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Dane Allred examines the "Abundance" of the universe in his list of "1001 Thanks"
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Tuesday Jul 06, 2010
Tuesday Jul 06, 2010
A New Path
Habits can dull us to the real question many people ask at some time in their lives. When we stop and think, we ought to consider why we are here. Is there a reason for you to be here on this planet at this particular time? Have you thought about what it is you are here to do? Do you have a higher purpose? Is there a nagging suspicion in the back of your mind telling you there has to be more? Perhaps it is time to explore the unexplored part of ourselves.
Henry David Thoreau once said “When it's time to die, let us not discover that we have never lived.” Reforming our lives is not an easy thing. Apparently, I am supposed to attend more wedding receptions, since twice in two days I have been reprimanded the chaotic forces of my life.
Yesterday, one of my former students again invited me to attend her wedding reception. On a campus of thousands of people, she and her sister found me in my car and reminded me about the wedding. She even turned to her sister and insisted I never attend receptions. It’s true. I am a little anti-social when it comes to keeping in touch with former students. I usually have so much to do with my current students that I tend to lose track of the old ones. I also have church responsibilities which would normally include attending an unusual number of wedding receptions. So let’s just say I have probably been avoiding one of my social duties.
When we talk of reforming ourselves, going to social functions may not be at the top of the list. But someone or something is trying to get me a message about honoring the norms of our society, and that includes celebrating the fact that people want to spend their lives together. People came to my wedding reception. Why am I so stubborn? Some of these social customs are the glue that hold our society together, and with so many disctractions in our lives, it’s easy to neglect the things that make us a society.
While I’m on the subject, I have been reading some of the writings of Eric Hoffer this week, and he believed we joined mass movements because of the emptiness we feel in life. In his book “The True Believer” he tried to help us understand why people would support Nazi policies, and he concluded most people would rather be told what to do, than use the freedom we have to find out what we really want to do. He also said that when people are left to do as they please, they usually imitate each other.
I hope you take this opportunity to really examine your life and see if you are doing something that makes a difference in your life and the lives of others. When we get outside our prejudices, hatreds and envy, we are really able to do those things we were meant to do. As Eric Hoffer, observed, people hate those who remind them of their inadaquacies, of their own shortcomings. We need to examine the causes we so vehemently support and wonder out loud just what that energy could be better spent doing. You know what it is. No one else can tell you what you need to be doing. You know what would be a better use of your time. The real question is whether or not you are going to get up off the couch and do it.
It doesn’t have to be a thermonuclear reaction. It may be you just need to attend more wedding receptions and affirm the urge of most in this world to try and make the world a better place for themselves, but also for someone else. We all sacrifice something to exist in this human sphere, and that might be paying more taxes than we want so the roads will be better. It might be getting paid less than we want for a more satisfying job. It may be using our millions to make the lives of others better.
There really is something about being excited about our own causes. We don’t need the direction of someone else, we don’t need marching orders. We won’t have to say someone gave us an order we were just following. We will be focused on what is right, and what is wrong, and we will be clear about what we can do about it. If what we think we need to do involves tearing down someone else, then we probably need to ponder our true purpose some more.
There’s today’s challenge. Can we find out what it is we really want to be doing, and not just be following someone else? Good luck. It’s harder than it sounds. But you should still invite me to your wedding reception.
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Monday Jun 28, 2010
Monday Jun 28, 2010
Welcome to Biography Out Loud. I am your host, Dane Allred.
Second of nine children, he was born in 1819. He had brothers named George Washington, Andrew Jackson and Thomas Jefferson, but he had the same name as his father. When he was six, he recalled being lifted up and given kiss on the cheek by the Marquis de Lafayette at a fourth of July celebration. Some of his earliest poetry was published in the New York Mirror. He started a newspaper in New York, sold it and then worked for many different newspapers, also working as a schoolmaster. When the “Free Soil Party” was founded in 1848, he was a delegate to the first convention. Who was this American poet born on Long Island, and often called the “father of free verse”?
We’ll find out in a moment on:
Biography Out Loud
By 1855, Walt Whitman had printed his first version of “Leaves of Grass”, a poem he continued to work to perfect throughout his entire life. No name is listed as author on this first edition, but in the text Whitman describes himself as "Walt Whitman, an American, one of the roughs, a kosmos, disorderly, fleshly, and sensual, no sentimentalist, no stander above men or women or apart from them, no more modest than immodest”. He paid for this first printing himself, publishing 795 copies. Ralph Waldo Emerson approved of the book, writing a five page letter to Walt Whitman praising the poem.
