Poetry and prose to read aloud

[Orang Utan]

My mother's eyesight and concentration has deteriorated in recent months and she can no longer read. She is living in a nursing home and lacks stimulation much of the time, so I try and read to her most days, when she is alert enough.
I've been reading lots of poetry - WH Auden, Louis McNiece, John Clare, TS Eliot, Thomas Hardy, Edward Thomas, Ted Hughes etc. I've also been reading a bit of comic poetry to cheer her up - Spike Milligan, Hilaire Belloc, Edward Lear, Ogden Nash etc
I've also been reading her prose - she has recently become a Christian, so I've read her CS Lewis' Surprised By Joy and am currently reading her Mere Christianity.
I've also just finished reading her Seamus Heaney's translation of Beowulf (which is fantastic).
I would like some further suggestions for poetry similar to the above, as well as longer form narrative poetry such as Beowulf.
I would also be interested in reading engaging prose - short stories mainly, though I am open to suggestions of novels and non-fiction, providing they're not too complex (stories with lots of characters or complicated plots would just confuse her as her concentration is not good).
Any recommendations would be gratefully received. Thanks in advance.

 

[ShiftyBagLady]

Sir Gwain and the Green Knight by Simon Armitage is amazing. Perhaps some of the Greek myths?
As for prose, how is her concentration? I'd say Silas Marner by George Eliot is a good one but she is quite loquacious so if your mums concentration is not great that might be a bit much.

Edit: sorry I've just seen that you say her concentrations not great. The plot in Silas Marner is simple, the characters few and stable but Eliots writing is quite dense. Not too much, maybe have a look and make a judgement

 

[Sirena]

You could try short stories.

Saki's (H.H. Munro) collected works are good fun and, occasionally, beautifully dark tales.

 

[Pickman's model]

M r James ghost stories

 

[Orang Utan]

I forgot to say - she is disturbed by things like other worlds, ghosts, synchronicity, deja vu, time travel and parallel universes, so nothing involving things like that. Nothing too dark or grim either. Ta.

 

[SheilaNaGig]

Could you ask her what she remembers enjoying from her childhood and young adulthood? Maybe she'd like to revisit something she enjoyed before?

 

[Santino]

Jeeves and Wooster?

 

[Celt]

Roger McGough ? Generally towards whimsical, I'm sure you are aware of the various different collections of poems in Book, Audio book, radio programme in Poetry please

https://www.amazon.co.uk/s/ref=nb_sb_noss_1?url=search-alias=aps&field-keywords=poetry+please&rh=i:aps,koetry+please

and maybe https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rubaiyat_of_Omar_Khayyam ?

 

[Orang Utan]

Could you ask her what she remembers enjoying from her childhood and young adulthood? Maybe she'd like to revisit something she enjoyed before?

I've been doing that with the poetry. When she gets scared or anxious, she likes to hear stuff she knows off my heart, so Old Possum's Book Of Practical Cats, Lewis Carroll (especially Jabberwocky) and the aforementioned comic poetry have been proving very therapeutic for her.

 

[Miss-Shelf]

What about some children's novels if that would not be seen as infantilising her? Eh morpurgo? Or plenty of other authors who write more complex storues but at a greater pace with less detail. I read Shackleton s stowaway recently and I was gripped . the story didn't veer too far from the narrative but it was evocative
Things like that could be good

 

[Miss-Shelf]

PS what a lovely way of being with her

 

[Orang Utan]

Jeeves and Wooster?

Mmmm maybe, but only if she really wants to, as I'd find the words turn to ash in my mouth as I speak them.

 

[Orang Utan]

Roger McGough ? Generally towards whimsical, I'm sure you are aware of the various different collections of poems in Book, Audio book, radio programme in Poetry please

https://www.amazon.co.uk/s/ref=nb_sb_noss_1?url=search-alias=aps&field-keywords=poetry+please&rh=i:aps,koetry+please

and maybe https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rubaiyat_of_Omar_Khayyam ?

I almost read an extract from the Rubaiyat today - good suggestion.
Roger McGough is much read by us too.

 

[Orang Utan]

Could you ask her what she remembers enjoying from her childhood and young adulthood? Maybe she'd like to revisit something she enjoyed before?

What about some children's novels if that would not be seen as infantilising her? Eh morpurgo? Or plenty of other authors who write more complex storues but at a greater pace with less detail. I read Shackleton s stowaway recently and I was gripped . the story didn't veer too far from the narrative but it was evocative
Things like that could be good

Good ideas about children's fiction, though I think she'd appreciate ones from her or her children's childhood rather than any more modern ones.
You've reminded me of Swallows & Amazons - stuff like that might entertain her.

