Lucky Words

This was recorded two weeks ago, on a day that I woke up and it was dumping snow. I went up Rock Canyon, which was just gorgeous. Now, just twelve days later, it’s warm and delightful.Sorry about the sound quality, too. I was not planning to record, and this was just me and my phone.Text of poemWilliam Shakespeare’s sonnet 2, “When forty winters shall besiege thy brow”When forty winters shall besiege thy brow,And dig deep trenches in thy beauty’s field,Thy youth’s proud livery so gazed on now,Will be a totter’d weed of small worth held:Then being asked, where all thy beauty lies,Where all the treasure of thy lusty days;To say, within thine own deep sunken eyes,Were an all-eating shame, and thriftless praise.How much more praise deserved thy beauty’s use,If thou couldst answer ‘This fair child of mineShall sum my count, and make my old excuse,’Proving his beauty by succession thine!This were to be new made when thou art old,And see thy blood warm when thou feel’st it cold.This is the second of the “procreation sonnets” and we’ve got a bunch more to go.1 Once we get past the procreation sonnets, things mix up a bit. But for now, the speaker (who might be Shakespeare or might be Shakespeare playing a character) has just one theme: telling the handsome young man to have some babies. Now.What we see in this poem different from the first sonnet is an extended description of aging. Now, in this sequence, reaching the advanced age of 40 means that you’re *really* old. I take some umbrage at the sentiment. All intelligent people know that when you’re 40, you’re just getting started. Right? Get full access to Lucky Words at luckywords.substack.com/subscribe

For the past few years, I’ve recorded a series of podcasts every April for National Poetry Month. It’s 2025, and I’m doing it again. Woohoo!The original goal was to do a new poem every day: 30 poems over the course of the month. That is always too much work: finding the poems, doing some research, recording (on site outdoors!), editing, and posting. A daily podcast, even just a little ten minute job, could be a full-time job. In the past, I’ve had a full-time job and I don’t have the energy for two, and so I’d fade.My plan this year is to play it by ear. I suspect that I’ll start out strong and midway through the month have a couple of hiccups that slow things down. It’ll be an adventure for the both of us!Shakespeare’s Sonnet #1Here’s the text of the poem:From fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty’s rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decrease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed’st thy light’s flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world’s fresh ornament And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world’s due, by the grave and thee. Recorded on-site on a single track trail up Provo Canyon.Some interesting links* Sir Patrick Stewart reading the sonnet in the early days of Covid: video* The Wikipedia page about controversies surrounding the word “niggardly” which, I remind you, is not etymologically related to the n-word.Over the upcoming days and weeks, we’ll go through a number of Shakespeare’s sonnets, and a bunch of other poetry as well. If you have favorite poems, or poems that you’ve always felt guilty because you didn’t “get” them, send ‘em my way! I’ll do a podcast about it and you’ll get a wedge into understanding what you previously considered ununderstandable.The real goal of these is to help non-poetry people grow to be poetry-tolerant. You know who I mean: folks (maybe like you?) who say, “why do they have to make everything so difficult? Why can’t poetry just say what they mean?” Or maybe folks who when they see something in poetry, they just stop reading and move onto something else.If that’s you, you’re missing out. Poetry is one of the great art forms. Every culture throughout history has poetry, and it’s important. Reading poetry will put hair on your chest. Or if nothing else, you could learn to enjoy it.I am genuinely excited for this. Which is nutty, I know! But I really do love poetry, and I like talking about poetry, and people have enjoyed listening to me talk about poetry before. Do you know anyone who already enjoys poetry (or who might enjoy poetry) that might like listening to a slightly gruff-voiced guy read and give a (very brief!) explication? If so, forward this email on to them. Ask ‘em to subscribe! Wait: have you subscribed? It’s free! What’s stopping you?Until next time.All is well,Jeff Get full access to Lucky Words at luckywords.substack.com/subscribe

