Category Archives: Sound Recording

“Darest Thou Now O Soul” by Walt Whitman [w/ Audio]

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Darest thou now O soul,
 Walk out with me toward the unknown region,
 Where neither ground is for the feet nor any path to follow?

No map there, nor guide,
 Nor voice sounding, nor touch of human hand,
 Nor face with blooming flesh, nor lips, nor eyes, are in that land.

I know it not O soul,
 Nor dost thou, all is a blank before us,
 All waits undream'd of in that region, that inaccessible land. 

Till when the ties loosen,
 All but the ties eternal, Time and Space,
 Nor darkness, gravitation, sense, nor any bounds bounding us.

Then we burst forth, we float,
 In Time and Space O soul, prepared for them,
 Equal, equipt at last, (O joy! O fruit of all!) them to fulfill O soul.

“Mock on, Mock on, Voltaire, Rousseau” by William Blake [w/ Audio]

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Mock on, Mock on, Voltaire, Rousseau;
   Mock on, Mock on, 'tis all in vain.
 You throw the sand against the wind,
   And the wind blows it back again.

And every sand becomes a Gem
   Reflected in the beams divine;
 Blown back, they blind the mocking Eye,
   But still in Israel's paths they shine.

The Atoms of Democritus
   And Newton's Particles of light
 Are sands upon the Red Sea shore
   Where Israel's tents do shine so bright.

“Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow” [Soliloquy from MACBETH] by William Shakespeare [w/ Audio]

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Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
 Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
 To the last syllable of recorded time;
 And all our yesterdays have lighted fools 
 The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
  Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
   That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
   And then is heard no more. It is a tale 
   Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
   Signifying nothing.

“Reply to Caishu’s ‘Ancient Temple by a River'” by Mei Yaochen [w/ Audio]

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Old trees with tangled hanging tassels
   by a deserted temple open to the river.
 Rain, rain threw down the clay statues
   and wind blew down this ancient building.
 Wild birds nest in dusty shrines,
   fishermen hold a bamboo lottery cup.
 About to play the tune "Mountain Ghost," I stop:
   the Verses of Chu make me too sad.

Translation: Barnstone, Tony and Ping, Chou. 2005. The Anchor Book of Chinese Poetry: From Ancient to Contemporary. New York: Anchor Books.

“Walking to Guanghua Temple by Moonlight” by Ouyang Xiu [w/ Audio]

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Sound of water cascading over rock.
   A silent mountain in the night.
 Bright moonlight washes over the pines.
   One thousand peaks, all in one color.

“Retort” by Paul Laurence Dunbar [w/ Audio]

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"Thou art a fool," said my head to my heart,
 "Indeed, the greatest of fools thou art,
 To be led astray by the trick of a tress,
 By a smiling face or a ribbon smart;"
 And my heart was in sore distress.
 Then Phyllis came by, and her face was fair,
 The light gleamed soft on her raven hair;
 And her lips were blooming a rosy red.
 Then my heart spoke out with a right bold air:
 "Thou art worse than a fool, O head!"

“Drunk in the Fairyland” by Huang Tingjian [w/ Audio]

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In the face of heavy morning cloud again
   And drizzling evening rain,
 Leaning on each other, rugged the hills remain.

The Gorge of Witch and lofty peaks
   Lock in the Southern Palace rosy cheeks.

In spring the halberds move in force,
   Maids in fair dress welcome heroes on horse,
 To the riverside town they go only.

I come to the wasteland a thousand miles away,
   With my shadow so lonely.

How can I become cheerful and gay?

It is said the Southern land is so high,
   It nearly scrapes the sky.
 To the capital I stretch my eye,
   I see but misty water far and nigh.

When I drank in the hall,
   My friends were talents all.

Songstresses sang with rosy face
   And dancers danced with grace,
 Drunk, they intoxicated the place. 

Hearing the cuckoo's home-going song
   All the night long, 
 Could I resist my yearning strong?

Translation: Xu Yuanchong [translator]. 2021. Deep, Deep the Courtyard. [庭院深深.] Cite Publishing: Kuala Lumpur, pp. 191-192.

“Ode on Solitude” by Alexander Pope [w/ Audio]

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Happy 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 the 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.

“Because I Could Not Stop for Death” (479) by Emily Dickinson [w/ Audio]

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Because I could not stop for Death —
   He kindly stopped for me —
 The Carriage held but just Ourselves —
   And Immortality.

We slowly drove — He knew no haste
   And I had put away
 My labour and my leisure too,
   For His Civility —

We passed the School, where Children strove
   At Recess — in the Ring —
 We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain -
   We passed the Setting Sun -

Or rather - He passed us -
   The Dews drew quivering and chill -
 For only Gossamer, my Gown -
   My Tippet - only Tulle -

We paused before a House that seemed 
   A Swelling of the Ground -
 The Roof was scarcely visible -
   The Cornice - in the Ground-

Since then - ‘tis Centuries - and yet
   Feels shorter than the Day
 I first surmised the Horses’ Heads
   Were toward Eternity -

“There Is a Bird in the Tree” by Kabir [w/ Audio]

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On this tree is a bird:
   It dances in the joy of life.
 No one knows where it is:
   And who knows what the burden
     Of its music may be?
 Where the branches throw a deep shade,
   There does it have its nest:
     And it comes in the evening 
     And flies away in the morning,
     And says not a word 
       Of that which it means.
 None tell me of this bird 
     That sings within me.
   It is neither coloured nor colourless:
   It has neither form nor outline:
   It sits in the shadow of love.
   It dwells within the Unattainable,
     The Infinite, and the Eternal;
       And no one marks 
         When it comes and goes.
 Kabir says, “O brother Sadhu! 
   Deep is the mystery. 
   Let wise men seek to know 
     where rests that bird.”

NOTE: This is the translation by Rabindranath Tagore from the 1915 text, One Hundred Poems of Kabir. This is poem #30 (XXX) of that volume.