City Sketches (Set II)

Recently, I stumbled upon a poem while I was hanging out at the dVersepoets pub, and when I read it, I needed to read it aloud, to hear its cadence and to see its intriguing images through hearing the prose.

This poem “City Sketches (Set II)” is written by Robert Mullen and appears on his blog “Golden giraffes riding scarlet flamingos through the desert of forever”. To read this poem alongside the interesting images that Robert has selected, please do visit his blog. You will also find between his poetry, evidence of his obsession with origami.

With his kind permission, I present you with my reading of this interesting and intriguing poem:

To night

by Percy Bysshe Shelley

 

“The starry night” by Vincent Van Gogh                          (Image from Wikipedia and in the public domain in Germany)

 

Ode to the West Wind

“Ode to the West Wind” is a classical poem and considered to be one of the most critically acclaimed poems in the English language [Wikipedia]. It was written by Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822) and can be read here.

Portrait of Percy Bysshe Shelley, painted by Amelia Curran, and photographed by Alfred Clint. Image is in the public domain.

Gerard McHugh—a dear friend of mine, a poet, a connoisseur of literary prose, and also particularly talented at setting poetry to music—made a comment to my poem “Evanescent dreams”, which lead me to read “Ode to the West Wind”. Reading this poem literally swept me off my feet, my voice got carried away, audibly so, and ended up getting recorded, here.

WARNING: I was trying to sustain the drama, so my reading may be too staccato, but since I am a novice at this I simply have to dare do it, before it could possibly get better. Any constructive feedback would be appreciated. Please be kind.

A poetry reading of “How”

Abigail Baker’s poetry—vivid in imagery and enchanting—explores the personal relationship realm, showcasing its magic, but also the inevitable pain that goes with being human. Her poetry can be found here.

With Abigail’s permission I hereby present my poetry reading of her very moving poem “How.”

Walking between giants (with poetry reading)

(A reading of this poem has been beautifully rendered by Abigail Baker and can be heard here.)

Walking between giants

The wind above whirs through the firs,
while down below, white little flowers—
from wood sorrel,
their pink-veined petals—
on delicate stems,
quiver, …
to the sound of a nearby river.

Bare feet walk on soft brown,
needled forest paths.
But oh! Not on baby beech trees,
from the ground emerging
like butterflies
with green rubber wings.

Bare feet walk over curving tree roots,
covered in earthy moss—
emerald velvet carpet.

Walking between giants,
standing,
proud and noble,
reaching, straight, into the sky—
beech trees of a hundred years.
Around their roots are heaps
made by ants,
who scurry over crisp oak leaves,
from autumn last.
With eyes closed,
they sound as loud as the trees are tall.

Bare feet walk not on ants.
Ants walk over bare feet.
One ant stands on two of his six feet,
assuming a warrior pose,
protecting his castle, his kin.
Behind him towers another castle
built in medieval times,
by men,
and partially ruined,
and partially rebuilt,
by men.
It was catapulted,
due to a dispute between two men,
who both wanted the same princess.

Bare feet brave the stinging of ants,
and walk on,
on soft forest carpet,
to the edge of the forest,
where white butterflies—
their wings like cherry blossoms,
flutter free in the grass green meadow,
adorned with dandelion gold.
The cherry trees are white clouds
held by branches,
that shine bronze in the sun.

Bare feet walk on,
on soft forest carpet,
deep into the forest,
where, by the granite rocks,
lay large white feathers.
Of what creature that may be?
Please let it not be an angel …
And if it was,
may it have stilled
the perpetual hunger of a lone soul,
and may it all not be in vain.

Bare feet walk on soft forest paths.
The wind above whirs through firs,
while down below,
white little flowers,
on delicate stems,
quiver, …
to the sound of a nearby river.

Copyright © Quirina Roode-Gutzmer 2012.
All rights reserved.

In memoriam: Rudolph Eduard Roode (21 August 1937 ‑ 3 May 2006).
Today, in my mind, I walk with my father, bare feet on soft forest paths. He is a giant, standing, proud and noble.

“Nothing is so strong as gentleness, nothing so gentle as real strength.” —Sitting Bull

A poetry reading of “Mysterium”

Ben Miller’s poetry explores the metaphysical, the magical and the mysterious, in prose that flows like a river, with a cadence that resonates with the soul. His poetry can be found here.

His poem “Mysterium” is particularly melodious and lends itself to be read aloud (over and over!). And this inadvertently lead me to record my reading of this magnificent poem.

This is my debut poetry reading and it is hence imperfect. I even stumble on a word near the end. I performed several readings of this poem in an attempt to read it error-free, but I found that when I read it a few times, it seemed that one tended to become mechanical and then the initial mood and the magic of discovering the poem for the first time was lost. So, I opted for one of the earlier readings with more mistakes, because the feeling of the poem is more important.

With the permission of Ben Miller I hereby present my poetry reading of his magnificent poem “Mysterium.”