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- 🇬🇧GB · Performing Arts#1815K to 30K
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2.5K to 15K🎙 Weekly cadence·69 episodes·Last published 7mo ago - Monthly Reach
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5K to 30K🇬🇧100% - Active Followers
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Recent episodes
The Beginnings
Nov 13, 2025
1m 04s
Sonnet 29: When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes
May 23, 2025
1m 05s
Sonnet 130: My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun
May 21, 2025
1m 04s
Sonnet 138: When my love swears that she is made of truth
May 18, 2025
1m 01s
Spring
May 5, 2025
1m 10s
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| Date | Episode | Topics | Guests | Brands | Places | Keywords | Sponsor | Length | |
|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|
| 11/13/25 | ![]() The Beginnings✨ | poetryEnglish literature+3 | — | When the English began to hate | — | poemhate+3 | — | 1m 04s | |
| 5/23/25 | ![]() Sonnet 29: When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes✨ | sonnet analysispoetry+3 | — | Sonnet 29: When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes | — | Sonnet 29poetry analysis+5 | — | 1m 05s | |
| 5/21/25 | ![]() Sonnet 130: My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun✨ | ShakespeareSonnet+3 | — | Sonnet 130 | — | ShakespeareSonnet 130+4 | — | 1m 04s | |
| 5/18/25 | ![]() Sonnet 138: When my love swears that she is made of truth✨ | lovetruth+3 | — | Sonnet 138 | — | Sonnet 138love+5 | — | 1m 01s | |
| 5/5/25 | ![]() Spring✨ | Springnature+3 | — | Eden garden | — | Springpoetry+5 | — | 1m 10s | |
| 4/20/25 | ![]() Easter Hymn✨ | poetryEaster+3 | — | Easter Hymn | — | Easter Hymnpoem+6 | — | 0m 51s | |
| 12/2/24 | ![]() Tommy✨ | poetrymilitary+3 | — | Tommy | — | Tommypoem+5 | — | 2m 35s | |
| 11/20/24 | ![]() Funeral Blues✨ | griefloss+3 | — | Funeral Blues | — | Funeral Bluesgrief+4 | — | 1m 04s | |
| 8/22/24 | ![]() The Man In The Glass✨ | self-reflectionpersonal judgment+3 | — | — | — | self-reflectionpersonal judgment+3 | — | 1m 04s | |
| 4/20/24 | ![]() Home-Thoughts, From Abroad | Oh, to be in EnglandNow that April's there,And whoever wakes in EnglandSees, some morning, unaware,That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheafRound the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,While the chaffinch sings on the orchard boughIn England - now!And after April, when May follows,And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedgeLeans to the field and scatters on the cloverBlossoms and dewdrops - at the bentspray's edge -That's the wise thrush; he sings each songtwice over,Lest you should think he never could recaptureThe first fine careless rapture!And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,All will be gay when noontide wakes anewThe buttercups, the little children's dower- Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower! This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com | 1m 08s | ||||||
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| 1/2/24 | ![]() Good Timber | The tree that never had to fightFor sun and sky and air and light,But stood out in the open plainAnd always got its share of rain,Never became a forest kingBut lived and died a scrubby thing.The man who never had to toilTo gain and farm his patch of soil,Who never had to win his shareOf sun and sky and light and air,Never became a manly manBut lived and died as he began.Good timber does not grow with ease:The stronger wind, the stronger trees;The further sky, the greater length;The more the storm, the more the strength.By sun and cold, by rain and snow,In trees and men good timbers grow.Where thickest lies the forest growth,We find the patriarchs of both.And they hold counsel with the starsWhose broken branches show the scarsOf many winds and much of strife.This is the common law of life. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com | 1m 22s | ||||||
| 12/29/23 | ![]() Eldorado | Gaily bedight, A gallant knight,In sunshine and in shadow, Had journeyed long, Singing a song,In search of Eldorado. But he grew old, This knight so bold,And o'er his heart a shadow Fell as he found No spot of groundThat looked like Eldorado. And, as his strength Failed him at length,He met a pilgrim shadow; "Shadow," said he, "Where can it be,This land of Eldorado?" "Over the mountains Of the moon,Down the valley of the shadow, Ride, boldly ride," The shade replied,--"If you seek for Eldorado!" This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com | 0m 54s | ||||||
| 5/6/23 | ![]() A Smuggler's Song | Subtitled"Hal o' the Draft" -- Puck of Pook's Hill.If you wake at midnight, and hear a horse's feet,Don't go drawing back the blind, or looking in the street;Them that ask no questions isn't told a lie.Watch the wall, my darling, while the Gentlemen go by!Five and twenty ponies,Trotting through the dark —Brandy for the Parson,Baccy for the Clerk;Laces for a lady, letters for a spy,And watch the wall, my darling,While the Gentlemen go by!Running round the woodlump if you chance to findLittle barrels, roped and tarred, all full of brandy-wine,Don't you shout to come and look, nor use 'em for your play.Put the brishwood back again — and they'll be gone next day!If you see the stable-door setting open wide;If you see a tired horse lying down inside;If your mother mends a coat cut about and tore;If the lining's wet and warm — don't you ask no