Recorded live on location at... my backyard. It was a lovely morning, and so I decided to read a poem. I didn't mention it in the recording because, well because I didn't think about it. I was thinking about Ryan's great poem. And so I recorded a nice short podcast about it.I love this poem. It's one that I've copied out, longhand, in my own notebook that I'm carrying around right now. It's nice and short, for one, and it's fun to read out loud. "It's a pickle, this life" is a great opener, and everyone knows that "pickle" is one of the funniest words in English. Most critically, it's got some intellectual oomph to it as well, and is good for me to think about a while.Since recording this, I've been thinking a lot more about the contrast between the jolly rhyme and the seriousness of what Ryan's talking about. The unextinguishable component of life, according to the poem, is strife. So when life is nearly gone ("shut down to a trickle") there's still the particles of suffering in it. And while the trials may shrink, they are still more than enough to eat you. _And yet_ there's something great in it, too. It's life, after all. We never reach the end, only cut the remainder in half (again!), even while we are encouraged by some coach to just end the race, we don't. And so while strife is always there, so it life itself. And that's pretty great, I think.What do you think? Is this poem hopeless or ultimately hopeful? Also, what word is more fun than "pickle"? #### TEXT OF POEM"This Life" by Kay RyanIt's a pickle, this life. Even shut down to a trickle it carries every kind of particle that causes strife on a grander scale: to be miniature is to be swallowed by a miniature whale. Zeno knew the law that we know: no matter how carefully diminished, a race can only be _half_ finished with success; then comes the endless halving of the rest -- the ribbon's stalled approach, the helpless red-faced urgings of the coach. Get full access to Lucky Words at luckywords.substack.com/subscribe

Recorded by the shore of Utah Lake on a windy but pleasant day, though not as pleasant as what Wordsworth described what with his green bower and all. My favorite part of this recording is the sounds of the killdeer, which I wish were louder, but of course every time I got close they decided to fly away.#### TEXT OF POEM"Lines Written in Early Spring" by William WordsworthI heard a thousand blended notes, While in a grove I sate reclined, In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts Bring sad thoughts to the mind. To her fair works did Nature link The human soul that through me ran; And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man. Through primrose tufts, in that green bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; And 'tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes. The birds around me hopped and played, Their thoughts I cannot measure:-- But the least motion which they made It seemed a thrill of pleasure. The budding twigs spread out their fan, To catch the breezy air; And I must think, do all I can, That there was pleasure there. If this belief from heaven be sent, If such be Nature's holy plan, Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man? Get full access to Lucky Words at luckywords.substack.com/subscribe

Recorded in a tiny little canyon that I never learned the name for, but it was peaceful and quiet. Everyone should have a peaceful, quiet little place to read a poem every now and again. As I mention in the commentary, this is interesting because it's simultaneously modern -- I mean, it's talking about an event in the 20th century! -- but also has something older about it. All of Thomas Hardy does, I think, and this in particular. We don't worry much about the role that Fates play in our lives these days. #### TEXT OF POEM"The Convergence of the Twain" by Thomas Hardy(Lines on the loss of the "Titanic")I In a solitude of the sea Deep from human vanity, And the Pride of Life that planned her, stilly couches she. II Steel chambers, late the pyres Of her salamandrine fires, Cold currents thrid, and turn to rhythmic tidal lyres. III Over the mirrors meant To glass the opulent The sea-worm crawls -- grotesque, slimed, dumb, indifferent. IV Jewels in joy designed To ravish the sensuous mind Lie lightless, all their sparkles bleared and black and blind. V Dim moon-eyed fishes near Gaze at the gilded gear And query: "What does this vaingloriousness down here?" ... VI Well: while was fashioning This creature of cleaving wing, The Immanent Will that stirs and urges everything VII Prepared a sinister mate For her -- so gaily great -- A Shape of Ice, for the time far and dissociate. VIII And as the smart ship grew In stature, grace, and hue, In shadowy silent distance grew the Iceberg too. IX Alien they seemed to be; No mortal eye could see The intimate welding of their later history, X Or sign that they were bent By paths coincident On being anon twin halves of one august event, XI Till the Spinner of the Years Said "Now!" And each one hears, And consummation comes, and jars two hemispheres. Get full access to Lucky Words at luckywords.substack.com/subscribe

A reading and short analysis of Jim Harrison's poem, recorded live in [Hellhole canyon](https://hikestgeorge.com/hiking-trails/hellhole-canyon/), outside St. George, Utah. #### TEXT OF POEM"I Believe" by Jim Harrison, from his book [_In Search of Small Gods_](https://www.amazon.com/Search-Small-Gods-Jim-Harrison/dp/1556593198)I believe in steep drop-offs, the thunderstorm across the lake in 1949, cold winds, empty swimming pools, the overgrown path to the creek, raw garlic, used tires, taverns, saloons, bars, gallons of red wine, abandoned farmhouses, stunted lilac groves, gravel roads that end, brush piles, thickets, girls who haven't quite gone totally wild, river eddies, leaky wooden boats, the smell of used engine oil, turbulent rivers, lakes without cottages lost in the woods, the primrose growing out of a cow skull, the thousands of birds I've talked to all of my life, the dogs that talked back, the Chihuahuan ravens that follow me on long walks. The rattler escaping the cold hose, the fluttering unknown gods that I nearly see from the left corner of my blind eye, struggling to stay alive in a world that grinds them underfoot. Get full access to Lucky Words at luckywords.substack.com/subscribe

