THROUGH THE JUNGLE WITH A GOLDEN TRACK.
  A negro fairyland swung into view,
  Lay emphasis on the delicate ideas. Keep as light-footed as possible. A minstrel river	60
  Where dreams come true.
  The ebony palace soared on high
  Through the blossoming trees to the evening sky.
  The inlaid porches and casements shone
  With gold and ivory and elephant-bone.	65
  And the black crowd laughed till their sides were sore
  At the baboon butler in the agate door,
  And the well-known tunes of the parrot band
  That trilled on the bushes of that magic land.
  A troupe of skull-faced witch-men came	70
  With pomposity. Through the agate doorway in suits of flame,
  Yea, long-tailed coats with a gold-leaf crust
  And hats that were covered with diamond-dust.
  And the crowd in the court gave a whoop and a call
  And danced the juba from wall to wall.	75
  But the witch-men suddenly stilled the throng
  With a great deliberation and ghostliness. With a stern cold glare, and a stern old song:—
  "Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you."...
  Just then from the doorway, as fat as shotes,
  With overwhelming assurance, good cheer, and pomp. Came the cake-walk princes in their long red coats,	80
  Shoes with a patent leather shine,
  And tall silk hats that were red as wine.
  And they pranced with their butterfly partners there,
  With growing speed and sharply marked dance-rhythm. Coal-black maidens with pearls in their hair,
  Knee-skirts trimmed with the jessamine sweet,	85
  And bells on their ankles and little black feet.
  And the couples railed at the chant and the frown
  Of the witch-men lean, and laughed them down.
  (O rare was the revel, and well worth while
  That made those glowering witch-men smile.)	90
  The cake-walk royalty then began
  To walk for a cake that was tall as a man
  To the tune of "Boomlay, boomlay, BOOM,"
  While the witch-men laughed, with a sinister air,
  With a touch of negro dialect, and as rapidly as possible toward the end. And sang with the scalawags prancing there:—	95
  Walk with care, walk with care,
  Or Mumbo-Jumbo, God of the Congo,
  And all of the other
  Gods of the Congo,
  Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you.	100
  Beware, beware, walk with care,
  Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, boom.
  Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, boom,
  Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay, boom,
  Boomlay, boomlay, boomlay,	105
  BOOM."
  Oh rare was the revel, and well worth while
  Slow philosophic calm. That made those glowering witch-men smile.
  III. THE HOPE OF THEIR RELIGION A good old negro in the slums of the town
  Heavy bass. With a literal imitation of camp-meeting racket, and trance. Preached at a sister for her velvet gown.	110
  Howled at a brother for his low-down ways,
  His prowling, guzzling, sneak-thief days.
  Beat on the Bible till he wore it out,
  Starting the jubilee revival shout.
  And some had visions, as they stood on chairs,	115
  And sang of Jacob, and the golden stairs.
  And they all repented, a thousand strong,
  From their stupor and savagery and sin and wrong
  And slammed their hymn books till they shook the room
  With "Glory, glory, glory,"	120
  And "Boom, boom, BOOM."
  THEN I SAW THE CONGO, CREEPING THROUGH THE BLACK,
  Exactly as in the first section. CUTTING THROUGH THE JUNGLE WITH A GOLDEN TRACK.
  And the gray sky opened like a new-rent veil
  And showed the apostles with their coats of mail.	125
  In bright white steel they were seated round
  And their fire-eyes watched where the Congo wound.
  And the twelve apostles, from their thrones on high,
  Thrilled all the forest with their heavenly cry:—
  "Mumbo-Jumbo will die in the jungle;	130
  Sung to the tune of "Hark, ten thousand harps and voices." Never again will he hoo-doo you,
  Never again will he hoo-doo you."
  Then along that river, a thousand miles,
  With growing deliberation and joy. The vine-snared trees fell down in files.
  Pioneer angels cleared the way	135
  For a Congo paradise, for babes at play,
  For sacred capitals, for temples clean.
  Gone were the skull-faced witch-men lean.
  There, where the wild ghost-gods had wailed
  In a rather high key—as delicately as possible. A million boats of the angels sailed	140
  With oars of silver, and prows of blue
  And silken pennants that the sun shone through.
  'Twas a land transfigured, 'twas a new creation.
  Oh, a singing wind swept the negro nation;
  And on through the backwoods clearing flew:—	145
  "Mumbo-Jumbo is dead in the jungle.
  To the tune of "Hark, ten thousand harps and voices." Never again will he hoo-doo you.
  Never again will he hoo-doo you."
  Redeemed were the forests, the beasts and the men,
  And only the vulture dared again	150
  By the far, lone mountains of the moon
  To cry, in the silence, the Congo tune:—
  "Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you.
  Dying off into a penetrating, terrified whisper. Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you,
  Mumbo ... Jumbo ... will ... hoo-doo ... you."
• 

  Band on the Run

  Tennyson wrote The Charge of the Light Brigade, a favorite from elementary school. We used to recite it aloud in assembly. Kipling wrote Kim, The Jungle Book? HIs poems are very racist when analyzed now. He wrote a poem about the loss of his during WWII. The racism is gone. I was so impressed.

