Category Archives: Literature

“Inversnaid” by Gerard Manley Hopkins [w/ Audio]

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This darksome burn, horseback brown,
 His rollback highroad roaring down,
 In coop and in comb the fleece of his foam
 Flutes and low to the lake falls home.

A windpuff-bonnet of fawn-froth
 Turns and twindles over the broth
 Of a pool so pitchblack, fell frowning,
 It rounds and rounds Despair and drowning.

Degged with dew, dappled with dew
 Are the groins of the braes that the brook threads through.
 Wiry heathpacks, flitches of fern,
 And the beadbonny ash that sits over the burn.

What would the world be, once bereft
 Of wet and of wildness? Let them be left,
 O let them be left, wildness and wet;
 Long live the weeds and the wilderness yet.

“Beginning My Studies” by Walt Whitman [w/ Audio]

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Beginning my studies, the first step pleas'd me so much,
 The mere fact, consciousness -- these forms -- the power of motion,
 The least insect or animal -- the senses -- eyesight -- love;
 The first step, I say, aw'd me and pleas'd me so much,
 I have hardly gone, and hardly wish'd to go, any further,
 But stop and loiter all the time, to sing it in ecstatic songs.

“Tacit” [Poetry Style #12] by Sikong Tu [w/ Audio]

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Without a word,
   The gist is grasped.
 With no wails or soft sobs,
   Sadness spreads heart-to-heart.
 There is an enigmatic Prime Mover
   With whom each of us either sinks or floats.
 Dregs of rustic wine in a fine strainer.
 Buds on the cusp of bloom turned back by cold.
 Dust motes spreading by Brownian motion.
 Sea spume floating and tumbling onto shore.
    Shallow, deep, cohering, or scattering.
 Of ten thousand, any sample will do.

NOTE: The late Tang Dynasty poet, Sikong Tu (a.k.a. Ssŭ-k‘ung T‘u,) wrote an ars poetica entitled Twenty-Four Styles of Poetry. It presents twenty-four poems that are each in a different tone, reflecting varied concepts from Taoist philosophy and aesthetics. Above is a translation of the twelfth of the twenty-four poems. Translated titles vary: Herbert Giles entitled this one “Conservation,” whereas Tony Barnstone and Chou Ping called it “The Implicit Style.”

BOOKS: “Gothic Tales” by Marquis de Sade [Trans. by Margaret Crossland]

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Gothic TalesGothic Tales by Marquis de Sade
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Amazon.in Page

Release Date: September 3, 2024

This collection of short fiction is an excellent entry point for the reader wishing to be introduced to the philosophy and literary stylings of the Marquis de Sade. It is less visceral and explicitly violent than the works for which Sade is most famous (i.e. Justine, 120 Days of Sodom, and Philosophy in the Boudoir.) While it does deal in libidinal issues throughout and has a few stories that are explicitly erotica (notably the last couple pieces,) it never ventures up to or over whatever thin line separates erotica from pornography.

While all the pieces share Sade’s signature philosophy and interests, it is in other ways a quite diverse collection of writings. The first piece, “Eugenie De Franval,” is a novella that takes up about half the book, and it is followed by a piece that, in today’s parlance, might be called flash fiction, “The Horse-Chestnut Flower.” Pieces such as “Eugenie De Franval” and “Florville and Courval” are tragedies while the comedies include: “Emilie De Tourville,”[granted with grim elements] “The Husband Who Played Priest,” “Room for Two,” and “The Self-Made Cuckold.” Those last three – as well as “The Horse-Chestnut Flower”– are comedic in a modern sense, not just the literary sense.

I can’t say how much of the difference in tone and intensity of these pieces from Sade’s other stories is owed to the selected source material and how much is owed to translation and editorial decisions, but it makes for a read that is more intriguing in story and less shocking and disturbing than many other translations of Sade’s work.

I enjoyed these stories. They had many clever twists and turns that I don’t recall experiencing in Sade’s novels. Several stories rely on a great deal of deus ex machina coincidences, but I think that works just fine — particularly in the more humorous stories. I’d highly recommend this for readers looking to ease into the work of the Marquis de Sade.