more!If you meet King George's men, dressed in blue and red,You be careful what you say, and mindful what is said.If they call you "pretty maid," and chuck you 'neath the chin,Don't you tell where no one is, nor yet where no one's been!Knocks and footsteps round the house — whistles after dark —You've no call for running out till the house-dogs bark.Trusty's here, and Pincher's here, and see how dumb they lie —They don't fret to follow when the Gentlemen go by!If you do as you've been told, 'likely there's a chance,You'll be given a dainty doll, all the way from France,With a cap of Valenciennes, and a velvet hood —A present from the Gentlemen, along o' being good!Five and twenty ponies,Trotting through the dark —Brandy for the Parson,'Baccy for the Clerk;Them that asks no questions isn't told a lie —Watch the wall, my darling,While the Gentlemen go by! This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com | 2m 24s | ||||||
| 4/29/23 | ![]() The Vanity of Wealth | No more thus brooding o'er yon heap,With avarice painful vigils keep:Still unenjoy'd the present store,Still endless sighs are breathed for more.O! quit the shadow, catch the prize,Which not all India's treasure buys!To purchase with heaven has gold the power?Can gold remove the mortal hour?In life can love be bought with gold?Are friendship's pleasures to be sold?No! - all that's worth a wish - a thought,Fair virtue gives unbribed, unbought,Cease then on trash thy hopes to bind,Let noble views engage thy mind.With science tread the wondrous way,Or learn the Muses' moral lay;In social hours indulge thy soul,Where mirth and temperance mix the bowl;To virtuous love resign thy breast,And be, by blessing beauty, - bless'd.Thus taste the feast by Nature spread,Ere youth and all its joys are fled;Come taste with me the balm of life,Secure from pomp, and wealth, and strife.I boast whate'er for man was meant,In health, and Stella, and content;And scorn! (oh! let that scorn be thine!)Mere things of clay, that dig the mine. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com | 1m 46s | ||||||
| 4/23/23 | ![]() Upon Leaving His Mistress | ‘Tis not that I am weary grownOf being yours, and yours alone,But with what face can I inclineTo damn you to be only mine?You, whom some kinder power did fashionBy merit and by inclinationThe joy at least of a whole nation.Let meaner spirits of your sexWith humble aims their thoughts perplex,And boast if by their arts they canContrive to make one happy man;While moved by an impartial senseFavours, like Nature, you dispenseWith universal influence.See the kind seed-receiving earthTo every grain affords a birth:On her no showers unwelcome fall,Her willing womb retains 'em all,And shall my Caelia be confined?No, live up to thy mighty mind,And be the mistress of Mankind! This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com | 1m 21s | ||||||
| 4/1/23 | ![]() The Rolling English Road | Before the Roman came to Rye or out to Severn strode,The rolling English drunkard made the rolling English road.A reeling road, a rolling road, that rambles round the shire,And after him the parson ran, the sexton and the squire;A merry road, a mazy road, and such as we did treadThe night we went to Birmingham by way of Beachy Head.I knew no harm of Bonaparte and plenty of the Squire,And for to fight the Frenchman I did not much desire;But I did bash their baggonets because they came arrayedTo straighten out the crooked road an English drunkard made,Where you and I went down the lane with ale-mugs in our hands,The night we went to Glastonbury by way of Goodwin Sands.His sins they were forgiven him; or why do flowers runBehind him; and the hedges all strengthening in the sun?The wild thing went from left to right and knew not which was which,But the wild rose was above him when they found him in the ditch.God pardon us, nor harden us; we did not see so clearThe night we went to Bannockburn by way of Brighton Pier.My friends, we will not go again or ape an ancient rage,Or stretch the folly of our youth to be the shame of age,But walk with clearer eyes and ears this path that wandereth,And see undrugged in evening light the decent inn of death;For there is good news yet to hear and fine things to be seen,Before we go to Paradise by way of Kensal Green.Thanks for reading The Poem Reader! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com | 2m 07s | ||||||
| 3/25/23 | ![]() The Owl and the Pussy-Cat | The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea In a beautiful pea-green boat:They took some honey, and plenty of money Wrapped up in a five-pound note.The Owl looked up to the stars above, And sang to a small guitar,"O lovely Pussy, O Pussy, my love, What a beautiful Pussy you are, You are, You are! What a beautiful Pussy you are!"Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl, How charmingly sweet you sing!Oh! let us be married; too long we have tarried, But what shall we do for a ring?"They sailed away, for a year and a day,To the land where the bong-tree grows;And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood, With a ring at the end of his nose, His nose, His nose, With a ring at the end of his nose."Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling Your ring?" Said the Piggy, "I will."So they took it away, and were married next day By the turkey who lives on the hill.They dined on mince and slices of quince, Which they ate with a runcible spoon;And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand, They danced by the light of the moon, The moon, The moon, They danced by the light of the moon.. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com | 1m 35s | ||||||
