Podcasts about to his coy mistress

This week, things take an upsetting turn on Flight Through Entirety, as Bill is beset, in succession, by a nervous gunman, the master in latex (as usual), the passage of time, a creepy surgeon, and narrative inevitability. Also, the Masters are having an end-of-series party with the Cybermen again. It's World Enough and Time. Notes and links For all four of us, the special effect shot of the hole in Bill's chest is familiar from the Robert Zemeckis film Death Becomes Her (1992), in which Meryl Streep makes a similar hole in Goldie Hawn, which is for several reasons more hilarious and enjoyable. Until this point, the canonical version of the Genesis of the Cyberman had been the Big Finish audio play Spare Parts (2002), written by Marc Platt and starring Peter Davison and Sarah Sutton. It's really brilliant, and not very expensive, which means you should definitely put it on your list. And finally, the title of this story comes from Andrew Marvell's poem “To His Coy Mistress” (1681), in which the poet imagines how he would love his mistress if their time was unlimited, and then describes the alacrity with which they should love each other, given that time is fleeting. Follow us Nathan is on Bluesky at @nathanbottomley.com and Todd is at @toddbeilby.bsky.social; Simon is on X as @simonmoore72. The Flight Through Entirety theme was arranged by Cameron Lam. You can follow Flight Through Entirety on Bluesky, as well as on Mastodon, X and Facebook. Our website is at flightthroughentirety.com. Please consider rating or reviewing us on Apple Podcasts, or we'll make you wait years and years for Episode 298. And more You can find links to all of the podcasts we're involved in on our podcasts page. But here's a summary of where we're up to right now. 500 Year Diary is our latest new Doctor Who podcast, going back through the history of the show and examining new themes and ideas. Its first season came out early this year, under the title New Beginnings. Check it out. It will be back for a second season early in 2025. The Second Great and Bountiful Human Empire has broadcast our hot takes on every new episode of Doctor Who since November last year, and it will be back again in 2025 for Season 2. And finally there's our Star Trek commentary podcast, Untitled Star Trek Project, featuring Nathan and friend-of-the-podcast Joe Ford. This week, we enjoyed a dumb and action-packed episode of Star Trek: Enterprise called Azati Prime.

The post To His Coy Mistress by Andrew Marvell appeared first on A Mouthful of Air.

he was accused of sodomy and impotence and alleged to have been surgically castrated

British poet, Andrew Marvell, and "To His Coy Mistress"