  We used to perform Robert Frost, The Road Not Taken.

  Also, Hiawatha by Longfellow, The midngiht road of Paul Revere. Revere was a minor player who was later stripped of command for being inept. The actual main rider had an awkward sounding name. Longfellow chose Revere to make easier verse.

  John Donne, NO Man is an Island.

  Dorotothy Parker was good.
• 

  Dagney

  I agree, it's hard to not read poetry outloud.

  Anything Shakepeare for me. Yep, Dorothy Parker, Kipling, Longfellow...faves of mine. I think we had some favorite poems threads here, but I'm terrible at searching on this site.

  Title: The Day is Done
  Author: Henry Wadsworth Longfellow [ More Titles by Longfellow ]

  The day is done, and the darkness
  Falls from the wings of Night,
  As a feather is wafted downward
  From an eagle in his flight.

  I see the lights of the village
  Gleam through the rain and the mist,
  And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me,
  That my soul cannot resist:

  A feeling of sadness and longing,
  That is not akin to pain,
  And resembles sorrow only
  As the mist resembles the rain.

  Come, read to me some poem,
  Some simple and heartfelt lay,
  That shall soothe this restless feeling,
  And banish the thoughts of day.

  Not from the grand old masters,
  Not from the bards sublime,
  Whose distant footsteps echo
  Through the corridors of Time.

  For, like strains of martial music,
  Their mighty thoughts suggest
  Life's endless toil and endeavor;
  And to-night I long for rest.

  Read from some humbler poet,
  Whose songs gushed from his heart,
  As showers from the clouds of summer,
  Or tears from the eyelids start;

  Who, through long days of labor,
  And nights devoid of ease,
  Still heard in his soul the music
  Of wonderful melodies.

  Such songs have power to quiet
  The restless pulse of care,
  And come like the benediction
  That follows after prayer.

  Then read from the treasured volume
  The poem of thy choice,
  And lend to the rhyme of the poet
  The beauty of thy voice.

  And the night shall be filled with music,
  And the cares, that infest the day,
  Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
  And as silently steal away.

  -THE END-
  Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's poem: The Day is Done

  One of my favorite audibles, I have the "cassette," lol, is e.e. cummings reading his own poetry. It is beautiful and haunting.
• 

  Mad Sweeney

  A couple of my favorites below:

  Ulysses
  Alfred Lord Tennyson

  It little profits that an idle king,
  By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
  Matched with an aged wife, I mete and dole
  Unequal laws unto a savage race,
  That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.
  
  I cannot rest from travel: I will drink
  Life to the lees: all times I have enjoyed
  Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those
  That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when
  Through scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
  Vext the dim sea: I am become a name;
  For always roaming with a hungry heart
  Much have I seen and known; cities of men
  And manners, climates, councils, governments,
  Myself not least, but honoured of them all;
  And drunk delight of battle with my peers;
  Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
  I am part of all that I have met;
  Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough
  Gleams that untravelled world, whose margin fades
  For ever and for ever when I move.
  How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
  To rust unburnished, not to shine in use!
  As though to breath were life. Life piled on life
  Were all to little, and of one to me
  Little remains: but every hour is saved
  From that eternal silence, something more,
  A bringer of new things; and vile it were
  For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
  And this gray spirit yearning in desire
  To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
  Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.
  
  This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
  To whom I leave the scepter and the isle
  Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfill
  This labour, by slow prudence to make mild
  A rugged people, and through soft degrees
  Subdue them to the useful and the good.
  Most blameless is he, centered in the sphere
  Of common duties, decent not to fail
  In offices of tenderness, and pay
  Meet adoration to my household gods,
  When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.
  
  There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:
  There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners,
  Souls that have toiled, and wrought, and thought with me
  That ever with a frolic welcome took
  The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
  Free hearts, free foreheads you and I are old;
  Old age had yet his honour and his toil;
  Death closes all: but something ere the end,
  Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
  Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
  The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
  The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
  Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
  'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
  Push off, and sitting well in order smite
  The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
  To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
  Of all the western stars, until I die.
  It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
  It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
  And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
  Though much is taken, much abides; and though
  We are not now that strength which in the old days
  Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are,
  One equal-temper of heroic hearts,
  Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
  To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.