| 3/11/23 | ![]() Alone | From childhood’s hour I have not beenAs others were—I have not seenAs others saw—I could not bringMy passions from a common spring—From the same source I have not takenMy sorrow—I could not awakenMy heart to joy at the same tone—And all I lov’d—I lov’d alone—Then—in my childhood—in the dawnOf a most stormy life—was drawnFrom ev’ry depth of good and illThe mystery which binds me still—From the torrent, or the fountain—From the red cliff of the mountain—From the sun that ’round me roll’dIn its autumn tint of gold—From the lightning in the skyAs it pass’d me flying by—From the thunder, and the storm—And the cloud that took the form(When the rest of Heaven was blue) Of a demon in my view—Please like, subscribe and share with your friends (if they like poems). And please email me any requests. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com | 1m 17s | ||||||
| 3/4/23 | ![]() Two English Poems | To Beatriz Bibiloni Webster de Bullrich I. The useless dawn finds me in a deserted streetcorner; I have outlived the night. Nights are proud waves: darkblue topheavy waves laden with all hues of deep spoil, laden with things unlikely and desirable. Nights have a habit of mysterious gifts and refusals, of things half given away, half withheld, of joys with a dark hemisphere. Nights act that way, I tell you. The surge, that night, left me the customary shreds and odd ends: some hated friends to chat with, music for dreams, and the smoking of bitter ashes. The things my hungry heart has no use for. The big wave brought you. Words, any words, your laughter; and you so lazily and incessantly beautiful. We talked and you have forgotten the words. The shattering dawn finds me in a deserted street of my city. Your profile turned away, the sounds that go to make your name, the lilt of your laughter: these are the illustrious toys you have left me. I turn them over in the dawn, I lose them; I tell them to the few stray dogs and to the few stray stars of the dawn. Your dark rich life… I must get at you, somehow: I put away those illustrious toys you have left me, I want your hidden look, your real smile –that lonely, mocking smile your mirror knows. II. What can I hold you with? I offer you lean streets, desperate sunsets, the moon of the ragged suburbs. I offer you the bitterness of a man who has looked long and long at the lonely moon. I offer you my ancestors, my dead men, the ghost that living men have honoured in marble: my father’s father killed in the frontier of Buenos Aires, two bullets through his lungs, bearded and dead, wrapped by his soldiers in the hide of a cow; my mother’s grandfather –just twentyfour- heading a charge of three hundred men in Perú, now ghosts on vanished horses. I offer you whatever insight my books may hold, whatever manliness humour my life. I offer you the loyalty of a man who has never been loyal. I offer her that kernel of myself that I have saved, somehow – the central heart that deals not in words, traffics not with dreams and is untouched by time, by joy, by adversities. I offer you the memory of a yellow rose seen at sunset, years before you were born. I offer you explanations of yourself, theories about yourself, authentic and surprising news of yourself. I can give you my loneliness, my darkness, the hunger of my heart; I am trying to bribe you with uncertainty, with danger, with defeat. Please subscribe, like and tell your friends (if they like poems). This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com | 4m 16s | ||||||
| 2/25/23 | ![]() My Shadow | I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head;And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed.The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow—Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow;For he sometimes shoots up taller like an india-rubber ball,And he sometimes gets so little that there's none of him at all.He hasn't got a notion of how children ought to play,And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way.He stays so close beside me, he's a coward you can see;I'd think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me!One morning, very early, before the sun was up,I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup;But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head,Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed.Please like and share - if you like … This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com | 1m 16s | ||||||
| 2/18/23 | ![]() Matilda Who told Lies, and was Burned to Death | Matilda told such Dreadful Lies,It made one Gasp and Stretch one's Eyes;Her Aunt, who, from her Earliest Youth,Had kept a Strict Regard for Truth,Attempted to Believe Matilda:The effort very nearly killed her,And would have done so, had not SheDiscovered this Infirmity.For once, towards the Close of Day,Matilda, growing tired of play,And finding she was left alone,Went tiptoe to the TelephoneAnd summoned the Immediate AidOf London's Noble Fire-Brigade.Within an hour the Gallant BandWere pouring in on every hand,From Putney, Hackney Downs, and Bow.With Courage high and Hearts a-glow,They galloped, roaring through the Town,'Matilda's House is Burning Down!'Inspired by British Cheers and LoudProceeding from the Frenzied Crowd,They ran their ladders through a scoreOf windows on the Ball Room