T.S. Eliot - The Love Song Of J. Alfred Prufrock - Poetry Supplement - Episode 2 Hi, This is Christy Shriver, and we're here to discuss books that have changed the world and have changed us.    I'm Garry Shriver, and this is the How to Love Lit Podcast.  This is week two in our discussion of the trans-Atlantic icon, Thomas Stearns Eliot or as he's widely referred to, TS Eliot.  As we mentioned last week, TS Eliot was the recipient of the 1948 Nobel Prize in Literature.  When the Swedish Academy presented him this award, Gustaf Helstrom compared Eliot's contribution to those of Sigmund Freud.  Eliot understood and expressed so much of the heart of humanity during those years.      He also spoke and commented on man's hope for the future, which is something you don't really think about especially when you think about how dark a lot of his poetry is.      For Eliot, hope for the future was often found in the study of the past, and as a history and psychology teacher, this is something that resonates strongly with me.  He believed that by looking backwards we could make a better future.  I want to read just the final couple of sentences of Helstrom' introduction during the ceremony where he received his Nobel Prize.  “For you the salvation of man lies in the preservation of the cultural tradition, which, in our more mature years, lives with greater vigor within us than does primitiveness, and which we must preserve if chaos is to be avoided. Tradition is not a dead load which we drag along with us, and which in our youthful desire for freedom we seek to throw off. It is the soil in which the seeds of coming harvests are to be sown, and from which future harvests will be garnered. As a poet you have, Mr. Eliot, for decades, exercised a greater influence on your contemporaries and younger fellow writers than perhaps anyone else of our time.”    Of course that resonates with me as well.  There has been so much criticism about studying the writings of the past and many see little value to the thoughts, stories and experiences of those who lived on this planet before us.  But I strongly disagree, and  I love listening to Eliot and Helstrom.     Ha!  Well, you know what I call that?    Of course, I do, you call it, “the arrogance of the presence”    Well, I'm pretty sure I didn't coin that phrase, but yes- I believe that's exactly what it is- and creating that continuity between the past and the present seems to be the impetus, at least in part, for all the classical and historical allusions in Eliot's writing.    Well, there is no doubt about that.  For sure.  However, I wanted to go back to the psychology side of it for a minute.  When we talking Gatsby, we mentioned we'd get into a little neuroscience about what makes us enjoy all these weird metaphors and ironies.  We mentioned that Eliot would be an interesting place to talk about that because for one thing- his writing is so obviously psychological and weird- two things we don't associate with beauty necessarily.  Today, our goal is to look at the words, the metaphors, the ironies of this poem.  I promise, it will be interesting although I'm not sure I've made it sound so quite yet, so let's start our discussion thinking about our brains.    For sure,  of course the unanswerable question is the mysterious connection behind the brain and art.  Art and beauty are so important to being human.  There is no doubt it's essential for happiness.  The research behind this connection beyond that however,  is complex and there is not total agreement on what all of it means.  Of course we know art raises serotonine levels- and that's where happiness comes from- if we're talking biochemistry-      can tell you definitely from a scientific standpoint what makes any one particular thing beautiful, why do we call certain things beautiful, and why it even matter?  Of course, we all know it does, even children feel this.     We know that it absolutely DOES matter; there is no debate that we must have beauty in our world.  But let's look specifically at the beauty of words.  That matters too, but a lot of times, we really don't think of it  as much as we think visual art or music.  We know that neurons get excited when two arbitrary ideas are connected- like in the case of puns or metaphors.  Think of it like we get a hit of brain-happiness.  So, when we read poems like Prufrock, even though the images may not be what we traditionally consider beautiful, like sunsets or roses or things like that, because there is so much that is unexpected and unique, our brain is activated in different ways and we find pleasure in these connections.    Let me give you an example that is not from this poem, but most people would understand.  Let's go back to visual art. Have you ever wondered why the Mona Lisa is so famous?  Is it because this woman is just that gorgeous?  This has always confused people.  One scientist, Dr. Maragaret Livingstone, suggests the delight, at least in part is because depending on the angle, Mona Lisa's expression is different, and we get pleasure from these unexpected changes- they're unexpected.  Our brain activity is affected- and we get a happiness hit.     So, when Eliot or Fitzgerald or anyone puts two expressions together that take us by surprise- we are affected neurologically?      Researchers definitely think that's a part of it..  When we listen to the words in some of those more poetic parts of Gatsby, we can feel sensations of brain activity that scientists would connect to sensations of pleasure.  We can say it more than once and feel it again.  At the end of the day, there is pleasure in making connections- that is the human experience.  It makes us feel our humanity.  If you're far away from home and you find someone from your same hometown- you make a connection- even if it's no more than, funny, we went to the same high school,  bam- there's a sensation of pleasure.  We've made a human connection.    Having that idea in mind, when you read a poem like TS Eliot, and if you take the time to try to understand or make sense of all the connections, neuroscientists would tell you that the intellectual pursuit towards understanding the patterns in the words, solving the problems in the poem, or seeing the images provoke neural stimulation that is actually positive- especially if you have a natural affinity for word games- and that is true even if the poem itself is dark.        Which of course it really is.  It is strange when you think of a poem like Prufrock that can be so frustrating;  you have to wonder, why do people like reading it over and over again?  Why do we like reading any poem over and over again?      Exactly- Why do we like to read some books or watch some movies over again.  There are many, and I'd say the majority even if we enjoyed them the first time, do not entice us to re-read or re-watch at all?  The answer, from the neuroscience perspective is because things like poems such as Prufrock prevent easy absorption- you will understand one part of the text, but the next reading, you may find something else in a different place. So, it's a piece of art that re-stimulates your brain differently and that will keep you coming back.  Did that make sense or was that just confusing?    No, it makes sense- humanities people use words like the connection between body and spirit- science speak might be biology and psychology and our spirit- And it's easy for me to accept how all these human elements work together in a mysterious way.  I will also say, as a teacher who interacts with hundreds of people every single day, I get a lot of pleasure from all kinds of unexpected connections.  Truth be told, that may be one of my favorite things.  I don't know.  I'd have to reflect.    So, after all that intro- Let's see these connections and stimulate some brain waves.  Read stanza one, and I'll give you some thoughts on it. .     Let us go then, you and I,  When the evening is spread out against the sky  Like a patient etherized upon a table;  Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,  The muttering retreats  Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels  And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:  Streets that follow like a tedious argument  Of insidious intent  To lead you to an overwhelming question ...  Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”  Let us go and make our visit.    So, the first thing you may ask yourself is who is he talking to?  The poem. is in the second person- who's YOU? This is never explained.  Eliot never names a second person.   Is the reader being talked to- am I supposed to be the second person, like a letter or a traditional dramatic monologue? Is there an imaginary person that's this second person; is he talking to himself?  The first rule in reading modern poetry is that modern poets are like powerful women- they never explain themselves.      Well, there you go-I can almost hear that coming out of Maggie Smith's mouth in her role as the Dowager in Downton Abbey.     I know- that's who I was channeling, to be honest.  But in the case o Modern poets, they deliberately leave these ambiguities in the text for a reason, and the purpose is not to confuse the reader, although that may be how it feels.  What they want you to do, as a reader, is meet them halfway in building meaning- you, as a reader, are to make the work of art more about you as an individual- a personal connection, so to speak.  So, in this case- Who IS the YOU?- And, I'd have to ask, who do you want it to be?  What will help you make the most meaning out of the words.  What helps you make the most sense of the images?      That sounds like you're making the reading exhausting.    Well, there is that risk, so, I'm going to defy the modernists and just give you my opinion or how I interpret this- just to maybe make it easier- but let me just say- I'm not right.  I'm not wrong, but I'm also not right.  This is just ONE way of seeing things.  In fact, I may give you a couple of theories and let you go from there.      That has always frustrated me about English teachers.  There is never a right or wrong answer.    Not true, there definitely can be a wrong answer- a wrong answer is one that cannot be supported from the text.  So, it would be wrong to say, that he's talking about Martians and space aliens here- but then again, maybe- that's not true either and  you could have a space reading of this poem, I've never tried.      But here's one way of looking at it- When I look at those lines that you just read- here are my first thoughts- the words are initially decisive- come- you-and I- let us go? Like me saying, come, Garry, let's go get dessert.  Let's go to the park.   