My LibriVox recordings & my reading journal (solo Litblog).

The LibriVox Weekly Poem: Delight in Disorder by Robert Herrick

LibriVox Weekly PoemA sweet disorder in the dress
Kindles in clothes a wantonness:
A lawn about the shoulders thrown
Into a fine distraction:
An erring lace which here and there
Enthralls the crimson stomacher:
A cuff neglectful, and thereby
Ribbons to flow confusedly:
A winning wave, deserving note,
In the tempestuous petticoat:
A careless shoe-string, in whose tie
I see a wild civility:
Do more bewitch me than when art
Is too precise in every part.

Delight in Disorder by Robert Herrick (1591 to 1674) This week's poem can be found at this link.

Please click here to download or listen to my recording.


The LibriVox Fortnightly Poem: The Word of an Engineer by James Weldon Johnson

LibriVox Weekly Poem"She's built of steel
From deck to keel,
And bolted strong and tight;
In scorn she'll sail
The fiercest gale,
And pierce the darkest night.

"The builder's art
Has proved each part
Throughout her breadth and length;
Deep in the hulk,
Of her mighty bulk,
Ten thousand Titans' strength."

The tempest howls,
The Ice Wolf prowls,
The winds they shift and veer,
But calm I sleep,
And faith I keep
In the word of an engineer.

Along the trail
Of the slender rail
The train, like a nightmare, flies
And dashes on
Through the black-mouthed yawn
Where the cavernous tunnel lies.

Over the ridge,
Across the bridge,
Swung twixt the sky and hell,
On an iron thread
Spun from the head
Of the man in a draughtsman's cell.

And so we ride
Over land and tide,
Without a thought of fear—
Man never had
The faith in God
That he has in an engineer!

The Word of an Engineer by James Weldon Johnson (1871 to 1938) This fortnight's poem can be found at this link.

Please click here to download or listen to my recording.

The LibriVox Weekly Poem: “BOOH!” by Eugene Field

LibriVox Weekly PoemOn afternoons, when baby boy has had a splendid nap,
And sits, like any monarch on his throne, in nurse's lap,
In some such wise my handkerchief I hold before my face,
And cautiously and quietly I move about the place;
Then, with a cry, I suddenly expose my face to view,
And you should hear him laugh and crow when I say "Booh"!

Sometimes the rascal tries to make believe that he is scared,
And really, when I first began, he stared, and stared, and stared;
And then his under lip came out and farther out it came,
Till mamma and the nurse agreed it was a "cruel shame"—
But now what does that same wee, toddling, lisping baby do
But laugh and kick his little heels when I say "Booh!"

He laughs and kicks his little heels in rapturous glee, and then
In shrill, despotic treble bids me "do it all aden!"
And I—of course I do it; for, as his progenitor,
It is such pretty, pleasant play as this that I am for!
And it is, oh, such fun and I am sure that we shall rue
The time when we are both too old to play the game "Booh!"

"BOOH!" by Eugene Field (1850 to 1895) This week's poem can be found at this link.

Please click here to download or listen to my recording.

The LibriVox Weekly Poem: The Miniature by George P. Morris

William was holding in his hand
The likeness of his wife!
Fresh, as if touched by fairy wand,
With beauty, grace, and life.
He almost thought it spoke:—he gazed
Upon the bauble still,
Absorbed, delighted, and amazed,
To view the artist's skill.

"This picture is yourself, dear Jane—
'Tis drawn to nature true:
I've kissed it o'er and o'er again,
It is much like you."
"And has it kissed you back, my dear?"
"Why—no—my love," said he.
"Then, William, it is very clear
'Tis not at all LIKE ME!"

The Miniature by George P. Morris (1802 to 1864) This week's poem can be found at this link.

Please click here to download or listen to my recording.

The LibriVox Weekly Poem: The Power of Words by Letitia Elizabeth Landon

'TIS a strange mystery, the power of words!
Life is in them, and death. A word can send
The crimson colour hurrying to the cheek.
Hurrying with many meanings; or can turn
The current cold and deadly to the heart.
Anger and fear are in them; grief and joy
Are on their sound; yet slight, impalpable:--
A word is but a breath of passing air.

The Power of Words by Letitia Elizabeth Landon (1802 to 1838) This week's poem can be found at this link.

Please click here to download or listen to my recording.

The Strain. My journal notes. Post 8

book cover for The Strain

My journal notes on The Strain by Guillermo del Toro and Chuck Hogan.
Post 8

17th Precinct Headquarters, East Fifty-first Street, Manhattan

More importantly, inside a cell at the 17th Precinct Headquarters.
Present at this location is Setrakian, Gus and Gus’s unfortunate friend, Felix.
Amazingly, Abraham Setrakian has a history and a reputation in his community. Gangs and thieves know better than to try to steal from the pawnbrokers on 118th street, and it seems the old man is well known and respected.

Setrakian said, “The first week I took over the shop, someone broke my front window. I replaced it and then I watch, and I wait. Caught the next bunch who came to break it. I gave them something to think about, and something to tell their friends. That was more than thirty years ago. I haven’t had a problem with my glass since.”

They kind of trade stories, but Abraham cuts straight to the meat of the situation. The vampire that Gus and Felix fought with.

Continue reading

The LibriVox Weekly Poem: A Valentine (from an Old Lover) by Jessie Pope

LibriVox Weekly PoemEstelle, when you and I were rising nine 
Perhaps you'd rather I suppressed the date 
I spent a shilling on a valentine 
And left it for you at the garden gate. 
Therein my heart was imaged in a bower 
Of tinsel roses, with a tender verse on; 
I followed it in less than half an hour 
Impatient for your gratitude in person. 

You ran and kissed my cheek with candied lips, 
A habit, by the way, you've since neglected; 
You gambolled up and down in little skips, 
Yet failed to do the thing that I expected. 
It should have been a give-and-take affair; 
You had my tinsel heart, while I had not one, 
And when I asked for yours, to make it square, 
You playfully remarked you hadn't got one. 

I was appalled my little bosom heaved Such disappointment did not seem correct. With rising tears I felt myself deceived And lost my temper at your base neglect. 'I'll have mine back I paid for it, it's mine!' I cried. We fought and tore the paper frilling. By dint of nail you kept that valentine, And left me howling for my wasted shilling. Since then how many years have slipped away? And time has tamed my temper to submission. You're tall and dignified, and yet to-day I find myself in just the same position. The heart from out my bosom you've decoyed, Though day by day with strenuous endeavour I would recall it to its aching void. I strive in vain my heart is yours for ever.  

A Valentine (from an Old Lover) by Jessie Pope (1838 to 1941) This week's poem can be found at this link.

Please click here to download or listen to my recording.