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“The Sick Rose” by William Blake [w/ Audio]

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O Rose thou art sick.
 The invisible worm
 That flies in the night
 In the howling storm,

Has found out thy bed
 Of crimson joy:
 And his dark secret love
 Does thy life destroy.

“Be Not Afeard” [from The Tempest] by William Shakespeare [w/ Audio]

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Be not afeard: the isle is full of noises,
 Sound and sweet airs, that give delight, and hurt not. 
 Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments
 Will hum about mine ears; and sometimes voices,
 That, if I then had wak'd after long sleep,
 Will make me sleep again: and then, in dreaming,
 The clouds methought would open and show riches
 Ready to drop upon me; that, when I wak'd 
 I cried to dream again.

NOTE: In The Tempest, Act III: Scene 2, Caliban speaks these words to Stephano and Trinculo.

“Renunciant’s Song” by Su Shi [w/ Audio]

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The night is clear, even pristine --
   A nightscape in silver moonlight.
 "Yes, please! Pour me a bowl of wine.
   Don't skimp! take it up to the brim."
 And why should I chase wealth and fame
   When it is sure to end in vain?
 Events pass like a horse's sigh,
   A spark on stone, or dream travel.
 I can put out my ideas,
   But who'll accept them as the truth?
 Why shouldn't I just live happily 
   And innocently, like a child?
 I could go back to carefree days
   When life's trifles weren't torturesome.
 Just me, my lute, a pot of wine,
   And the stories drawn by the clouds.

NOTES: Song Dynasty Poet, Su Shi, was also known as Su Dongpo. The translated title of this poem also varies. In Deep, Deep the Courtyard, translated by Xu Yuanchong, it is entitled, “Song of Pilgrimage.”

“Mowing” by Robert Frost [w/ Audio]

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There was never a sound beside the wood but one,
 And that was my long scythe whispering to the ground.
 What was it it whispered? I knew not well myself;
 Perhaps it was something about the heat of the sun,
 Something, perhaps, about the lack of sound --
 And that was why it whispered and did not speak.
 It was no dream of the gift of idle hours,
 Or easy gold at the hand of fay or elf: 
 Anything more than the truth would have seemed too weak
 To the earnest love that laid the swale in rows,
 Not without feeble-pointed spikes of flowers
 (Pale orchises), and scared a bright green snake.
 The fact is the sweetest dream that labor knows.
 My long scythe whispered and left the hay to make.

“Natural” [Poetry Style #10] by Sikong Tu [w/ Audio]

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Stoop anywhere and pluck it up,
 But if you look 'round - it's not there.
 Any path may lead you to it.
A stroke of the brush becomes Spring,
 And the flowers are in full bloom. --
 It's like seeing a new year dawn:
 Snatch at it and you won't have it.
 Seize it by force and you'll be poorer.
Be like the old mountain hermit --
 Like duckweed gathered by stream flow.
Find calm amidst storms of feeling
 By knowing Heaven's harmonies.

NOTE: The late Tang Dynasty poet, Sikong Tu (a.k.a. Ssŭ-k‘ung T‘u,) wrote an ars poetica entitled Twenty-Four Styles of Poetry. It presents twenty-four poems that are each in a different tone, reflecting varied concepts from Taoist philosophy and aesthetics. Above is a translation of the tenth of the twenty-four poems.

“Dulce et Decorum Est” by Wilfred Owen [w/ Audio]

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Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
 Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
 Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,
 And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
 But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
 Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
 Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys! -- An ecstasy of fumbling
 Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
 But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
 And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime. --
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
 As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams before my helpless sight,
 He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace 
 Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
 And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
 His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
 If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
 Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
 Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
 Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, --
 My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
 To children ardent for some desperate glory,
 The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est 
   Pro patria mori.

NOTE: Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori is a line written by Horace in Latin that translates to: “It is sweet and fitting to die for one’s country.”