It's a nice invitation-  I see it as a guy talking in his own mine- role-playing how he wished he would talk to people in the real world- how he would like to engage other people- but there isn't anyone there yet, so he's just saying it to himself- practicing and getting up his nerve to do something he wants to do for real.  However, this spirit of bravery collides immediately with the first image.  Now remember- an image is something you can see or experience in your mind- we can see a sky- we can also feel or at least remember how it feels to be etherized- he puts these to images together-to mix the messages.    The evening is spread out against the sky like a patient etherized upon a table.      How do those two things even go together?  Obviously they don't-     If you are etherized- that means you're under the influence of ether-today we don't use ether for this- but during WW1, they used it to numb people for medicinal purposes.    Does it knock people out, make them unconscious?    Well, just smelling it won't make you lose consciousness, but it was used as an anesthetic until safer methods were invented.     And so here's how this all works- this poem is about how it feels to be a modern man- or modern person- to use more politically correct terminology.  Think of J Alfred as gender- generic- it applies beyond gender-This guy is alone.  so I look at it like he's talking to himself.  He walks out in the sky- it should be a romantic scene- he wants it to be we will see later- we're going to see that he's going to a party with a lot of women (at least maybe he is), but in this stanza, the sky doesn't invigorate him, it doesn't give him peace or a sense of fresh air- he feels nothing- it's a sensation of numbness- like being a patient who has been given strong numbing medication.  And as we keep reading, he takes us- or as I interpret it- the other side of himself- the YOU- he's talking to- into the streets and look what he sees.  These are not romantic images.  These are sleezy images.  One-night cheap hotels, sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells.  There is nothing here that connotes human connections, intimacy, fellowship. Nothing here that makes you feel happy.    Eliot creates a simile but he also personifies the streets- the streets are compared to a tedious argument- tiresome, boring, pointless- he says the intent of the streets is insidious- the definition of insidious means gradual, subtle, but with harmful effects.      The streets are not our friends.      No, they don't seem to be.  They pretend to be, but they are insidious- deceitful with harmful effects. And all of this brings us to this next like where he asks what he calls “an overwhelming question”- but he won't tell us what the question is.  Is it because he doesn't know the question?  Is it because there is not question?  There is a feeling of pointlessness in this entire stanza- and remember, for modern poetry,  the feeling is the thing.      Well, I cannot say that I don't understand this emotion that he's expressing.  I think every young person does at one point in their life or another.  We all think whatever the streets represent is glamorous at some point- but then we get knocked back by reality…hopefully sooner rather than later.    Well, that's true, and especially for modern people.  People who live in urban environments.  People who live in communities without big family or historical connections- and there is nothing in this poem to suggest that that is Prufrock's case- look at what I'm doing- I'm putting my own meaning in this poem.  I did grow up in a city of 3 million people.  My window as a child faced to the streets with people walking and laughing looking like the night life was where happiness lived.  I grew up in a city with no historical connections and so forth- so I'm meeting  Eliot in this poem and creating the images in my mind not of seedy Boston, but Belo Horizonte (although my neighborhood wasn't seedy).  It was modern.  Does that make sense at all?    Sure it does.      .  Now that I gave one spin on this first stanza- and I promise I won't do this the entire way through- we'd never finish this episode- but I want to express a framework for how to enjoy a poem like this.  Here's a second way reading this same stanza, and this may be the majority view.  Lots of people think  he's talking to a woman- the woman he wants to ask out.  It is a love song, that's in the title, so, it stands to reason if you look at it that way, that he's talking to a woman- the woman he's going to meet.  The overwhelming question in this case would be a proclamation of a love interest of some sorts.  Read the next several stanzas.     In the room the women come and go  Talking of Michelangelo.    The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,  The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,  Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,  Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,  Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,  Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,  And seeing that it was a soft October night,  Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.    And indeed there will be time  For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,  Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;  There will be time, there will be time  To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;  There will be time to murder and create,  And time for all the works and days of hands  That lift and drop a question on your plate;  Time for you and time for me,  And time yet for a hundred indecisions,  And for a hundred visions and revisions,  Before the taking of a toast and tea.    In the room the women come and go  Talking of Michelangelo.    This business of Michelangelo is funny.  Why do they have to be talking of Michelangelo?      I know- Eliot does a lot with figurative language in this poem- meaning he isn't always being literal about everything.  This will sound technical, but not boring, I hope.   As we all know- even today, authors use similes and metaphors to help us understsnd their ideas- that take something we don't understand, compare it to something we do understand and bam- they make sense- oh my love is a red red rose- you don't know what your love is like, but you do know what a rose is and a red red rose must be a very very deep and beautiful one so there- the metaphor makes me love you    Or at least Robert Burns.  Didn't he say that?    True, although I think that line has gotten some use over the year.  Elliot's uses metaphors and similes but really for as much imagining as we have here- not all that much.  There really are only three similes in this entire poem of over 100 lines which is strange.  He uses what we call metonymy and synecdoche-     Synec-do-what?  Isn't there a sad movie with Phillip Seymor Hoffman called that.    Yes- and ironically not too different from Prufrock- it's Big word- But it means when some part of something is used to represent something bigger than just the one thing.  So, here's what's going on- he says the women are talking of Michelangelo- what we are to understand is that the women may or may not literally be talking about Michelangelo.  Michelangelo is a thing that is standing in to represent the kinds of things women like this talk about.  These women are cultured= or at least they pretend to be- they talk about sophisticated things like classical art- likely dull things- I'm not saying that Michelangelo is necessarily dull- but for some people, maybe like a guy like Prufrock it could be- it's tedious pretentiousness- talking about things you're supposed to be interested in- things you can snub others about- but not really enjoyable- “The Galleria d' accademia is such a small museum for such an impressive piece of art like Michelangelo's David.” Don't you agree?  But I will say the sunlight there highlight  the craftmanship so characteristic of the high renaissance.  To which someone replies- “oh most definitely”..and there's a wonderful tea shop just across the street with a marvelous pastry chef name Leonardo, who makes the best biscotti.     Hahahaha- it sounds like you've been talking of Michelangelo, yourself.  Is that true about Leonardo.    Ha!  Well, it is- but it's just a bakery I found on Google.  I'm just pretending to have eaten the biscotti- I read that in a Google Review.  But the idea is the  snobbery.  Metonymy is when you use a thing to represent a bunch of things that are associated with a thing- and that's what Michelangelo is standing in for here.  Synecdoche and metonymy are so close to the same things- don't bother trying to separate them- it's something representing a larger group.    So, is the yellow fog metonymy too?    The yellow fog is the most confusing part of the whole poem.  Again, you're supposed to interpret it for yourself- but here's one idea.  We have this guy, he's getting his courage to go into a party of sophisticated women and he expects to be snubbed.  This is kind of how he sees himself- like a cat- but a fog cat it's- licking its tongue, suddenly leaping- rubbing its muzzle- a tom cat could be suave and debonair, but this one is kind of foggy- and definitely unattractive.    This is really stream of consciousness- psychological- this guy thinking of himself like a tom cat, like a fog, slying going into a party-  on a soft October night, curling up in a corner and falling asleep-  this is the most positive point in the entire poem.    Exactly- and it really is- even though it feels disconnected and scattered- but is actually highly structured and organized.  Prufrock is definitely not a sly tom cat getting ready to pounce in real life.  And when he thinks about it for half a second more he knows it.   He starting talking about time- which is really an allusion to the Bible passage in Ecclesiastes as well as Andrew Marvelll's poem To His Coy Mistress.  Marvel's poem is one of the most famous seize the day poems ever written in English.   In Marvell's poem, a suave sexy man seduces a woman by telling her they need to seize the day because she might die.  In Marvel's poem, he basically says, if we had all the time in the world, I wouldn't mind playing this coy game of you pretending to be prudish, but we don't have all the time in the world and you aren't, you're going to die, worms are going to take your virginity- you'll be ugly so if you want to maximize what you have we need to consummate this thing right now.    Ha! Well, if you know that poem, this part is extremely ironic.  Prufrock isn't bold or brave like Marvel.  Instead of overpowering the women, He makes excuses for himself- he says the exact opposite- there's plenty of time, life is long, I can put off making my move.      And the line that people have really enjoyed is that last phrase, “Time for you and time for me and time yet for a hundred indecisions, and for a hundred visions and revisions, before the taking of a toast and tea.     