Recorded on site at the tiny, old cemetery in Charleston, Utah. Some of my ancestors are buried there, which makes it relevant for me at least, on this particular day.You can find some interesting commentary about what Kipling might have been thinking about while composing this poem on [the Kipling Society page about this poem](https://www.kiplingsociety.co.uk/readers-guide/rg_nativity1.htm). It talks much more about World War I and the death of Kipling's son Joseph—all things that I did not discuss.Because it's Easter! The poem works as a straight religious poem even without its historical context. The historical context is one way of reading the poem, but by no means the only way. Different ways to read poems is the subject for another day. For today, Easter, the celebration of Christ's resurrection, we're going to stick with a Christocentric reading. Anyway, the solely historical reading of "A Nativity" must simply ignore the final lines of the poem, which feels like a greater disservice from my perspective. #### TEXT OF POEM"A Nativity" by Rudyard Kipling_The Babe was laid in the Manger Between the gentle kine— All safe from cold and danger—_ "But it was not so with mine, (With mine! With mine!) "Is it well with the child, is it well?" The waiting mother prayed. "For I know not how he fell, And I know not where he is laid." _A Star stood forth in Heaven; The Watchers ran to see The Sign of the Promise given--_ "But there comes no sign to me. (To me! To me!)_ "My _child died in the dark. Is it well with the child, is it well? There was none to tend him or mark, And I know not how he fell." _The Cross was raised on high; The Mother grieved beside—_ "But the Mother saw Him die And took Him when He died. (He died! He died!) "Seemly and undefiled His burial-place was made— Is it well, is it well with the child? For I know not where he is laid." _On the dawning of Easter Day Comes Mary Magdalene; But the Stone was rolled away, And the Body was not within—_ (Within! Within!) "Ah, who will answer my word?" The broken mother prayed. "They have taken away my Lord, And I know not where He is Laid." "_The Star stands forth in Heaven. The watchers watch in vain For Sign of the Promise given Of peace on Earth again—_ (Again! Again!) "But I know for Whom he fell"— The steadfast mother smiled, "Is it well with the child—is it well? It is well—it is well with the child!" Get full access to Lucky Words at luckywords.substack.com/subscribe

Five or six years ago, I read this poem here on Lucky Words. This is a new recording—recorded, edited, and uploaded on Good Friday 2023—looking at the best Good Friday poem ever written.Who am I kidding? Every poem by John Donne is the best ever written.I hope that you have (or had) a lovely Easter, filled with family, chocolate, poetry, and Jesus Christ. #### TEXT OF POEMLet man's soul be a sphere, and then, in this, Th' intelligence that moves, devotion is; And as the other spheres, by being grown Subject to foreign motion, lose their own, And being by others hurried every day, Scarce in a year their natural form obey; Pleasure or business, so, our souls admit For their first mover, and are whirl'd by it. Hence is't, that I am carried towards the west, This day, when my soul's form bends to the East. There I should see a Sun by rising set, And by that setting endless day beget. But that Christ on His cross did rise and fall, Sin had eternally benighted all. Yet dare I almost be glad, I do not see That spectacle of too much weight for me. Who sees Gods face, that is self-life, must die; What a death were it then to see God die? It made His own lieutenant, Nature, shrink, It made His footstool crack, and the sun wink. Could I behold those hands, which span the poles And tune all spheres at once, pierced with those holes? Could I behold that endless height, which is Zenith to us and our antipodes, Humbled below us? or that blood, which is The seat of all our soul's, if not of His, Made dirt of dust, or that flesh which was worn By God for His apparel, ragg'd and torn? If on these things I durst not look, durst I On His distressed Mother cast mine eye, Who was God's partner here, and furnish'd thus Half of that sacrifice which ransom'd us? Though these things as I ride be from mine eye, They're present yet unto my memory, For that looks towards them; and Thou look'st towards me, O Saviour, as Thou hang'st upon the tree. I turn my back to thee but to receive Corrections till Thy mercies bid Thee leave. O think me worth Thine anger, punish me, Burn off my rust, and my deformity; Restore Thine image, so much, by Thy grace, That Thou mayst know me, and I'll turn my face. Get full access to Lucky Words at luckywords.substack.com/subscribe