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Just fun today: Lewis Carroll’s Jabberwocky read by Benedict Cumberbatch

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800px-Jabberwocky-1Jabberwocky

‘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.

– Lewis Carroll

by Lewis Carroll (Charles Lutwidge Dodgson),photograph,2 June 1857
Lewis Carroll selfie photograph,2 June 1857

61KpHS-4AqL._SX373_BO1,204,203,200_Lewis Carroll (1832-1898), the pen name of Oxford mathematician, logician, photographer and author Charles Lutwidge Dodgson, is famous the world over for his fantastic classics Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, Through the Looking Glass, The Hunting of the Snark, Jabberwocky, and Sylvie and Bruno.

Ruth Jewell (A Quite Walk), a core team member of The Bardo Group Beguines found this delightful reading of Lewis Carroll’s nonsense poem read beautifully by actor Benedict Cumberbatch. The poem is from Through the Looking Glass and What Alice Found There (1871), which is the sequel to Alice in Wonderland (1865). The illustration is from the book and was done by Sir John Tenniel.

 

Poetry Into Music ~ grab your box of tissues first

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Iris_Dement_-_Ron_Baker_-_2007-1A poet by any other name is still a poet.

WALKIN’ HOME

I’m walkin’ home tonight
The streets are glowing ‘neath the pale moonlight
I look around, there’s not a soul in sight
and I’m walkin’ home
Once again I hear my mother’s voice
and all us kids making a bunch of noise
If I’m not careful I might start to cry
Just walkin’ home tonight

I turn my head and hear the screen door slam
and there he is, that tall and dark-haired man
He looks my way but all alone he stands
and I am walkin’ home
He’s my Dad, you know I was his girl
He taught me all he knew about this world
and then he traveled right on out of sight
and I’m just walkin’ home tonight

I’m walkin’ home tonight
The streets are glowing ‘neath the pale moonlight
I look around, there’s not a soul in sight
and I am walkin’ home

Old worn-out couches and a bunch of kids
Four to a bedroom and all Mom’s plates were chipped
but I never knew about the things I missed
and I’m walkin’ home
You see, it’s just the place where I come from
and, good or bad, it’s where the deal was done
Mom and Dad, their daughters and their sons
and I’m just walkin’ home tonight

I’m walkin’ home tonight
The streets are glowing ‘neath the pale moonlight
I look around, there’s not a soul in sight
and I’m walkin’ home
Once again I hear my mother’s voice
and all us kids making a bunch of noise
If I’m not careful I might start to cry
Just walkin’ home tonight

Iris Dement

© words and music, Iris Dement; photograph, Ron Baker under CC BY-SA 3.0 license

the wordless mystery

FullSizeRender-4abundance lifted on the arc of time
then the folding in ~
the circular successions of creation and negation
forever changing, dark and luminous
nature and destiny, coming and passing
ever active, whole, eternally nameless
the wild river, the still mountain
the wordless mystery

© 2016, poem and photograph, Jamie Dedes, All rights reserved

let us now praise the peace

IMG_0695

after Pablo Neruda

let us sit
without movement, without words

harmless
not trampling the ant
or butchering the steer

neither selling nor buying
no birthing, no dying

fisherfolk transfixed above the wave
carpenters silent by the bench

. . . . . poet

lay down your pen
let every hand be still ~
slow the racing heart,
the speed-demon mind

let us now praise the peace

” . . . we will count to twelve
and we will all keep still.”  Pablo Neruda, “Keeping Quiet

© 2015, poem and photograph, Jamie Dedes, All rights reserved