- 8
- Episodes
- 2021
- First episode
About Woven Words
Poetry is the art of weaving words together to form a tapestry. Welcome one and welcome all to the Woven Words Podcast! Join me (Ester) as I share my love of poetry and discuss the history of poems, poets, and poetic techniques. Please feel free to send me your feedback and suggestions here: https://forms.gle/z66DoHNtWktdJkdJ6
- Publisher
- Ester
- Category
- arts
- Language
- en
- Explicit
- No
- First episode
- 2 Apr 2021
- Latest episode
- 31 Oct 2022
Latest episodes
8 episodes in the feed.
31 Oct 2022
Episode 7 - The Finch and the Fire
Happy Halloween! In this episode, I share the history of the spooky holiday through Samhain, the Celtic predecessor to modern-day Halloween. I also read a little poem inspired by Samhain by author Annie Finch. Here it is if you'd like to read along! Samhain by Annie Finch In the season leaves should love, since it gives them leave to move through the wind, towards the ground they were watching while they hung, legend says there is a seam stitching darkness like a name. Now when dying grasses veil earth from the sky in one last pale wave, as autumn dies to bring winter back, and then the spring, we who die ourselves can peel back another kind of veil that hangs among us like thick smoke. Tonight at last I feel it shake. I feel the nights stretching away thousands long behind the days till they reach the darkness where all of me is ancestor. I move my hand and feel a touch move with me, and when I brush my own mind across another, I am with my mother's mother. Sure as footsteps in my waiting self, I find her, and she brings arms that carry answers for me, intimate, a waiting bounty. "Carry me." She leaves this trail through a shudder of the veil, and leaves, like amber where she stays, a gift for her perpetual gaze.
23 Sept 2022
Episode 6 - A Terrible Beauty
In this episode, I talk about the history of one of my favorite poets, William Butler Yeats, and his poem Easter, 1916. The cover art is a rose photograph of mine. Here's the poem if you'd like to read along: Easter, 1916 by William Butler Yeats I have met them at close of day Coming with vivid faces From counter or desk among grey Eighteenth-century houses. I have passed with a nod of the head Or polite meaningless words, Or have lingered awhile and said Polite meaningless words, And thought before I had done Of a mocking tale or a gibe To please a companion Around the fire at the club, Being certain that they and I But lived where motley is worn: All changed, changed utterly: A terrible beauty is born. That woman's days were spent In ignorant good-will, Her nights in argument Until her voice grew shrill. What voice more sweet than hers When, young and beautiful, She rode to harriers? This man had kept a school And rode our wingèd horse; This other his helper and friend Was coming into his force; He might have won fame in the end, So sensitive his nature seemed, So daring and sweet his thought. This other man I had dreamed A drunken, vainglorious lout. He had done most bitter wrong To some who are near my heart, Yet I number him in the song; He, too, has resigned his part In the casual comedy; He, too, has been changed in his turn, Transformed utterly: A terrible beauty is born. Hearts with one purpose alone Through summer and winter seem Enchanted to a stone To trouble the living stream. The horse that comes from the road, The rider, the birds that range From cloud to tumbling cloud, Minute by minute they change; A shadow of cloud on the stream Changes minute by minute; A horse-hoof slides on the brim, And a horse plashes within it; The long-legged moor-hens dive, And hens to moor-cocks call; Minute by minute they live: The stone's in the midst of all. Too long a sacrifice Can make a stone of the heart. O when may it suffice? That is Heaven's part, our part To murmur name upon name, As a mother names her child When sleep at last has come On limbs that had run wild. What is it but nightfall? No, no, not night but death; Was it needless death after all? For England may keep faith For all that is done and said. We know their dream; enough To know they dreamed and are dead; And what if excess of love Bewildered them till they died? I write it out in a verse— MacDonagh and MacBride And Connolly and Pearse Now and in time to be, Wherever green is worn, Are changed, changed utterly: A terrible beauty is born.
7 May 2022
Episode 5 - It's Rhyme Time Somewhere!
In this episode, I talk about the different types of rhyme in poetry, as well as a little history about Emily Dickinson and her poem "'Hope' is the thing with feathers". The different types of rhyme discussed today include perfect rhyme, end rhyme, internal rhyme, slant rhyme, rich rhyme, eye rhyme, alliteration, light rhyme and syllabic rhyme. The cover art is by Denis Hopkins, a painting entitled "Hope is the Thing with Feathers, my Friend". Here is the poem if you'd like to read along: “Hope” is the thing with feathers - That perches in the soul - And sings the tune without the words - And never stops - at all - And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard - And sore must be the storm - That could abash the little Bird That kept so many warm - I’ve heard it in the chillest land - And on the strangest Sea - Yet - never - in Extremity, It asked a crumb - of me.
25 Feb 2022
Episode 4 - I Think, Therefore Iamb
In this episode, I talk about the use of rhythm and meter in poetry (as suggested by one of my listeners), and Shakespeare's Sonnet 146! The cover art is a painting by Maksim Khrapht titled "Forgotten Soul". Here is the sonnet if you'd like to read along: Sonnet 146 - William Shakespeare Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth, [Fool’d by] these rebel powers that thee array; Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth, Painting thy outward walls so costly gay? Why so large cost, having so short a lease, Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend? Shall worms, inheritors of this excess, Eat up thy charge? is this thy body’s end? Then soul, live thou upon thy servant’s loss, And let that pine to aggravate thy store; Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross; Within be fed, without be rich no more: So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men, And Death once dead, there’s no more dying then.
29 Jan 2022
Episode 3 - Snicker-Snack and Slam
In this episode, I cover one of my all-time favorite poems, the whimsical Jabberwocky by Lewis Carroll, as well as the rich tradition of spoken word poetry and poetry slams. The cover art is an 1871 drawing by John Tenniel, with added color. Here is the poem if you'd like to read along: Jabberwocky - Lewis Carroll ’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe: All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe. “Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun The frumious Bandersnatch!” He took his vorpal sword in hand; Long time the manxome foe he sought— So rested he by the Tumtum tree And stood awhile in thought. And, as in uffish thought he stood, The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame, Came whiffling through the tulgey wood, And burbled as it came! One, two! One, two! And through and through The vorpal blade went snicker-snack! He left it dead, and with its head He went galumphing back. “And hast thou slain the Jabberwock? Come to my arms, my beamish boy! O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!” He chortled in his joy. ’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe: All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe.
30 Apr 2021
Episode 2 - A Walk in the Woods
In this episode, I offer a different perspective on the well-known poem "The Road Not Taken" by Robert Frost. Listen all the way to the end for a special outro! The cover photo pictures a road curving into a forest. Here is the poem if you would like to read along: The Road Not Taken - Robert Frost Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth; Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same, And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back. I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I— I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.
9 Apr 2021
Episode 1 - Immortality and the Semicolon
In this episode, I discuss the poem "Do not stand at my grave and weep" and its mysterious origins, as well as the use of the semicolon in poetry. The cover art is a drawing I did, inspired by the poem, and here is the poem itself if you would like to read along: Do not stand at my grave and weep I am not there. I do not sleep. I am a thousand winds that blow. I am the diamond glints on snow. I am the sunlight on ripened grain. I am the gentle autumn rain. When you awaken in the morning's hush I am the swift uplifting rush Of quiet birds in circled flight. I am the soft stars that shine at night. Do not stand at my grave and cry; I am not there. I did not die
2 Apr 2021
Introduction to the Woven Words Podcast
A quick intro explaining what the Woven Words Podcast is all about!
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