This is kind of a lonely poem for a lonely day hiking. Not lonely, exactly, but very alone. I spent probably five hours and saw, maybe, three human beings. It was good. I like to be alone.Sometimes. I also like to be with those I love. When I am with other people, I think about them. I am a person in society. When I am alone, I think about God, or nature, or poetry and art, or all of those things. I think about myself in relation to all those things.### TEXT OF POEM"The Preacher Ruminates Behind the Sermon" by Gwendolyn BrooksI think it must be lonely to be God.Nobody loves a master. No. DespiteThe bright hosannas, bright dear-Lords, and brightDetermined reverence of Sunday eyes.Picture Jehovah striding through the hallOf His importance, creatures running outFrom servant-corners to acclaim, to shoutAppreciation of His merit's glare.But who walks with Him?—dares to take His arm,To clap Him on the shoulder, tweak His ear,Buy Him a Coca-Cola or a beer,Pooh-pooh His politics, call Him a fool?Perhaps—who knows?—He tires of looking down.Those eyes are never lifted. Never straight.Perhaps sometimes He tires of being greatIn solitude. Without a hand to hold.

Episode 3.11: Gwendolyn Brooks' "The Preacher Ruminates Behind the Sermon"

More adventures in Canyonlands National Park in southern Utah.I hike to be quiet and alone. This hike took me on the White Rim Trail, one of the destination trails for 4x4 affectionados. Which is about the opposite of me. I like my peace and quiet, which never includes dirtbikes or ATVs.Of course, every one I saw at least waved at me, and often were very friendly and chatty. I tell a story of one of those encounters in this episode.### TEXT OF POEMAlexander Pope's "Ode on Solitude"Happy the man, whose wish and careA few paternal acres bound,Content to breathe his native air,In his own ground.Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,Whose flocks supply him with attire,Whose trees in summer yield him shade,In winter fire.Blest, who can unconcernedly findHours, days, and years slide soft away,In health of body, peace of mind,Quiet by day,Sound sleep by night; study and ease,Together mixed; sweet recreation;And innocence, which most does please,With meditation.Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;Thus unlamented let me die;Steal from the world, and not a stoneTell where I lie.

Episode 310: Alexander Pope's "Ode on Solitude"

This recording was originally much longer than what I've got for you here. I took a fork in a trail which led me to an overlook that was so magnificent, so overwhelming, that I just stood there, mostly mute. It's vastness, it's quiet emptiness: it made me feel small and like a thing touching divinity.Later, on that same hike, I discovered tiny tiny flowers that I hadn't noticed before. They were just as shocking to me as the canyon. Big and small: this hike was really killing me aesthetically.It took a bunch of research to figure out that the flowers I looked at were [Gilia inconspicua], or "shy gilia."### TEXT OF POEM"Interlude III" by Karl ShapiroWriting, I crushed an insect with my nailAnd thought nothing at all. A bit of wingCaught my eye then, A gossamer so frailAnd exquisite, I saw in it a thingThat scorned the grossness of the thing I wroteIt hung upon my finger like a sting.A leg I noticed next, fine a mote,“And on this frail eyelash he walked,” I said,“And climbed and walked like any mountain-goat”And in the mood I sought the little head,But it was lost; then in my heart a fearCried out, “A life- why beautiful, why dead!”It was a mite that held itself most dear,So small I could have drowned it with a tear.[Gilia inconspicua]: http://www.swcoloradowildflowers.com/White%20Enlarged%20Photo%20Pages/gilia.htm

Episode 309: Karl Shapiro's "Interlude III"

I spent a few days in Moab, camping and hiking and writing and recording. It was lovely.This episode was recorded as I was hiking in Canyonlands National Park on the Murphy loop. I did edit out some long stretches of just me walking (not excatly compelling audio, that), and a couple of times were I got distracted by something I saw. I did leave in a couple shorter ones (a lizard in one instance, a butterfly in another) just to maintain the feeling of the recording, which is not some manufactured-in-the-studio-with-a-catalog-of-outdoor-sounds. Nope, this is really me, walking along in a spectacular landscape.### TEXT OF POEM"My Cathedral" by Henry Wadsworth LongfellowLike two cathedral towers these stately pinesUplift their fretted summits tipped with cones;The arch beneath them is not built with stones,Not Art but Nature traced these lovely lines,And carved this graceful arabesque of vines;No organ but the wind here sighs and moans,No sepulchre conceals a martyr's bones.No marble bishop on his tomb reclines.Enter! the pavement, carpeted with leaves,Gives back a softened echo to thy tread!Listen! the choir is singing; all the birds,In leafy galleries beneath the eaves,Are singing! listen, ere the sound be fled,And learn there may be worship with out words.

