Please do more !!!!!!!!

Yes, I’ve known
Her sloping shoulders
Rocky shores and
sandy sholes;
Her watery hips
Deep and swift
or slow and
ebbing;
Known the
curve of her
back and fathomed
her willowy depths;
known as anyone who long has
walked this shore may know.

Despite this environment of so many important news stories that need to be explored and aired out (and you do so well), could I request that you devote one show a month to poetry?

So very rare and so very special, to hear on the radio.

Thank you very much!

She is as in a field a silken tent
At midday when the sunny summer breeze
Has dried the dew and all its ropes relent,
So that in guys it gently sways at ease,
And its supporting central cedar pole,
That is its pinnacle to heavenward
And signifies the sureness of the soul,
Seems to owe naught to any single cord,
But strictly held by none, is loosely bound
By countless silken ties of love and thought
To everything on earth the compass round,
And only by one’s going slightly taut
In the capriciousness of summer air
Is of the slightest bondage made aware.

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/those-winter-sundays/

A great show. I was surprised nobody mentioned Christopher Marlowe’s justly famous description of the sonnet as “infinity in a little room.” Best ever. Says everything the commentators were saying, but in 5 words. Talk about compression. And it would be nice if Spenser had been given his due credit for bringing the sonnet into English. But there’s no question that Shakespeare is still the mountaintop every sonneteer must scale.

My personal favorites: Shakespeare’s Nos. 29 and 73; Spenser’s No. 1 from The Amoretti; Wordsworth’s “Surprised by Joy,”; and, of course, Shelley’s “Ozymandias.”

I put a copy on reserve at the library and hope to have it in my hands soon.

Though not a sonnet, when I first read the words: ‘Nay, answer me: stand, and unfold yourself.’ a new world so heightened and raw became alive to me.

Add to that the track by E.E. Cummings, and I’m hooked.

Nuns fret not at their convent’s narrow room;
And hermits are contented with their cells;
And students with their pensive citadels;
Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom,
Sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for bloom,
High as the highest Peak of Furness-fells,
Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells:
In truth the prison, unto which we doom
Ourselves, no prison is: and hence for me,
In sundry moods, ’twas pastime to be bound
Within the Sonnet’s scanty plot of ground;
Pleased if some Souls (for such there needs must be)
Who have felt the weight of too much liberty,
Should find brief solace there, as I have found.

Across the seasons doors remain ajar.
Our visit done, we raced back to the car.