There is a sense that he's putting things off, but there is another sense where he sees his life as an indistinguishable endless charade of toast and tea and pointlessness.  No end in sight to the mad dreariness of his existence.  Prufrock as we're going to see as we keep reading is going no where.  He's going no where in life- and I think you could think that he's physically going no where-     like he may not even really be at the party-- even though at the beginning of the poem he definitely says, let us go,    I think so.  It's ambiguous.  Maybe he's no where- this encounter is in his mind, and that's why he's in hell.  Hell is a place you never get out of.      And indeed there will be time  To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”  Time to turn back and descend the stair,  With a bald spot in the middle of my hair —  (They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”)  My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,  My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin —  (They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”)  Do I dare  Disturb the universe?  In a minute there is time  For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.    For I have known them all already, known them all:  Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,  I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;  I know the voices dying with a dying fall  Beneath the music from a farther room.                 So how should I presume?    And I have known the eyes already, known them all—  The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,  And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,  When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,  Then how should I begin  To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?                 And how should I presume?    And I have known the arms already, known them all—  Arms that are braceleted and white and bare  (But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)  Is it perfume from a dress  That makes me so digress?  Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.                 And should I then presume?                 And how should I begin?    Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets  And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes  Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?    There are no less than 15 questions in this poem.  The most important ones seem to be centered here with “can I ask a woman out for a date?  Which some how gets connected to “What is the meaning of life?”  Prufrock is a poem about being lonely, isolated, unable to make human connections.  Unable to get out of my head, my physical location- the hell I've created for myself.    Well, in a sense, it's possible these are two versions of the same questions.  Human intimacy and interaction is what makes us love our life.  What is a life without intimacy, connectivity, courage.  These are the things that a modern man like  J. Alfred Prufrock does not have.  Prufrock clearly wishes he could get beyond himself- to ask out a woman is an expression of that.  It changes reality- one way or another.  But it takes boldness to do that.  You have to, as we used to say, “man up”- and Prufrock has none of that.  The sexual loneliness is a manifestation of a metaphysical problem really.      Which takes us to another synechoche- these claws  Here the claws represent the crab.  Prufrock thinks he should have been a crab.     I should have been a pair of ragged claws  Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.    And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!  Smoothed by long fingers,  Asleep ... tired ... or it malingers,  Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.  Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,  Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?  But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,  Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,  I am no prophet — and here's no great matter;  I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,  And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,  And in short, I was afraid.    And would it have been worth it, after all,  After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,  Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,  Would it have been worth while,  To have bitten off the matter with a smile,  To have squeezed the universe into a ball  To roll it towards some overwhelming question,  To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,  Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—  If one, settling a pillow by her head                 Should say: “That is not what I meant at all;                 That is not it, at all.”    And would it have been worth it, after all,  Would it have been worth while,  After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,  After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—  And this, and so much more?—  It is impossible to say just what I mean!  But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:  Would it have been worth while  If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,  And turning toward the window, should say:                 “That is not it at all,                 That is not what I meant, at all.”    And here we see way more of Eliot criticizing modern man.  We are too anxious, likely overeducated in impractical things.  Our anxiety of failure brought on by our culture, our education, urban expectations paralyze us into doing nothing.  We have no courage.  There's a reference here to John the Baptist which I think is really interesting.  John the Baptist had his head cut off and served to King Herod.  Here, Eliot references that, but in Prufrock's case, what would bother him about being decapitated in this scenario would be that his dead head that would be served up to King Herod would reveal he's balding.  He just can't, to use his phrase,   “ bite off the matter with a smile,  and squeeze the universe into a ball”.  He can't be like Lazarus in the Bible and come back from the dead. And when we see what horrifies him- he's horrified that he'll approach a woman, she'll listen to him then reply that “that is not what I meant at all.  That is not it, at all.”    Oh my, how could a guy like J. Alfred misinterpret my politiness for interest?  “That is not what I meant t all”. It's embarrassement, shame, rejection- all of the bad things in life.  Prufrock's life has so little meaning in any other area thst. Concern about his looks, a rejection from a woman he doesn't appear he even cares about, is enough to wipe him out.  Let's finish.     No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;  Am an attendant lord, one that will do  To swell a progress, start a scene or two,  Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,  Deferential, glad to be of use,  Politic, cautious, and meticulous;  Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;  At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—  Almost, at times, the Fool.    I grow old ... I grow old ...  I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.    Shall I part my hair behind?   Do I dare to eat a peach?  I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.  I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.    I do not think that they will sing to me.    I have seen them riding seaward on the waves  Combing the white hair of the waves blown back  When the wind blows the water white and black.  We have lingered in the chambers of the sea  By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown  Till human voices wake us, and we drown.    Prince Hamlet, of course, is the most famous slow-mover in the world.  Prince Hamlet's most famous line is, “To be or not to be, that is the question.”  Prince Hamlet was told by his father, as a ghost, that he was supposed to revenge his father's death.  Hamlet waffled, went back and forth, debated, worried about if life was even worth- should I kill myself. But the thing about Hamlet, in the final scene of the play he does act. He does actually have a purpose to exist.  He does revenge his father.  He does DO something.      Prufrock is not Prince Hamlet.  He's not even a prince at all.      And, He will NEVER act, and he knows it.  He is going be a failure, a loser, and not because he tried and failed, but because he doesn't have any energy, any courage, any desire to even try for anything.  He is just going to do nothing?  He will spend his energy worrying if he should eat a peach.  Not even  fictitious sirens in his imagination will try to seduce him- that's an allusion to the Odyssey- but you'd think, if you were a person who can live in a made up world- in your made up world the sirens would want you- isn't that what video game world is about in part.?  For for Prufrock, Not even in his dreams is he seductive.  He just linger by the sea in his imagination until he wakes up and the final lines of the poem, “we drown.”    That IS dark.  So nihilistic.      Well, it's modernism for- not the most positive take on the modern world- those guys knew how to see the dark side of life.  But you know what, unlike Fitzgerald who chose to sink in a sea of poor choices, Eliot did not.  The man who wrote Prufrock as a young man, wrote The Waste Land slightly older, and then wrote the “Four Quartets” later in life.  These last meditations are about time, divinity, and humility among other things and are considered his finest works.  All the things that confuse Prufrock and defeat Prufrock really don't defeat the real T.S. Eliot.  And I guess that's where I find the redemption.  Eliot's work takes us through the modern world but he navigates himself to a place of peace. I like that about him. We've all been Prufrock at one time or another.  The virtual world of today is way worse than anything Eliot experienced, and  Especially now because of the pandemic, many of us have felt a lot of the stream of conscious judgement poor Prufrock feels- but we don't have to drown or be him- we can be Lazarus- and come out of it.  And that's the thought I want to take away from this.    Well, there you have it, the positive spin on nihilism.  We hope you have been able to understand just a little bit of this very confusing poem.  Maybe it's inspired you, maybe it hasn't.  Thanks for being with us this week.  Next week, we are going to change directions and get into a little fantasy literaeture with J.R.R. Tolkein and The Hobbit.  That will be a welcome change of pace.      HA!1. It will be good though.  He's a great writer, and although also a devoted Catholic, and from Oxford, England has a very different take on things.  I look forward to it.       