Episode 308: Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's "My Cathedral"

One of the beautiful days in April in Utah, talking about a beautiful sport in Boston. (OK, this year, there's very little beautiful about baseball in Boston, but last year was great and there's always next year.) Some American poetry today, because today feels like a good day to be an American.This is not an easy poem. It's weird. Don't worry too much about getting it "right." That's not the point. This is a poem to take an interpretation (or partial interpretation, in my case, and probably yours, too) and go with it. There's something powerful in a poem that so absolutely refuses to allow for definitive interpretation.### TEXT OF POEMAmy Lowell's "Fenway Park: Study in Orange and Silver"Through the spring-thickened branchesI see it floating,An ivory domeHeaded to gold by the dim sun.It hangs against a white-misted sky,And the swollen branchesOpen or cover it,As they blow in the wet wind.

Episode 307: Amy Lowell's "Fenway Park: Study in Orange and Silver"

On a trail up American Fork canyon, listening to the water rushing down the mountain as it melts from the snowpack. It's mesmerizing. I know it just sounds like a static hiss on the recording: maybe you can hear it as a natural sound and not just a background noise.There's something magical about this transition between seasons. There's something magical about seeing the world transform itself, to move from a monochromatic, cold environment to a verdant one: warm, green, vibrant.Today's poem is about the world, kind of. And it's about things that repeat (like the seasons repeat, every year). And it's about language. Every poem is about language at some level, it's more surface in this one than in others.You might find this a challenging poem. I do. I know that I am only getting only a fraction of the meaning out of this poem. But that's enough for today. I will let this grow the way that the things are growing around me. I'll know more tomorrow. You'll know more tomorrow, too.### TEXT OF POEM"You begin" by Margaret AtwoodYou begin this way:this is your hand,this is your eye,this is a fish, blue and flaton the paper, almostthe shape of an eyeThis is your mouth, this is an Oor a moon, whicheveryou like.This is yellow.Outside the windowis the rain, greenbecause it is summer, and beyond thatthe trees and then the world,which is round and has onlythe colors of these nine crayons.This is the world, which is fullerand more difficult to learn than I have said.You are right to smudge it that waywith the red and thenthe orange: the world burns.Once you have learned these wordsyou will learn that there are morewords than you can ever learn.The word hand floats above your handlike a small cloud over a lake.The word hand anchorsyour hand to this tableyour hand is a warm stoneI hold between two words.This is your hand, these are my hands, this is the world,which is round but not flat and has more colorsthan we can see.It begins, it has an end,this is what you willcome back to, this is your hand.

Episode 306: Margaret Atwood's "You Begin"

While one a short hike right near the border between Utah and Idaho, I tried to capture the songs of all the [Western Meadowlarks](https://www.audubon.org/field-guide/bird/western-meadowlark) around me. If you listen closely, you can just hear them. It's one of my favorite birdsongs, and they're not shy about singing it.Today's poem is another of Shakespeare's sonnets. If you didn't hear my episodes on the sonnets, I highly recommend heading back and listening to episodes 201, 203, and 205. I give a brief summary here, but only very, very briefly.There are still a couple of important moves left for the sonnets, and next time we will be leaving the handsome young man and hooking up with the dark lady. Whoo: mysterious!### TEXT OF POEMSonnet 126, by William ShakespeareO thou, my lovely boy, who in thy powerDost hold Time's fickle glass, his sickle, hour;Who hast by waning grown, and therein showestThy lovers withering, as thy sweet self growest.If Nature, sovereign mistress over wrack,As thou goest onwards still will pluck thee back,She keeps thee to this purpose, that her skillMay time disgrace and wretched minutes kill.Yet fear her, O thou minion of her pleasure!She may detain, but not still keep, her treasure:Her audit (though delayed) answered must be,And her quietus is to render thee.( )( )