Whitman wrote “Leaves of Grass” as an attempt to make an American epic poem, using some of the cadence in the Bible and writing in free verse. Others condemned the book as overtly sexual, and the second edition was delayed due to the controversy. “Leaves of Grass” was reprinted many times, with Whitman revising it several times.
At the beginning of the Civil War, Whitman wrote the patriotic poem “Beat! Beat! Drums!” to help rally the North. Walt Whitman feared his brother had been injured in fighting and went to find him. He walked day and night, had his wallet stolen and after finding his brother with only a superficial cheek wound. But seeing the wounded and dead changed his course forever, and he left for Washington to serve as a part-time pay clerk and to volunteer as a nurse in the army hospitals. William Douglas O’Conner helped Whitman get a better job, and later defended the poet in a pamphlet call “The Good Grey Poet”, which would become Walt Whitman’s nickname. Whitman also published one of his most famous poems at this time, “Captain, O My Captain”, which was written to mark the death of Abraham Lincoln.
Modernist poet Ezra Pound called Whitman "America's poet... He is America”. For the 150th anniversary of “Leaves of Grass”, the literary critic, Harold Bloom wrote:
“You can nominate a fair number of literary works as candidates for the secular Scripture of the United States. They might include Melville's Moby-Dick, Twain's Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, and Emerson's two series of Essays and The Conduct of Life. None of those, not even Emerson's, are as central as the first edition of Leaves of Grass.”
Whitman died in 1892, suffering from bronchial pneumonia the last years of his life. It is estimated he had only one-eighth of normal breathing capacity, and an autopsy revealed a large abscess on his chest. At his public viewing, the casket was almost hidden from the quantity of flowers.
Beat! Beat! Drums!
by Walt Whitman
Beat! beat! drums! Blow! bugles! blow! Through the windows—through the doors—burst like a force of armed men, Into the solemn church, and scatter the congregation; Into the school where the scholar is studying; Leave not the bridegroom quiet—no happiness must he have now with his bride; Nor the peaceful farmer any peace plowing his field or gathering his grain; So fierce you whirr and pound, you drums—so shrill you bugles blow. Beat! beat! drums! Blow! bugles! blow! Over the traffic of cities—over the rumble of wheels in the streets; Are beds prepared for sleepers at night in the houses? No sleepers must sleep in those beds; No bargainers' bargains by day—no brokers or speculators. Would they continue? Would the talkers be talking? would the singer attempt to sing? Would the lawyer rise in the court to state his case before the judge? Then rattle quicker, heavier, drums—and bugles wilder blow.Beat! beat! drums! Blow! bugles! blow! Make no parley—stop for no expostulation; Mind not the timid—mind not the weeper or prayer; Mind not the old man beseeching the young man; Let not the child's voice be heard, nor the mother's entreaties. Recruit! recruit? Make the very trestles shake under the dead, where they lie in their shrouds awaiting the hearses. So strong you thump, O terrible drums—so loud you bugles blow.
LITERATURE OUT LOUD
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Monday Jun 28, 2010
Monday Jun 28, 2010
This is the complete episode from June 20th.
LITERATURE OUT LOUD
Click here for a complete INDEX
LITERATURE OUT LOUD -- see and hear great literature Audio narrations with synchronized visual text
The Complete Collection of
SHAKESPEARE'S SONNETS
all 154 poems $3.99 DVD with FREE shipping
Essential Oils -- create your own business -- click on the logo to begin
Sunday Jun 27, 2010
Sunday Jun 27, 2010
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Paula was sitting in the corner of Greg’s front room crying. Greg had done his best to try to comfort her, but this time it wasn’t about him, and he wasn’t making much headway.
“I’m hurting people, Greg”, she wept. “Just like when you got shot. Now people are watching over their shoulders for this Raymond Johnson guy, and who knows who he’ll shoot next. The last words out of their mouths will be ‘You’re that guy Paula Rogers was talking about on the news...,’” and she began crying again.
“Come on, Paula,” said Greg, “where’s that tough blonde I saw interview that serial killer? And how about that child pornographer – those were harder than this case.”
Paula shook her head. “The serial killer didn’t kill anyone I knew. I led this Ray guy to this city, and now Larry is dead and you’ve been shot.”