 

[Pickman's model]

Good ideas about children's fiction, though I think she'd appreciate ones from her or her children's childhood rather than any more modern ones.
You've reminded me of Swallows & Amazons - stuff like that might entertain her.

what about e.g. wind in the willows?

 

[Orang Utan]

what about e.g. wind in the willows?

I want to read that out loud but I don't think mum would unfortunately.
I've been having success with poetry anthologies.
This one is good:


I also got her a Poem Of The Day anthology which has a year's worth of poems for each day of the year, with added famous poets' birthdays, notable events and historical context provided.
I'm also reading Mere Christianity, which is great, though I don't agree with CS Lewis at all. But it's provided us with a good springboard for us to discuss our views without rancour.
It's been a difficult time in our family recently, but this time with Mum, reading to her, has been one of the most special and valuable experiences of my life. Enriching and rewarding in so many ways.

 

[Poot]

I have no suggestions but I wanted to say that if I ever end up in your mother's situation, I sincerely hope that there will be someone like you nearby.

 

[Pickman's model]

I want to read that out loud but I don't think mum would unfortunately.
I've been having success with poetry anthologies.
This one is good:
View attachment 95196

I also got her a Poem Of The Day anthology which has a year's worth of poems for each day of the year, with added famous poets' birthdays, notable events and historical context provided.
I'm also reading Mere Christianity, which is great, though I don't agree with CS Lewis at all. But it's provided us with a good springboard for us to discuss our views without rancour.
It's been a difficult time in our family recently, but this time with Mum, reading to her, has been one of the most special and valuable experiences of my life. Enriching and rewarding in so many ways.

have you thought of some of the romantics, e.g. the junkie poets like coleridge?

Kubla Khan
BY SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE


Or, a vision in a dream. A Fragment.


In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.
So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round;
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced:
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher’s flail:
And mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean;
And ’mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war!
The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!
A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw:
It was an Abyssinian maid
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight ’twould win me,
That with music loud and long,
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.

 

[Orang Utan]

Good call - I read Colerigdes's Frost At Midnight to her just this weekend

 

[Pickman's model]

although my own taste's more the 1890s decadents like dowson

Last night, ah, yesternight, betwixt her lips and mine
There fell thy shadow, Cynara! thy breath was shed
Upon my soul between the kisses and the wine;
And I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, I was desolate and bowed my head:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

All night upon mine heart I felt her warm heart beat,
Night-long within mine arms in love and sleep she lay;
Surely the kisses of her bought red mouth were sweet;
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
When I awoke and found the dawn was gray:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

I have forgot much, Cynara! gone with the wind,
Flung roses, roses riotously with the throng,
Dancing, to put thy pale, lost lilies out of mind;
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, all the time, because the dance was long:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

I cried for madder music and for stronger wine,
But when the feast is finished and the lamps expire,
Then falls thy shadow, Cynara! the night is thine;
And I am desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, hungry for the lips of my desire:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

 

[Pickman's model]

Good call - I read Colerigdes's Frost At Midnight to her just this weekend

you'd have to do the rime of the ancient mariner in several sittings. or christabel

 

[Miss-Shelf]

OU you are a thoughtful and caring Human being

 

[Orang Utan]

you'd have to do the rime of the ancient mariner in several sittings. or christabel

i've never read The Rime Of The Ancient Mariner, so I shall have to.
I read this of him recently: 'Coleridge was a shambolic man who was too often distracted by drugs and worldly matters to write the poetry his talent warrented'. Clearly a man after my own heart.

 

[Pickman's model]

i've never read The Rime Of The Ancient Mariner, so I shall have to.
I read this of him recently: 'Coleridge was a shambolic man who was too often distracted by drugs and worldly matters to write the poetry his talent warrented'. Clearly a man after my own heart.

you might like shelley too. apart from ozymandias, which is my favourite poem of his, there's


also the mask of anarchy The Mask of Anarchy

 

[Pickman's model]

speaking of masks, the mask of dimitrios might make a good (albeit long) read, it's an excellent thriller by eric ambler.

 

[Orang Utan]

you might like shelley too. apart from ozymandias, which is my favourite poem of his, there's
View attachment 95197

also the mask of anarchy The Mask of Anarchy

ha! I read The Mask Of Anarchy just this morning!
'And these words shall then become
Like Oppression's thundered doom
Ringing through each heart and brain,
Heard again - again - again -

'Rise like Lions after slumber
In unvanquishable number -
Shake your chains to earth like dew
Which in sleep had fallen on you -
Ye are many - they are few.'