¿Qué es el mentado simbolismo? ¿A mí qué me importa? ¿Brilla la vida como una cara de la moneda, y del otro lado se oscurece? Leeremos a Yeats en su ensayo El simbolismo de la poesía y lo acompañaremos con algunos ejemplos de la historia. ¡Ea! Poem-list tentativo: 1. El simbolismo de la poesía, Yeats. 2. Open The Door To Me, Oh, Burns. 3. To His Coy Mistress, Marvell. 4. La canción del vagabundo Aengus, Yeats. 5. Fuente romana, Rilke. 6. Europa, una profesía, Blake. 7. Cuatro cuartetos, Eliott. 8. 80 veces nadie, Gonzalo Rojas 9. Selección de Li Po 10. Nocturno del hueco, Lorca. 11. Seleccion de Ali Chumacero.

Andrew Marvell was an English Restoration poet who lived and wrote during his nation's civil wars, and in its transition from monarchy to the beginnings of republicanism. He was a well-traveled, well-spoken, hard-partying bachelor. In his masterwork “To His Coy Mistress” he paints a vivid picture of a familiar and amorous scenario most men will be familiar with. But he presents his own unique spin on it, in a moving and timeless encouragement to seize the day. To read "To His Coy Mistress" click here To learn more about Andrew Marvell, click here To watch "Baby It's Cold Outside" click here To hear "Paradise By The Dashboard Light" click here To read AD Hope's "His Coy Mistress To Mr. Marvell" click here To order "The Best Poems of the English Language" click here Visit https://renofmen.com and follow us on twitter @will_renofmen and Instagram @renofmen.