Greg was finally beginning to get that this was more than just being about the violence against people she had known, but that Paula was feeling personally responsible – like an accessory to the crime.
Greg had been trained about what to do when witnesses began to feel guilt by association, so he kicked it into high gear. “Look at me Paula.” She stopped whimpering and sniffed. She looked up. “You didn’t do this. He did. If you had told me you didn’t want to do the story, I would have called until I found someone who would do it.”
“Plus,” he said as soothingly as he could, “there is no way we can control what others do – we can only control what we do.”
This was probably the wrong thing to say to her.
She pushed up her sleeves, squared her shoulders and said directly to his face without hesitation, “That’s why I’m going to quit the broadcasting business. Then I won’t be hurting anyone else.”
John was back to making lists. He was feeling so confident that his luck would hold he had decided to prioritize his wish list. Just a few things for himself, like a jet-ski, or a motorcycle; then a few things for Reba, like the hot-tub she was always talking about. Maybe a diamond bracelet, or an Alaskan cruise. It didn’t hurt that he could also use Reba’s gifts, except the bracelet. He almost crossed it off. College tuition for the kids, maybe a cabin, maybe the rest in savings. One hundred thousand dollars didn’t go as far as John hoped it would.
As John was scribbling away on his list, his principal came and tapped on the open door. “Could we talk for a minute, John?”
“Sure, Scott.” He cleared a space for his boss to sit. “Sorry for the mess.” John’s office was always cluttered with scripts, assignments, and books.
Scott always got right to the point. “Everything all right? I mean is this shooting and murder thing interfering with your classes?”
John smiled. “I have become the celebrity of the day, and everyone wants to hear the story. It mostly interfered with my lunch today.”
Scott chuckled. “So much for duty-free lunch, huh? Everyone wants to hear all the details?”
“Yeah, and the kids keep trying to get me to talk about it,” John said.
“Well, you look like hell, but keep up the good work,” Scott said. “I know you won’t let this stuff affect your work.”
And that was that. Scott was all business, and hadn’t even asked anything about the gory details that were spreading around town, especially the rumor about Ray and some kind of ice pick. Scott trusted John.
John trusted himself, and went back to making his list, thinking for a minute he really should get back to grading those papers. But maybe he would jot down just a few items more for the kids while he still remembered them.
Ray didn’t like being tied up. But here he was on the ground, eating the dust from the dirt road, and Simon was hog-tying him. Literally. Just when Ray thought he might be able to knock the gun from Simon’s hands, he was already tied.
“Nice knot, huh?” said Simon. “I was the all around cowboy champion, mostly because I could tie off a doggie in less than two seconds.”
“Who the hell cares how you tie up your dogs,” Ray spat out, also spitting out mud.
Simon just laughed. “A doggie is a calf. You jump off a horse and knock it to the ground, then tie up its legs. Just like you’re tied up now. Now, get on your feet and start walking down the road.”
“What makes you think I’ll stay anywhere close to where you tell me to go?” insisted Ray. “What’s to stop me from just running into the woods?”
Simon spat some tobacco onto the ground. “Well, Bertha, that’s my shotgun here, makes a pretty wide spread, so I don’t have to shoot so exact as you and your fancy pistol here.” Simon crammed Larry’s gun into his overalls. “Plus, you can run through the woods if you want, but that’s just the kind of noise a deer makes, and the black bears come running when they hear that.”
Simon decided to let some of this sink in. Ray decided to be quiet, too, but was now looking nervously into the nearby trees.
“So start walking, and I’m going drive your car behind you,” said Simon. “I’ll have my gun poked out the window, and yes, I do shoot left-handed. You can stop when you get to my house, about one mile straight ahead.”
Ray looked back at the old man who was now sitting behind the wheel, with the barrel resting on the doorframe, pointed straight at Ray. The car started up, and Ray recognized that it was time for a strategic retreat, like when he let his brothers think he was really hurt in a fight. When they came up to get him to stop crying, he would jam his knee in their groin.
This old farmer would get his own wake-up call soon.
Smitty was thinking out loud, trying to help Greg tie up all the loose ends that didn’t make sense. They had both been blindsided by Larry’s murder, never anticipating that robbery would turn so deadly.
“So, the guy gives up his dim-witted friend so he can keep the money,” Smitty said. “Then he makes up a fake bundle to throw under the train, which is found and turned into you.”
Greg grimaced. “It just doesn’t make sense, does it? I mean, why kill Larry for his key and shoot me just to get the last $1800?”