 

[Orang Utan]

John Milton died on this day on 1674, so this sonnet was in the aforementioned Poem Of The Day:


318. On His Blindness

WHEN I consider how my light is spent
E're half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one Talent which is death to hide,
Lodg'd with me useless, though my Soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present 5
My true account, least he returning chide,
Doth God exact day-labour, light deny'd,
I fondly ask; But patience to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts, who best 10
Bear his milde yoak, they serve him best, his State
Is Kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed
And post o're Land and Ocean without rest:
They also serve who only stand and waite.

She recited most of it off by heart and found it spoke to her own condition. I am so thankful for anthologies like this, but ultimately, poetry. It can stop us falling through the cracks.

 

[friedaweed]

Total respect mate. That's such a lovely thing to do for someone, especially your Ma

 

[Pickman's model]

John Milton died on this day on 1674, so this sonnet was in the aforementioned Poem Of The Day:


318. On His Blindness

WHEN I consider how my light is spent
E're half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one Talent which is death to hide,
Lodg'd with me useless, though my Soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present 5
My true account, least he returning chide,
Doth God exact day-labour, light deny'd,
I fondly ask; But patience to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts, who best 10
Bear his milde yoak, they serve him best, his State
Is Kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed
And post o're Land and Ocean without rest:
They also serve who only stand and waite.

She recited most of it off by heart and found it spoke to her own condition. I am so thankful for anthologies like this, but ultimately, poetry. It can stop us falling through the cracks.

Andrew Marvell, On Mr. Milton's "Paradise Lost"

Andrew Marvell (1621–1678) was a close friend of Milton's and his associate (after Milton lost his vision) in the office of Latin Secretary in Cromwell's Protectorate (see Marvell's Horatian Ode on Cromwell, NAEL 8, 1.1712). Marvell's poem was the first important criticism of Paradise Lost, published along with a Latin tribute by Samuel Barrow in the second edition of the epic (1674). It is interesting to note how Marvell characterizes his early doubts about Milton's project and just what he later comes to value in Milton's achievement.



When I beheld the poet blind, yet bold,
In slender book his vast design unfold,
Messiah crowned, God's reconciled decree,
Rebelling Angels, the Forbidden Tree,
Heaven, Hell, Earth, Chaos, all; the argument
Held me a while, misdoubting his intent
That he would ruin (for I saw him strong)
The sacred truth to fable and old song,
(So Sampson groped the temple's posts in spite)
The world o'erwhelming to revenge his sight.

Yet as I read, soon growing less severe,
I liked his project, the success did fear;
Through that wide field how he his way should find
O'er which lame faith leads understanding blind;
Lest he perplexed the things he would explain,
And what was easy he should render vain.

Or if a work so infinite he spanned,
Jealous I was that some less skilful hand
(Such as disquiet always what is well,
And by ill imitating would excel)
Might hence presume the whole creation's day
To change in scenes, and show it in a play.
Pardon me, Mighty Poet, nor despise
My causeless, yet not impious, surmise.
But I am now convinced that none will dare
Within thy labors to pretend a share.
Thou hast not missed one thought that could be fit,
And all that was improper dost omit:
So that no room is here for writers left,
But to detect their ignorance or theft.
That majesty which through thy work doth reign
Draws the devout, deterring the profane.
And things divine thou treat'st of in such state
As them preserves, and thee, inviolate.
At once delight and horror on us seize,
Thou sing'st with so much gravity and ease;
And above human flight dost soar aloft,
With plume so strong, so equal, and so soft.
The bird named from that paradise you sing
So never flags, but always keeps on wing.

Where couldst thou words of such a compass find?
Whence furnish such a vast expanse of mind?
Just heaven thee, like Tiresias, to requite,
Rewards with prophecy the loss of sight.

Well mightst thou scorn thy readers to allure
With tinkling rhyme, of thine own sense secure;
While the Town-Bayes writes all the while and spells,
And like a pack-horse tires without his bells.
Their fancies like our bushy points appear,
The poets tag them; we for fashion wear.
I too, transported by the mode, offend,
And while I meant to praise thee must commend.
The verse created like thy theme sublime,
In number, weight, and measure, needs not rhyme.

 

[jakethesnake]

Dylan Thomas is good to read out loud - even if you can't do a welsh accent. A Child's Christmas In Wales, Under Milk Wood - I enjoyed my dad reading these to us when we were kids.