Amanda Holmes reads Andrew Marvell’s poem, “To His Coy Mistress.” Have a suggestion for a poem by a (dead) writer? Email us: podcast@theamericanscholar.org. If we select your entry, you’ll win a copy of a poetry collection edited by David Lehman.This episode was produced by Stephanie Bastek and features the song “Canvasback” by Chad Crouch. See acast.com/privacy for privacy and opt-out information.

To His Coy Mistress by Andrew Marvell

The panel considers the scholarly consensus that Marvell is poetically and politically ambiguous by reading "To His Coy Mistress", "Clorinda and Damon", "A Dialogue between the Soul and the Body", and "An Horatian Ode upon Cromwell's Return from Ireland".

The panel considers the scholarly consensus that Marvell is poetically and politically ambiguous by reading "To His Coy Mistress", "Clorinda and Damon", "A Dialogue between the Soul and the Body", and "An Horatian Ode upon Cromwell's Return from Ireland".

The dead man in the bath could be Mr. Levy, in fact, with him missing, it should be Mr. Levy – but it ain’t Mr. Levy. Dorothy Sayers, today on The Classic Tales Podcast. Welcome to The Classic Tales Podcast. Thank you for listening. Thank you to all of our financial supporters. We couldn’t do this without you. I know many of you have had to cancel your subscriptions, and I appreciate those who come back when they can. It really helps us out, so we can keep going forward. And in case you’re wondering, this is our family business. All of the money brought in goes to us. I have no sponsors, or partners who get a cut. Just so you know where your money is going. And if you just want to shoot us a few bucks to say thanks, that’s awesome. There is  now a Donate button on the website at www.classictalesaudiobooks.com, where you can do just that. Apparently, in the last month or so, Audible has begun to host podcasts through their service, and they’ve included this one. I have an older phone, so I can’t really see how it works, but I’m thrilled to be included. Feel free to review us on Audible, if you get a chance.   Looking for a unique Christmas gift? We’ve added more designs to our merchandise site. Check out our merch store for unique gift ideas for yourself or a literature lover in you life. Right now, they are having a sale - everything is 35% off. App users can hear “To His Coy Mistress”, by Andrew Marvell in the special features portion for this week’s episode. And now, Whose Body, Part 2 of 7 by Dorothy Sayers. Tap here to go to www.classictalesaudiobooks.com and become a financial supporter!   Tap here to go to our merchandise store!  