Smitty waited while Greg connected the dots.
“Unless he didn’t keep the rest of the money,” muttered Greg. “Unless the rest of the money is still somewhere here in town.”
Smitty was nodding, but still said nothing.
Greg’s eyes got wide. “John Graham has the rest of the money?”
Smitty finally spoke. “I suspected it the first time you called, but since he’s a close friend, I didn’t want to alert you to the possibility. But remember I did tell you to get some surveillance on him.”
Greg slapped his forehead. “Because you thought Ray Johnson might connect the dots, too. He would be here in town to get the money from John. He would be here to get it anyway he could, including killing one of my friends.”
Smitty jumped in, “And I think he’ll be back as soon as he finds out the package is a little light. Is there somewhere we can set up and watch John Graham’s house without us knowing?” This time Greg was nodding.
“There’s an old house across the street that has been empty for the past year. I can talk to the owner and we can camp out there,” Greg said. Then he began shaking his head.
“What?” said Smitty.
“I can’t believe I didn’t see it. Just because it’s someone I’ve known practically my whole life. It’s a rookie mistake. I should have seen it,” Greg said.
“But it wouldn’t have made any difference, and if you had known,” said Smitty, “who knows if you would have waited for the bad guy to come to town. The bank might get their money back earlier, but we would have lost Raymond Johnson forever.”
Raymond Johnson was lost somewhere out in the country. Simon knew where he was going, but following Ray in the car wasn’t the same as leading him to the house. So Ray just kept walking, hoping that sometime soon they would get there, and that Ray could kill this stupid bastard and then go get his money.
Simon could guess where Ray’s thoughts were going. “Hell,” he thought to himself, “if someone came up to me and stuck me in the ribs with a gun, hog tied me and then made me march up the road; I’d want to kill him, too.” The old farmer had dealt with plenty of angry animals in his life, including those who hadn’t especially wanted to be castrated at that moment. Simon wondered if this guy would scream like those little pigs used to.
Then Ray saw the house. The car was slowing behind him, and Ray could tell that Simon was planning on parking out by the front door, which gave him the opportunity to play dumb. He kept walking, and Simon shouted out, “That’s far enough. Stay right there.” Ray waited to hear the brakes applied, and figuring that stopping the car and shooting at the same time wouldn’t be so easy if you were as old as the hills, he ran around the side of the house. A shot rang out just behind him as he turned the corner, and Ray heard Simon curse as buckshot peppered the side of his house. Ray ran into the barn just behind house, and tried quickly to find something to cut the ropes on his wrists.
Simon was out of the car and just around the corner when he saw Ray go in the barn. “This is getting fun,” he thought to himself, but then he remembered the pitchfork, the saw and the other sharp tools he usually kept stored back there in the barn. Ray would want him to run into the barn so he could stab him, he reasoned, so the best thing to do was to wait. The entire barn was visible from the back of the house, and unless this crook ran straight back from the barn, Simon would be able to see him come out. So Simon pulled out the rocker from the back porch and settled in. It was still an hour before it would get dark, and he could always call the police anytime he wanted.
There was no back door to the barn and only a small window, and if this youngster wanted to take on old Bertha by running from the front door to the back of the barn, Simone was ready to oblige. But Simon figured he hadn’t lived more than seventy years and not learned a trick or two, and learned to be especially patient. He figured Ray would be coming out eventually.
LITERATURE OUT LOUD
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LITERATURE OUT LOUD -- see and hear great literature Audio narrations with synchronized visual text
The Complete Collection of
SHAKESPEARE'S SONNETS
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Saturday Jun 26, 2010
Saturday Jun 26, 2010
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Smitty met Greg at the station. The plan had worked too well, and now the bad guy knew he had been conned, and probably wouldn’t be too happy about the fact. Instead of catching him in the act, now the best they could do was to get an all-points out on the still from the video camera in the station. Greg had enough sense to set the camera up right after the money had been locked away, but neither of them thought any of this would go down so fast.
“Sorry, buddy,” he began. “I didn’t think you’d have to take a bullet for my stupid idea. I just thought he would show up and try to be discreet about the whole deal. The worst news is that we haven’t heard from your deputy, and this guy obviously had both keys. We better go check on him now.”
Greg sat silent for a moment and realized he hadn’t even thought about Larry in all the commotion. He remembered seeing Larry’s car at his house, but that had been the last time he thought about it. Greg suddenly had a very bad feeling.