Floor;And took Peculiar Pains to SouseThe Pictures up and down the House,Until Matilda's Aunt succeededIn showing them they were not needed;And even then she had to payTo get the Men to go away, It happened that a few Weeks laterHer Aunt was off to the TheatreTo see that Interesting PlayThe Second Mrs. Tanqueray.She had refused to take her NieceTo hear this Entertaining Piece:A Deprivation Just and WiseTo Punish her for Telling Lies.That Night a Fire did break out--You should have heard Matilda Shout!You should have heard her Scream and Bawl,And throw the window up and callTo People passing in the Street--(The rapidly increasing HeatEncouraging her to obtainTheir confidence) -- but all in vain!For every time she shouted 'Fire!'They only answered 'Little Liar!'And therefore when her Aunt returned,Matilda, and the House, were Burned.Thanks for reading The Poem Reader! Please subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com | 2m 24s | ||||||
| 2/11/23 | ![]() Macavity: The Mystery Cat | Macavity's a Mystery Cat: he's called the Hidden Paw—For he's the master criminal who can defy the Law.He's the bafflement of Scotland Yard, the Flying Squad's despair:For when they reach the scene of crime—Macavity's not there!Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity,He's broken every human law, he breaks the law of gravity.His powers of levitation would make a fakir stare,And when you reach the scene of crime—Macavity's not there!You may seek him in the basement, you may look up in the air—But I tell you once and once again, Macavity's not there!Macavity's a ginger cat, he's very tall and thin;You would know him if you saw him, for his eyes are sunken in.His brow is deeply lined with thought, his head is highly domed;His coat is dusty from neglect, his whiskers are uncombed.He sways his head from side to side, with movements like a snake;And when you think he's half asleep, he's always wide awake.Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity,For he's a fiend in feline shape, a monster of depravity.You may meet him in a by-street, you may see him in the square—But when a crime's discovered, then Macavity's not there!He's outwardly respectable. (They say he cheats at cards.)And his footprints are not found in any file of Scotland Yard'sAnd when the larder's looted, or the jewel-case is rifled,Or when the milk is missing, or another Peke's been stifled,Or the greenhouse glass is broken, and the trellis past repairAy, there's the wonder of the thing! Macavity's not there!And when the Foreign Office find a Treaty's gone astray,Or the Admiralty lose some plans and drawings by the way,There may be a scrap of paper in the hall or on the stair—But it's useless to investigate—Macavity's not there!And when the loss has been disclosed, the Secret Service say:It must have been Macavity!'—but he's a mile away.You'll be sure to find him resting, or a-licking of his thumb;Or engaged in doing complicated long division sums.Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity,There never was a Cat of such deceitfulness and suavity.He always has an alibi, and one or two to spare:At whatever time the deed took place—MACAVITY WASN'T THERE !And they say that all the Cats whose wicked deeds are widely known(I might mention Mungojerrie, I might mention Griddlebone)Are nothing more than agents for the Cat who all the timeJust controls their operations: the Napoleon of Crime!Thanks for reading The Poem Reader! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com | 3m 17s | ||||||
| 2/4/23 | ![]() I know thee not, old man. | I know thee not, old man: fall to thy prayers;How ill white hairs become a fool and jester!I have long dream'd of such a kind of man,So surfeit-swell'd, so old and so profane;But, being awaked, I do despise my dream.Make less thy body hence, and more thy grace;Leave gormandizing; know the grave doth gapeFor thee thrice wider than for other men.Reply not to me with a fool-born jest:Presume not that I am the thing I was;For God doth know, so shall the world perceive,That I have turn'd away my former self;So will I those that kept me company.When thou dost hear I am as I have been,Approach me, and thou shalt be as thou wast,The tutor and the feeder of my riots:Till then, I banish thee, on pain of death,As I have done the rest of my misleaders,Not to come near our person by ten mile.For competence of life I will allow you,That lack of means enforce you not to evil:And, as we hear you do reform yourselves,We will, according to your strengths and qualities,Give you advancement. Be it your charge, my lord,To see perform'd the tenor of our word. Set on. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com | 1m 50s | ||||||
| 1/28/23 | ![]() On a Tired Housewife | Here lies a poor woman who was always tired,She lived in a house where help wasn’t hired:Her last words on earth were: ‘Dear friends, I am goingTo where there’s no cooking, or washing, or sewing,For everything there is exact to my wishes,For where they don’t eat there’s no washing of dishes.I’ll be where loud anthems will always be ringing,But having no voice I’ll be quit of the singing.Don’t mourn for me now, don’t mourn for me never,I am going to do nothing for ever and ever.’ This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.thepoemreader.com | 0m 50s | ||||||
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Chart Positions
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Chart Positions
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