This week, Bob and Chris dive into the Western poetry canon. Is it worth reading? We try to answer that question as vaguely as possible! Bob reads "To His Coy Mistress" by Andrew Marvell, Chris reads a section of "Rime of The Ancient Mariner" by Samuel Taylor Coleridge, and then the dudes discuss which pre-NBA/ABA merger players they wish they could see more of

In this episode, we look at Andrew Marvell's poem To His Coy Mistress and ask: is Andrew Marvell actually a marble salesman from Hull? Read the poem here: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44688/to-his-coy-mistress Support this podcast

Had we but world enough and time, we could talk about more poems than just these two: John Donne’s “A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning” and Andrew Marvell’s “To His Coy Mistress.” Liz Riegel joins the discussion on meter, metaphor, and metaphysics. Host John McCoy.

Today's poem is Andrew Marvell's "To His Coy Mistress. In the midst of these sexual allegations and confessions we should as men and women take a step back and remember that words must serve as the basis of seduction. Not Power, Cars, Cash, Clothes and Casa. Men should use words to persuade a woman to sleep with them. The best purveyor of words are the poets. How, then, do great poets go about trying to get laid. Listen in.

Today's poem is Andrew Marvell's "To His Coy Mistress. In the midst of these sexual allegations and confessions we should as men and women take a step back and remember that words must serve as the basis of seduction. Not Power, Cars, Cash, Clothes and Casa. Men should use words to persuade a woman to sleep with them. The best purveyor of words are the poets. How, then, do great poets go about trying to get laid. Listen in.

BBC coverage of Hull City of Culture will be extensive across 2017. At its very start, the award-winning poet Sean O'Brien reflects upon why his native city, its waterscape and landscape, have inspired poets past and present. The programme features a specially commissioned new poem from Sean - a three-part memory-piece, which is also a love-song for Hull, its surroundings and their metaphorical resonance: ........The great void Where the land loses track of itself, And the water comes sidling past at the roadside Awaiting the signal to flood, is a kind of belief Where there is no belief, is the great consolation Of knowing that nothing will follow but weather and tides, Yet also that when the world ends There must be a Humber pilot keeping watch As the great ships are passing silently away Through the estuary's mouth and the saw-toothed marriage Of river and sea, and out past the fort at Bull Island And over the edge, and away............. Sean also celebrates the work of poets who have made the city their home: Andrew Marvell, a line from whose 17th Century poem, To His Coy Mistress, gives this programme its title; Philip Larkin, Stevie Smith and others. He brings in an eclectic range of music, including his personal favourite, Dirty Water, by local band The Fabulous Ducks. He hears from the Hull-based geographer Chris Skinner, and poet Sarah Stutt. Starting with memories of digging holes in the garden of the house where he grew up, via flood-cellars, culverts and drains, the smaller river Hull and the great estuarine river Humber itself, this highly-textured programme culminates with Sean at the top of the disused lighthouse at Spurn Point, gazing out into the North Sea. Producer Beaty Rubens.

Andrew Marvell read by Classic Poetry Aloud: http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com Giving voice to the poetry of the past. --------------------------------------- To His Coy Mistress by Andrew Marvell Had we but world enough, and time, This coyness, Lady, were no crime We would sit down and think which way To walk and pass our long love's day. Thou by the Indian Ganges' side Shouldst rubies find: I by the tide Of Humber would complain. I would Love you ten years before the Flood, And you should, if you please, refuse Till the conversion of the Jews. My vegetable love should grow Vaster than empires, and more slow; An hundred years should go to praise Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze; Two hundred to adore each breast, But thirty thousand to the rest; An age at least to every part, And the last age should show your heart. For, Lady, you deserve this state, Nor would I love at lower rate. But at my back I always hear Time's wingèd chariot hurrying near; And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity. Thy beauty shall no more be found, Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound My echoing song: then worms shall try That long preserved virginity, And your quaint honour turn to dust, And into ashes all my lust: The grave 's a fine and private place, But none, I think, do there embrace. Now therefore, while the youthful hue Sits on thy skin like morning dew, And while thy willing soul transpires At every pore with instant fires, Now let us sport us while we may, And now, like amorous birds of prey, Rather at once our time devour Than languish in his slow-chapt power. Let us roll all our strength and all Our sweetness up into one ball, And tear our pleasures with rough strife Thorough the iron gates of life: Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run. Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud, 2008.

To celebrate Valentine's Day, The Drum's Stories on the Street project presents Andrew Marvell's 17th-century poem "To His Coy Mistress," read aloud by the denizens of two East Village singles bars on the weekend before the notorious holiday. The first reader fights off tears in his eyes; the second is the bartender, who brings drama and emotion to the text; all the readers offer a contemporary take on Marvell's poem about love, lust, and desperation. This audio of "To His Coy Mistress" was recorded and produced by Stories on the Street intern Sara Fetherolf. follow the recording with the text of "To His Coy Mistress" on Poets.org

Actor, writer and director Nicholas Pegg talks to Textbook Stuff's Barnaby Edwards about Andrew Marvell, metaphysical dewdrops, quaint wordplay and stressed remoras. Andrew Marvell - Selected Poems is now available to buy from Lulu and other retailers. The selection includes ‘To His Coy Mistress’, ‘The Garden’ and ‘An Horatian Ode upon Cromwell’s Return from Ireland’, plus a complete and unabridged reading of Marvell’s longest poem, ‘Upon Appleton House’. See our web site for further details. Please let us know your thoughts in our podcast forum. Thanks for listening!