When they got to Larry’s house, they were surprised to see the front door open, and so both officers went in with guns drawn. They didn’t have to go far. As soon as they followed each other through that first door, Larry’s body on the floor told the whole story. The pool of blood around his head had started to coagulate. Greg found he had to go back out the front door and gulp in some fresh air.
Smitty was right behind him. He muttered some words of comfort and then walked over to his car and called in the homicide. He hadn’t looked closely, but the wounds looked very similar to Mike Shepherd’s. That meant they weren’t just dealing with a robbery. This thief wasn’t afraid to kill anyone to get his money back.
Simon was sitting in his favorite chair. It was one of those Barcolounger chairs with the handle on side and the legs support that would flip up from the front. Several years ago it has sprung a leak and some of the padding had started to sneak out. Now it was mostly torn and ripped with padding appearing more than what was once the blue material covering it. Simon didn’t care, since he lived alone and was the only one who had to look at it. No one ever came to visit either, so he never even really thought about replacing it. Simon just thought it was comfortable.
He was watching his equally ancient television, which surprisingly was not black and white, but mostly color. Some of the colors weren’t quite right, but that didn’t bother him either. As long as he had a cold beer in his hand and his shotgun by his side, Simon felt all was right with the world. Then the news report came on the television. It was that lovely Paula Rogers again. One of Simon’s favorite television people.
Just because he was slightly over seventy, there was no reason not to entertain the thought that this attractive young lady might see Simon as a desirable mate. He knew she was single, and with the wide-eyed optimism every man carries as standard equipment, Simon imagined himself a proper and eligible bachelor to any good looking woman who had not yet turned him down. He knew he would probably not get the chance to propose, but it did make watching the television that much more interesting.
At least he wasn’t as fanatical about television as the wife had been. She was dead and gone now for over 15 years. While she was alive, she had actually developed relationships with the people on the television, going so far as to tell Simon that if she didn’t watch this show or that, then those poor people on the television would be insulted that she wasn’t at her usual post. She had been whacky.
Paula Rogers was moving her mouth, and Simon was not really listening, but when the picture of Ray came on the screen, Simon sat up and turned up the volume. Apparently, Paula Rogers was reporting from just over the county line, still in Ridgeway.
“Police are asking anyone who has information about Raymond Johnson to contact Harold Smith with the state police,” she was saying. “He is considered armed and dangerous, and is wanted in connection with the $100,000 robbery which happened in our state capital recently. This is another Paula Rogers exclusive for WBHH.”
Simon recognized that guy’s face. It was the man who Simon had seen earlier that day on the dirt road. The same guy who had driven out to the lake was wanted for armed robbery. Simon wasn’t sure if there was a reward available, but to a man used to hunting crows and jackrabbits, the idea of bagging a bad guy who was just up the road was very appealing. Patting the shotgun by his side, Simon muttered, “Time to go to work, Bertha.” Simon had named the shotgun after his dead wife years ago.
John had finished his run, and felt the marathon metaphor fit in very well with what was going on. He got in the house just in time to see the most recent “Paula Rogers exclusive”.
“So that’s what the guy looks like,” John said to himself, not realizing Reba was standing in the kitchen nearby.
She walked into the front room and turned to John, “You’ve heard of this guy before?”
John stopped to think about what he could invent on the spur of the moment. “Yeah, this is the guy they think robbed that bank two days ago.”
Reba looked at his face and it made John nervous. “He was right here in our town?” she said.
“This is the guy who shot Greg, and probably the guy who murdered Larry,” said John. “He also has Larry’s car, and probably his gun.”
“Why didn’t they mention that in the story?” Reba wondered out loud, and John was happy to answer.
“They probably don’t want to panic the locals. He could still be in town, you know.” Reba just chuckled.
“Right, where you gonna hide Larry’s car in a small town like this?” she smirked. “I can see straight across town from our back door.”
John nodded his head and smiled. “Yeah, he’s long gone.” At least that is what John was hoping.
Ray sat sleeping peacefully in his car, enjoying the fresh country air and the gentle lapping of the waves on the shore. Next to the lake he had found a perfect place, which hid the car from anyone on the dirt road. It was practically impossible to find unless you were walking along the road and went around the turn. Parked under three massive trees, the car sat in the cool of the late afternoon.