Episode 305: Shakespeare's Sonnet 126

This was recorded on a super windy day in Moab. I didn't realize just how much it had affected the recording until I tried to listen to it at home. I tried to make it listenable in Audacity and GarageBand, and even still it sounds pretty lousy.Which is really too bad, because the poem is great and the locale was spectacular. There are few things more pleasant than sitting on warm slickrock when the day turns cool and breezy. There's such a lovely radiant heat from the stone.What I didn't actually get to in my analysis is a discussion of the word "circuit." What Dickinson means here is not a circuit in the electronic sense, but in a circular sense. That second line means that success comes from taking the long, perhaps meandering path. Don't just spit out the truth, but draw it out slowly, deliberately, intentionally.Part of what's fun about this poem is that it is so short. In contrast with her message, this poem just kind of dumps it out in just 41 words. There's not much circuit here, not much "gradually" -- and yet it dazzles.### TEXT OF POEM"Tell all the truth but tell it slant" by Emily DickinsonTell all the truth but tell it slant —Success in Circuit liesToo bright for our infirm DelightThe Truth's superb surpriseAs Lightning to the Children easedWith explanation kindThe Truth must dazzle graduallyOr every man be blind —

Episode 304: Emily Dickinson's "Tell all the truth but tell it slant"

Today's poem, perfectly titled for a beautiful day in April, is a pretty tough one for me. Even now, listening to what I said when I recorded, I'm only half-convinced of my interpretation. I have noticed some new stuff, that I would include if I could. But the recording is not a historical event, captured in this one-take.I did do a little editing in this recording, though. A good chunk is me getting distracted by birds, and it's boring to listen to me watching. The birds were too quiet to hear well, and it just isn't that compelling to listen to birdwatching. It isn't compelling for me, and I'm the one who was doing it. So I edited that out.I also edited out three or four false starts on my interpretation. Between my readings of the poem, I gave some exegesis, and then some better, and then different from before. I left in only the last one, because it is the most detailed.My reading of it isn't informed by any research from Millay experts (which I am not), but only my own skills as a reader. Do you see something different, something that is supported by the text? Then you've got some skills, too. Well done, friend.

Episode 303: Edna St. Vincent Millay's "Spring"

This was recorded at Arches National Park a while back, on a cold, cold morning. It was a great time to read this wonderful Mary Oliver poem about mornings (and happiness and goodness).I apologize that the sound quality on this is so lousy. I am clearly no professional sound engineer, and there is all sorts of clipping and sound that's blown out by the wind and my poor mic skills. I did what I could to fix it, but frankly, I'm just guessing here.One of my favorite things about recording these on outdoor excusrions is that the sound, for me at least, evokes a powerful memory of the place. I get more ambiance than with just a photo. Does it evoke for you, too? And these places, being there or just remembering being there, helps me live in happiness, in kindness. I hope it inspires joy for you, too.

Episode 302: Mary Oliver's "Why I Wake Early"

Squelchy, snowy hike up the Big Springs trail on a day that couldn't decide what weather felt right. There's a particular beauty in being in a monochromatic landscape like this; it makes me feel small and vulnerable.I've spent much too much time indoors this winter, and I feel more out of shape than I ever have before. I get out of breath more quickly, and the muscles on my legs are less defined than ever beore. It'll take some work this spring and summer to get back to where I was. A poem about middle age seems appropriate right now.

Episode 301: Donald Justice's "Men at Forty"

It's a new year, and a new season of Lucky Words. Or, rather, it's a new season! Of Lucky Words! I'm back! And I'm glad you're back, too. I've missed you; I hope you've missed me, too.It is almost National Poetry Month again, and so it's time to fire up the old recorder and get out hiking. Spring is springing (slowly), and it is a perfect time to be outdoors.This was recorded sitting in my car at a trailhead in Moab, Utah. Something was a little wonky with the recorder (although it is probably more likely to be user error), so it sounds blown-out in parts when I get too enthusiastic. It’s easy to be enthusiastic about Billy Collins. Some of you have already heard the story about how he convinced me to buy a new car.This is a great poem, and it is good to be enthusiastic about.