TextbookStuff.com presents Andrew Marvell - Selected Poems. Read by Nicholas Pegg. Andrew Marvell (1621-78) was best known during his lifetime as a classical scholar and political satirist. Although a friend and colleague of John Milton and an unofficial laureate to Oliver Cromwell, he was virtually unknown as a lyric poet until after his death. Reappraised by later generations and now famed for the elegant style, enigmatic wit and emotive power of works like ‘The Garden’, ‘The Definition of Love’ and ‘To His Coy Mistress’, Marvell has taken his place among the greatest of the metaphysical poets. ON SALE NOW.

Marvell read by Classic Poetry Aloud: http://classicpoetryaloud.podomatic.com/ Giving voice to classic poetry. --------------------------------------------------- To His Coy Mistress by Andrew Marvell Has we but world enough, and time, This coyness, Lady, were no crime We would sit down and think which way To walk and pass our long love's day. Thou by the Indian Ganges' side Shouldst rubies find: I by the tide Of Humber would complain. I would Love you ten years before the Flood, And you should, if you please, refuse Till the conversion of the Jews. My vegetable love should grow Vaster than empires, and more slow; An hundred years should go to praise Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze; Two hundred to adore each breast, But thirty thousand to the rest; An age at least to every part, And the last age should show your heart. For, Lady, you deserve this state, Nor would I love at lower rate. But at my back I always hear Time's wingèd chariot hurrying near; And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity. Thy beauty shall no more be found, Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound My echoing song: then worms shall try That long preserved virginity, And your quaint honour turn to dust, And into ashes all my lust: The grave 's a fine and private place, But none, I think, do there embrace. Now therefore, while the youthful hue Sits on thy skin like morning dew, And while thy willing soul transpires At every pore with instant fires, Now let us sport us while we may, And now, like amorous birds of prey, Rather at once our time devour Than languish in his slow-chapt power. Let us roll all our strength and all Our sweetness up into one ball, And tear our pleasures with rough strife Thorough the iron gates of life: Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run. First aired July 2007

(first aired July 2007) Marvell read by Classic Poetry Aloud: http://classicpoetryaloud.podomatic.com/ Giving voice to classic poetry. --------------------------------------------------- To His Coy Mistress by Andrew Marvell Has we but world enough, and time, This coyness, Lady, were no crime We would sit down and think which way To walk and pass our long love's day. Thou by the Indian Ganges' side Shouldst rubies find: I by the tide Of Humber would complain. I would Love you ten years before the Flood, And you should, if you please, refuse Till the conversion of the Jews. My vegetable love should grow Vaster than empires, and more slow; An hundred years should go to praise Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze; Two hundred to adore each breast, But thirty thousand to the rest; An age at least to every part, And the last age should show your heart. For, Lady, you deserve this state, Nor would I love at lower rate. But at my back I always hear Time's wingèd chariot hurrying near; And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity. Thy beauty shall no more be found, Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound My echoing song: then worms shall try That long preserved virginity, And your quaint honour turn to dust, And into ashes all my lust: The grave 's a fine and private place, But none, I think, do there embrace. Now therefore, while the youthful hue Sits on thy skin like morning dew, And while thy willing soul transpires At every pore with instant fires, Now let us sport us while we may, And now, like amorous birds of prey, Rather at once our time devour Than languish in his slow-chapt power. Let us roll all our strength and all Our sweetness up into one ball, And tear our pleasures with rough strife Thorough the iron gates of life: Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run.

Classic FM presenter John Brunning reads To His Coy Mistress by Andrew Marvell. Celebrate February, the month of love by downloading a new poem everyday from www.classicfm.com

Marvell read by Classic Poetry Aloud: http://classicpoetryaloud.podomatic.com/ Giving voice to classic poetry. --------------------------------------------------- To His Coy Mistress by Andrew Marvell Had we but world enough, and time, This coyness, Lady, were no crime We would sit down and think which way To walk and pass our long love's day. Thou by the Indian Ganges' side Shouldst rubies find: I by the tide Of Humber would complain. I would Love you ten years before the Flood, And you should, if you please, refuse Till the conversion of the Jews. My vegetable love should grow Vaster than empires, and more slow; An hundred years should go to praise Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze; Two hundred to adore each breast, But thirty thousand to the rest; An age at least to every part, And the last age should show your heart. For, Lady, you deserve this state, Nor would I love at lower rate. But at my back I always hear Time's wingèd chariot hurrying near; And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity. Thy beauty shall no more be found, Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound My echoing song: then worms shall try That long preserved virginity, And your quaint honour turn to dust, And into ashes all my lust: The grave 's a fine and private place, But none, I think, do there embrace. Now therefore, while the youthful hue Sits on thy skin like morning dew, And while thy willing soul transpires At every pore with instant fires, Now let us sport us while we may, And now, like amorous birds of prey, Rather at once our time devour Than languish in his slow-chapt power. Let us roll all our strength and all Our sweetness up into one ball, And tear our pleasures with rough strife Thorough the iron gates of life: Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run.