He was feeling quite lucky to have found such an ideal location and even considered staying an extra day. If he wasn’t getting so hungry, he probably would have been able to stay. But that was the nice thing about sleeping. Unless you were famished, sleep hid the growling stomach pains. And Ray hadn’t slept at all last night.
The lucid dreams he had as he rested by the side of the lake were also peaceful. Ray could see himself playing happily with his brothers in one of the few moments during their childhood when they weren’t punching each other.
It was one of the days Grandpa had come up the coast to visit, and they were all sitting at the corner ice cream parlor trying to decide among 31 flavors. Grandpa had told them they could have anything on the menu, which to adults, means the most expensive, but to children means the biggest. As in three or four scoops stacked high.
But which flavors to stack next to each other, and in which order? The favorite flavor first? Or last, so you could enjoy it after the others? Grandpa was very patient, and it always made Ray wonder how a patient and kind man like Grandpa could have such angry kids. That was how Ray always thought of his father – angry. Angry enough to beat the boys regularly. Angry enough to leave scars.
Thinking of his father led him to another dream, and it was at least as painful to leave the wonderful ice cream dream as it was to recall the pain inflicted on him by his father. Ray could see the belt being drawn quickly through the belt loops, which signified impending pain. This beating was one of the last Ray had suffered at his father’s hands. It was so vivid that Ray was flinching in his sleep as the belt flashed across his back and buttocks. Then Ray could see his own back in his dream, with blood oozing through his shirt. Time slowed down as the blood crawled across his back, and a close-up of the material from his shirt turned from yellow to a dark brownish red. Ray could see his father dropping the belt to his side, looking at the blood on Ray’s back, and then more slow motion as his mother ran into the picture, grabbing Ray from his father.
It had been the next week they were all placed in a foster home. Ray had always thought it was his fault his family was broken up. If he had only been good enough not to deserve the beating, then there would have been no evidence to damn his parents.
His dreams moved from one foster home to another. Some good, some bad. The memories washed over him as he seemed to float farther and farther away from his family. He remembered fondly when Mrs. Anderson had sat home with him when he was sick, sitting by the bed comforting him, stroking his hair and pulling up the covers. Ray could feel the blankets getting tucked in around his waist. But this time Mrs. Anderson kept adjusting the blankets, and it felt like she was poking him in the side now.
Simon was poking him in the side. With the shotgun. Ray slowly awakened to feel something much harder than blankets pushed against his ribs.
“Get out of the car,” said Simon, “real slow.”
LITERATURE OUT LOUD
Click here for a complete INDEX
LITERATURE OUT LOUD -- see and hear great literature Audio narrations with synchronized visual text
The Complete Collection of
SHAKESPEARE'S SONNETS
all 154 poems $3.99 DVD with FREE shipping
Essential Oils -- create your own business -- click on the logo to begin
Thursday Jun 24, 2010
Thursday Jun 24, 2010
Welcome to Biography Out Loud. I am your host, Dane Allred.
Born in 1906, she knew William Wordsworth, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Alfred Tennyson, Thomas Carlyle, Edgar Allen Poe, and was also married to a famous poet. Her poetry greatly influenced Emily Dickenson, and while she was already famous when she married, most people are more familiar with her married name. Who is this poet, called one of the great Victorian writers?
We’ll find out in a moment on:
Biography Out Loud
Elizabeth Barrett is perhaps best known by her married name, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, but she was a famous poet before she married. At the age of 20, she became ill with an undiagnosed disease which left her weak and frail. She took morphine for the pain, eventually becoming addicted to the medication.
Though her family was wealthy when she was born, reversals in the family fortune forced the sale of a large farm. The end of slavery in Jamaica also affected the family income, since a sugar plantation they owned was run by slave labor. During this time Elizabeth Barrett became famous, rubbing shoulders with many other famous poets of the time.
It was suggested by her physician she relocate nearer the ocean, and convincing her brother to accompany her, she later felt responsible for his death. He drowned in a sailing accident in Torquay on the Devonshire coast.
A voracious reader and scholar, she learned Greek and Hebrew. In 1833, she published a translation of “Prometheus Bound”, a work by the Greek dramatist Aeschylus.
In 1842, she wrote a book of poetry called “The Cry of the Children”, which later influenced changes in the child labor laws. In 1844, now a poet with a world-wide reputation, she received letters from Robert Browning which declared his love for her poetry. He met with her and a great romance developed. He wrote her 574 letters in the next twenty months. She was six years his senior, and was not convinced of his devotion, detailing her doubts in “The Sonnets from the Portuguese”. After a long courtship, they were married and went to Italy to live. Elizabeth was disowned by her father who did the same to each child who married.
