ravenotation

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


The LibriVox Fortnightly Poem: Twilight Voices by William Allingham


Now, at the hour when ignorant mortals
Drowse in the shade of their whirling sphere,
Heaven and Hell from invisible portals
Breathing comfort and ghastly fear,
Voices I hear;
I hear strange voices, flitting, calling,
Wavering by on the dusky blast,—
'Come, let us go, for the night is falling;
Come, let us go, for the day is past!'

Troops of joys are they, now departed?
Winged hopes that no longer stay?
Guardian spirits grown weary-hearted?
Powers that have linger'd their latest day?
What do they say?
What do they sing? I hear them calling,
Whispering, gathering, flying fast,—
'Come, come, for the night is falling;
Come, come, for the day is past!'

Sing they to me?—'Thy taper's wasted;
Mortal, thy sands of life run low;
Thine hours like a flock of birds have hasted:
Time is ending;—we go, we go.'
Sing they so?
Mystical voices, floating, calling;
Dim farewells—the last, the last?
Come, come away, the night is falling;
'Come, come away, the day is past.'

See, I am ready, Twilight voices!
Child of the spirit-world am I;
How should I fear you? my soul rejoices,
O speak plainer! O draw nigh!
Fain would I fly!
Tell me your message, Ye who are calling
Out of the dimness vague and vast;
Lift me, take me,—the night is falling;
Quick, let us go,—the day is past.
 

Twilight Voices by William Allingham (1824 to 1889) This week's poem can be found using this link.

Please click here to download or listen to my recording.

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The LibriVox Weekly Poem: To Sleep by Sir Philip Sidney


COME, Sleep; O Sleep! the certain knot of peace,	
The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe,	
The poor man’s wealth, the prisoner’s release,	
Th’ indifferent judge between the high and low;	
With shield of proof, shield me from out the prease	
Of those fierce darts Despair at me doth throw:	
O make in me those civil wars to cease;	
I will good tribute pay, if thou do so.	
Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed,	
A chamber deaf to noise and blind to light,	
A rosy garland and a weary head:	
And if these things, as being thine by right,	
Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me,	
Livelier than elsewhere, Stella’s image see.
 

To Sleep by Sir Philip Sidney (1554 to 1586) This week's poem can be found using this link.

Please click here to download or listen to my recording.


The LibriVox Weekly Poem: A Scrawl by James Whitcomb Riley


I want to sing something—but this is all—
I try and I try, but the rhymes are dull
As though they were damp, and the echoes fall
Limp and unlovable.

Words will not say what I yearn to say—
They will not walk as I want them to,
But they stumble and fall in the path of the way
Of my telling my love for you.

Simply take what the scrawl is worth—
Knowing I love you as sun the sod
On the ripening side of the great round earth
That swings in the smile of God.
 

A Scrawl by James Whitcomb Riley (1849 to 1916) This week's poem can be found at this link.

Please click here to download or listen to my recording.


The LibriVox Weekly Poem: Winter Evening by Archibald Lampman

LibriVox Weekly Poem
To-night the very horses springing by
Toss gold from whitened nostrils. In a dream
The streets that narrow to the westward gleam
Like rows of golden palaces; and high
From all the crowded chimneys tower and die
A thousand aureoles. Down in the west
The brimming plains beneath the sunset rest,
One burning sea of gold. Soon, soon shall fly
The glorious vision, and the hours shall feel
A mightier master; soon from height to height,
With silence and the sharp unpitying stars,
Stern creeping frosts, and winds that touch like steel,
Out of the depth beyond the eastern bars,
Glittering and still shall come the awful night.
 

Winter Evening by Archibald Lampman (1861 to 1899) 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 Old Year by John Clare


The Old Year's gone away
To nothingness and night:
We cannot find him all the day
Nor hear him in the night:
He left no footstep, mark or place
In either shade or sun:
The last year he'd a neighbour's face,
In this he's known by none.

All nothing everywhere:
Mists we on mornings see
Have more of substance when they're here
And more of form than he.
He was a friend by every fire,
In every cot and hall—
A guest to every heart's desire,
And now he's nought at all.

Old papers thrown away,
Old garments cast aside,
The talk of yesterday,
Are things identified;
But time once torn away
No voices can recall:
The eve of New Year's Day
Left the Old Year lost to all.
 

The Old Year by John Clare (1793 to 1864) 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 7

book cover for The Strain

My journal notes on The Strain by Guillermo del Toro and Chuck Hogan.
Post 7.

INTERLUDE III

REVOLT, 1943

August was searing through the calender and Abraham Setrakian, laying out beams for a suspended roof, felt its burden more than most. The sun was baking him, every day it was like this. But even more than that, he had come to loathe the night, his bunk and his dreams of home, which had formerly been his only respite from the horror of the death camp, and was now a hostage to two equally merciless masters.

So begins another interlude, but, Setrakian has plans. He may not be able to defeat his Nazi masters, but he has designs to destroy the other.

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