I think the poet that you are looking for is Lawrence Ferlinghetti. The caller also specifically referenced a collection of poems by Ferlinghetti, “A Coney Island of the Mind”. Hope this helps.

Langston Hughes:

God wish the rent
Were heaven sent.

And a Japanese koan:

What a moon,
Even the thief
Pauses to stare.

Jim Holt’s rushing adrenalin may have contributed to a bit faster tempo in his (memorized!) recitations than he probably would have preferred. Nonetheless, his selections and insightful commentary, along with his ability (together with Tom and Jack) to likewise engage your callers made for a truly enjoyable hour. Radio doesn’t get much better than this.

Holt’s comment that the act of memorizing and reciting poetry becomes its reward hit the mark, as the rich internal resounding that results when one has planted the seeds of good verse within the mind is ultimately a private experience. With the onset of spring in the air — a theme which must rival the “wooing of women” — I can’t help but now be reminded of two gems. Having taken root so long ago, they now rush faster from the mind than my fingers can manage:

Hope springs eternal in the human breast;
Man never is, but always to be blest:
The soul, uneasy and confin’d from home,
Rests and expiates in a life to come.

(- Alexander Pope)

*********************************

For oft when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon the inner eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

(- William Wordsworth — last verse only from “I wandered lonely as a cloud”)

Jim Holt’s rushing adrenalin may have contributed to a bit faster tempo in his (memorized!) recitations than he probably would have preferred. Nonetheless, his selections and insightful commentary, along and his ability (together with Tom and Jack) to likewise engage your callers made for a truly enjoyable hour of listening. Radio doesn’t get much better than this.

Holt’s comment that the act of memorizing and reciting poetry becomes its reward hit the mark, as the rich internal resounding that results when one has planted the seeds of good verse within the mind is ultimately a private experience. With the onset of spring in the air — a theme which must rival the “wooing of women” — I can’t help but now be reminded of two gems; one Pope’s, the other Wordsworth’s. Having taken root so long ago, they now rush faster from the mind than my fingers can manage:

Hope springs eternal in the human breast;
Man never is, but always to be blest:
The soul, uneasy and confin’d from home,
Rests and expiates in a life to come.

(- Alexander Pope)

*********************************

For oft when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon the inner eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

(- William Wordsworth — last verse only from “I wandered lonely as a cloud”)

This is my twitter to the world
That never twittered me–
The inane things of daily life
Deserving obscurity.

Incessant stream of messages–
They come in starts and fits–
What one’s eating. whom one’s dating—
A universe of twits!

AUTUMNAL SONG
from Paul Verlaine

The languid moans
Of fiddle tones
Of the fall
Imbue my heart
With longing hard
In its thrall.

I stifle and pale
When I inhale
At clock’s beep,
I reminisce
Of old days’ bliss
And I weep.

I glide away
In ill wind’s sway
To and fro,
It blows with ease
Me like dead leaves
Or dry straw.

For your consideration, please be aware you are (as Joseph Campbell quotes) “standing on a whale fishing for minnows.”

Though you nicely and humbly chronicle your poetical cognitive pleasures, current brain science breaks the bounds of mind-body and can take your inquiries further. Take a look at Antonio Demasio’s work or even a quick glance to Oliver Saks’ recent musings on music. In this technologically centered world the trick is to shake the rational dust out of our 19 Century rhetorical boxes. After all, the current mortgage fiasco just showed us the limits of rationalism, didn’t it? What is it that Greenspan said…. “this thinking doesn’t make sense?”

My job as a sometimes actor and lowly CUNY voice and speech professor teaching to non-majors is to open up a person as well as a mind. Physiologically, learning by rote and learning by heart are two completely different neural processes. Fortunately Western science is coming to its “senses.” Soon it may prove what our pre-industrialized selves, and the East has always known- that there is human value in speaking poetry… beyond the basic “it’s good for your head stuff.”

You might really wanna to talk with Gary Glazner, Managing Director of The Bowery Poetry Club– check out his work with poetry and the Alzheimer’s Foundation of America.

Sincerely,
tom marion

When I was 7, I decided to memorize a verse of a poem from the New Yorker magazine, and 44 years later, there it still is. I wonder who wrote it?

Jenny Kissed Me by Leigh Hunt

Jenny kissed me when we met, jumping from the chair she sat in.
Time you thief who love to get sweets for your list put that in.
Say I’m weary, say I’m sad, say that health and wealth have missed me.
Say I’m growing old-but add: Jenny kissed me.