She wrote of this time in her life, “The Mrs. Browning of popular imagination was a sweet, innocent young woman who suffered endless cruelties at the hands of a tyrannical papa but who nonetheless had the good fortune to fall in love with a dashing and handsome poet named Robert Browning. She finally escaped the dungeon of Wimpole Street, eloped to Italy, and lived happily ever after.” While in Italy, her health improved and at the age of 43 she gave birth to their son Pen. They were successful and lived comfortably in Italy, becoming local celebrities who were often stopped and asked for autographs.
Edgar Allen Poe reviewed one of her poems and said "her poetic inspiration is the highest—we can conceive of nothing more august. Her sense of Art is pure in itself." Inspired by her poem entitled “Lady Geraldine’s Courtship”, Poe borrowed the meter of the poem and used it in “The Raven”. She later praised Poe’s work on “The Raven”.
After the death of William Wordsworth, it was thought Elizabeth Barrett Browning might be named Poet Laureate, but Tennyson was appointed. Her health failed again after the death of her father and sister. Weak and depressed, she died on June 29th, 1861. Buried in Florence, “On Monday July 1 the shops in the section of the city around Casa Guidi were closed, while Elizabeth was mourned with unusual demonstrations.”
Perhaps her best known poem is “How Do I Love Thee, Let Me Count the Ways”. In a letter to a Mr. Chorley, a friend and critic, she said, “I never wrote to please any of you, not even to please my own husband.” She also insisted she wrote from the heart and from an obligation to tell the truth. She once said, “Every genuine artist in the world goes to heaven for speaking the truth.”
In Sonnet 14, she asks to be “loved for love’s sake.”
If thou must love me, let it be for nought
Except for love's sake only. Do not say
"I love her for her smile —her look —her way
Of speaking gently,—for a trick of thought
That falls in well with mine, and certes brought
A sense of pleasant ease on such a day" -
For these things in themselves, Beloved, may
Be changed, or change for thee,—and love, so wrought,
May be unwrought so. Neither love me for
Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry,—
A creature might forget to weep, who bore
Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby!
But love me for love's sake, that evermore
Thou may'st love on, through love's eternity'.
LITERATURE OUT LOUD
Click here for a complete INDEX
LITERATURE OUT LOUD -- see and hear great literature Audio narrations with synchronized visual text
The Complete Collection of
SHAKESPEARE'S SONNETS
all 154 poems $3.99 DVD with FREE shipping
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Thursday Jun 24, 2010
Thursday Jun 24, 2010
This is the complete episode from Jan 31st.
LITERATURE OUT LOUD
Click here for a complete INDEX
LITERATURE OUT LOUD -- see and hear great literature Audio narrations with synchronized visual text
The Complete Collection of
SHAKESPEARE'S SONNETS
all 154 poems $3.99 DVD with FREE shipping
Essential Oils -- create your own business -- click on the logo to begin
Thursday Jun 24, 2010
Thursday Jun 24, 2010
This is the complete episode from June 13th.
LITERATURE OUT LOUD
Click here for a complete INDEX
LITERATURE OUT LOUD -- see and hear great literature Audio narrations with synchronized visual text
The Complete Collection of
SHAKESPEARE'S SONNETS
all 154 poems $3.99 DVD with FREE shipping
Essential Oils -- create your own business -- click on the logo to begin
Thursday Jun 24, 2010
Thursday Jun 24, 2010
This is the complete episode from Feb. 7.
LITERATURE OUT LOUD
Click here for a complete INDEX
LITERATURE OUT LOUD -- see and hear great literature Audio narrations with synchronized visual text
The Complete Collection of
SHAKESPEARE'S SONNETS
all 154 poems $3.99 DVD with FREE shipping
Essential Oils -- create your own business -- click on the logo to begin
Friday Jun 18, 2010
Friday Jun 18, 2010
This is the entire broadcast from June 13.
LITERATURE OUT LOUD
Click here for a complete INDEX
LITERATURE OUT LOUD -- see and hear great literature Audio narrations with synchronized visual text
The Complete Collection of
SHAKESPEARE'S SONNETS
all 154 poems $3.99 DVD with FREE shipping
Essential Oils -- create your own business -- click on the logo to begin