Macbeth Act IV, Scene I – William Shakespeare


performed by Rosalind Atkinson, Jill Bacon, Rachel Roberts
recording by The Shakespeare Recording Society (1960)

FIRST WITCH:
Thrice the brinded cat hath mew’d.

SECOND WITCH:
Thrice and once the hedge-pig whined.

THIRD WITCH:
Harpier cries, “’Tis time, ’tis time.”

FIRST WITCH:
Round about the cauldron go:
In the poison’d entrails throw.
Toad, that under cold stone
Days and nights has thirty-one
Swelter’d venom sleeping got,
Boil thou first i’ the charmed pot.

ALL:
Double, double, toil and trouble;
Fire burn and cauldron bubble.

SECOND WITCH:
Fillet of a fenny snake,
In the cauldron boil and bake;
Eye of newt and toe of frog,
Wool of bat and tongue of dog,
Adder’s fork and blind-worm’s sting,
Lizard’s leg and howlet’s wing,
For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.

ALL:
Double, double, toil and trouble;
Fire burn and cauldron bubble.

THIRD WITCH:
Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf,
Witch’s mummy, maw and gulf
Of the ravin’d salt-sea shark,
Root of hemlock digg’d i’ the dark,
Liver of blaspheming Jew,
Gall of goat and slips of yew
Sliver’d in the moon’s eclipse,
Nose of Turk and Tartar’s lips,
Finger of birth-strangled babe
Ditch-deliver’d by a drab,
Make the gruel thick and slab.
Add thereto a tiger’s chaudron,
For the ingredients of our cauldron.

ALL:
Double, double, toil and trouble;
Fire burn and cauldron bubble.

SECOND WITCH:
Cool it with a baboon’s blood,
Then the charm is firm and good.

[Enter Hecate, and the other three Witches.]

HECATE:
O, well done! I commend your pains,
And everyone shall share i’ the gains.
And now about the cauldron sing,
Like elves and fairies in a ring,
Enchanting all that you put in.
Music and a song: Black spirits.

SECOND WITCH:
By the pricking of my thumbs,
Something wicked this way comes:
Open, locks,
Whoever knocks!

(Macbeth: IV.i 1-47. 1606)

Ozymandias – Percy Bysshe Shelley

read by Sir John Gielgud (1939)

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
“My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!”
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

(1818)

Funeral Blues – W.H. Auden

Read by Tom O’Bedlam

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message ‘He is Dead’.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

One Art on Hidden Brain

I am an avowed podcast fiend, so it’s not surprising that yesterday I was looking for a new podcast to listen to. By chance, I selected Hidden Brain (I’ve heard much about it, but never listened to it) and its recent episode called “Fresh Starts”. It explores two stories on people losing something precious to them, but through that loss, finding something new. To my delight, the episode ended with a reading by Aimee Mann of Elizabeth Bishop’s One Art. While I recommend the entire podcast, you can hear Mann’s reading at the 45:52 minute mark. Enjoy.

Looking Back in My Eighty-first Year – Maxine Kumin

text and audio from Poems Out Loud

How did we get to be old ladies—
my grandmother’s job—when we
were the long-legged girls?
—HILMA WOLITZER

Instead of marrying the day after graduation,
in spite of freezing on my father’s arm as
here comes the bride struck up,
saying, I’m not sure I want to do this,

I should have taken that fellowship
to the University of Grenoble to examine
the original manuscript
of Stendhal’s unfinished Lucien Leuwen

I, who had never been west of the Mississippi,
should have crossed the ocean
in third class on the Cunard White Star,
the war just over, the Second World War

when Kilroy was here, that innocent graffito,
two eyes and a nose draped over
a fence line. How could I go?
Passion had locked us together.

Sixty years my lover,
he says he would have waited.
He says he would have sat
where the steamship docked

till the last of the pursers
decamped, and I rushed back
littering the runway with carbon paper…
Why didn’t I go? It was fated.

Marriage dizzied us. Hand over hand,
flesh against flesh for the final haul,
we tugged our lifeline through limestone and sand,
lover and long-legged girl.