Episode 300: Billy Collins' "The Effort"

There is a lot more that could be said about sonnet 20, but this should serve as a nice introduction to this one, especially for you listeners who are not regular readers of Shakespeare's sonnets. This is one of the crazy ones, or at least one of the difficult-to-categorize-Shakesepeare's-sexuality ones. I recorded this while out birding one morning (yes, I am a middle aged white male: so what?) and I had to edit out probably three or four planes landing or taking off. Not exactly the quietest place to record. I tried to get rid of them all while recording, but I'm obviously not a professional audio engineer, who would have made me do a few sentences over from scratch. But that would of course require that I worked form a script, which is pretty obviously not the case if you've listened to an episode or two. For the text of the poem, or more things to read, come on over to visit at jeffreywindsor.net.

Episode 205: Shakespeare's sonnet 20

It's a lunchtime post -- or, rather, it's a lunchtime recording. I took a hike at lunchtime and recorded while I was hiking (literally, which is why my breathing is a little more apparent than usual) right before I stopped to eat. Today's poem is one that has been my favorite since about 1990, when I first read the poem. I was living in Brazil at the time as a Mormon missionary, and a girl sent this poem to me in a letter. I've never forgotten the poem (although shortly thereafter the girl forgot me and married someone else. It all worked out in the end: I married Kate) and think about it often. For such a simple, little narrative poem it packs a long, thought-provoking tail.For more, as always, go to &lt;a href="http://www.jeffreywindsor.net"&gt;jeffreywindsor.net&lt;/a&gt;

Episode 204: Edwin Arlington Robinson's "Cliff Klingenhagen"

For the second of our look together at some of Shakespeare's sonnets, today's selection is the most famous: sonnet 18, the famous "Shall I comapre thee to a summer's day?" The only sonnet that rivals it in popular consciousness is Elizabeth Barrett Browning's "How do I love thee? Let me count the ways." I approach this with a little reticence, since it's such well-trod territory, but it helps to fill in the whole narrative that I will be explaining as time goes on. So I press on and am posting it anyway. Don't like my interpretation? Let me know.I recorded this on the most beautiful day of the whole year so far. Surely there will be nicer days in the future, but today is the finest since before winter began months ago. It is a perfect day to read about summer's days, even though it's just spring.As always, there's more for you to read at &lt;a href="http://jeffreywindsor.net"&gt;http://jeffreywindsor.net&lt;/a&gt;

Episode 203: Shakespeare's sonnet 18

For Easter, a discussion of George Herbert's "Easter Wings." Recorded while out on a hike on a beautiful afternoon in the foothills under Mt. Timpanogos in beautiful Utah.

Episode 202: George Herbert's "Easter Wings"

Text of this poem (and all the other episodes of Lucky Words) are available at jeffreywindsor.net.

Episode 201: Shakespeare's sonnet 3

Just a quick one today to remind you that National Poetry Month is coming back in April, and Lucky Words will be there, too, with another season of poems in the ourdoors. If the weather holds (it won't), this will be a perfect year for being outdoors in the mountain west. Today it is a perfect temperature and humidity: this is what heaven feels like to me. 55 degrees and sunny with a slight breeze and some moisture on the ground. Hot dang it's a good time to be alive.## Text of poem"There is no Frigate like a Book" by Emily DickinsonThere is no Frigate like a Book    To take us Lands away,    Nor any Coursers like a Page    Of prancing Poetry –     This Traverse may the poorest take           Without oppress of Toll –     How frugal is the Chariot    That bears a Human soul.  Side note: in addition to this podcast, you might check out my website and newsletter for some essays and quotes and other fun stuff that overlaps nicely with Lucky Words. Check it out at &lt;a href="http://www.jeffreywindsor.net"&gt;jeffreywindsor.net&lt;/a&gt;. (I know: it's a very creative name. What can I say? It's a gift.) Thanks.

Episode 200: "How Frugal is the Chariot"

Happy Fourth of July! It's Independence Day, and I'm finally putting up a new post. Today's recording was actually over an hour long, most of which was my listening to a fellow hiker tell me all his stories about encounters with Sasquach. I have no idea what to do with that.

Episode 142: "Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me"

Happy Bloomsday! For this holiday, I've released the first non-poetry Lucky Words! I am sure you are as excited as I am. 

Actually, as this hits the internets, I am camping with a bunch of Boy Scouts: getting sunburnt, making fires, sleeping in the dirt. It would be great if I weren't in charge of keeping a bunch of fifteen-year old boys from buring down a national forest. If you haven't heard of any major fires in national forests, I'm doing ok.

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