12 poems read by Tom Hiddleston || Ximalaya FM Compilation (2019) [without music]
This is a re-upload of Tom reading poetry for Ximalaya FM from 2019 without the background music.
01: "The Mower" by Philip Larkin
02: "I Am!" by John Clare
03: "Strawberries" by Edwin Morgan
04: "Wild Geese" by Mary Oliver
05: "And the days are not full enough" by Ezra Pound
06: "Invictus" by William Ernest Henley
07: "Clenched Soul" by Pablo Neruda
08: "Words, Wide Night" by Carol Ann Duffy
09: "The Road Not Taken" by Robert Frost
10: "Diving into the Wreck" by Adrienne Rich
11: "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by T.S. Eliot
12: "Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night" by Dylan Thomas
It‘s been a while since I last have written a blog post. In the meantime there‘s been a lot of development regarding Tom Hiddleston, which I of course still have followed! For example he did this interview for Entertainment Weekly and he also did some promotion for Betrayal in New York: There was a interview video, several photo‘s and the cast also was present at the Broadway Opening Night performance of Sea Wall / A Life at the Hudson Theatre. Oh and I almost forgot about the poems he read for Ximalaya FM!
Last week we were given a highly emotional promotion video of Betrayal (and I thought he posted 5 things in a row because I got the notification on all my IG & twitter accounts!) and there‘s an interview with Josh Horowitz coming! (Josh posted a small part already) I haven‘t been sitting still this summer myself either. What is the best thing to do when your country breaks a personal record of 40 degrees? Nothing, lay down in the pool, right.. But imagine you want to do at least something. What you do then? For me the answer is simple: writing! I've gotten so many inspiration for my fan story Scar‘s Reign, (and I did some editing and gave it a nice new cover..) that I neglected my Loki stories a bit. Well, inspiration for Loki will come back later, eventually.
A part of this post (blue part) will be a bit different. I can go on and on about how Tom inspires me and how I like seeing new content of him, but why not just address it to the man himself? 😏 <--- That‘s on the blog, see link.
I love this picture of Tom taken at the event Dead Poets Live!
According to iiMedia Research, the growth rate of online audio users in China will reach 19.5% which greatly outrun 13.3% of online video and 6.1% of online reading. Based on the data, Chinese audio industry will definitely have a optimistic scenario in 2019. And there are three major platforms, which are Ximalaya FM with 78,939 thousand active users, Lizhi with 39,138 thousnad active users and Qingting FM with 31,583 active users.
2017-2018 Chinese online audio, online video and online reading user scales and forecast ( From top to bottom: online audio, online video and online reading)
By having research of these platform, I believe there are several trends for audio industry. The first one is more and more content will require payment since both policies and consciousness of copyright for quality content are improving. Secondly, there will be increasing live broadcast for scenes, like jogging and driving, which we are too busy to use our eyes. Thirdly, the growth of listening to books instead of reading them.
Ximalaya FM, which last raised $580 million in August 2018 with a $3.6 billion valuation, is an audio platform with over 530 million total users and 80 million monthly active users. Ximalaya’s product is audio content in every form — from podcasts and audiobooks to courses, live audio streaming, singing, and even film dubbing. The monetization models are just as diverse: there’s advertising, subscriptions, a la carte purchases, and donations / tipping. Interestingly, not all paid content is included in their subscription membership (similar to Amazon Prime Video’s mix of free and paid content), but members get an additional 5% discount on any exclusive content.
"Wild Geese" by Mary Oliver ‖ Tom Hiddleston (12/04) [without music]
This is a re-upload of Tom reading poetry for Ximalaya FM from 2019 without the background music.
"Wild Geese" by Mary Oliver
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting -
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.
"The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by T.S. Eliot ‖ Tom Hiddleston (12/11) [without music]
This is a re-upload of Tom reading poetry for Ximalaya FM from 2019 without the background music.
You can also listen to the same poem from Sir Anthony Hopkins, Xander Berkeley, Jeremy Irons and Sir Alec Guinness.
S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma percioche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.
• ────────────────────────────────── •
"If I but thought that my response were made
to one perhaps returning to the world,
this tongue of flame would cease to flicker.
But since, up from these depths, no one has yet
returned alive, if what I hear is true,
I answer without fear of being shamed."
"The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by T. S. Eliot
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.
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.
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? …
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.”
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.
"Strawberries" by Edwin Morgan ‖ Tom Hiddleston (12/03) [without music]
This is a re-upload of Tom reading poetry for Ximalaya FM from 2019 without the background music.
"Strawberries" by Edwin Morgan
There were never strawberries
like the ones we had
that sultry afternoon
sitting on the step
of the open french window
facing each other
your knees held in mine
the blue plates in our laps
the strawberries glistening
in the hot sunlight
we dipped them in sugar
looking at each other
not hurrying the feast
for one to come
the empty plates
laid on the stone together
with the two forks crossed
and I bent towards you
sweet in that air
in my arms
abandoned like a child
from your eager mouth
the taste of strawberries
in my memory
lean back again
let me love you
let the sun beat
on our forgetfulness
one hour of all
the heat intense
and summer lightning
on the Kilpatrick hills
let the storm wash the plates.
"Words, Wide Night" by Carol Ann Duffy ‖ Tom Hiddleston (12/08) [without music]
This is a re-upload of Tom reading poetry for Ximalaya FM from 2019 without the background music.
"Words, Wide Night" by Carol Ann Duffy
Somewhere on the other side of this wide night
and the distance between us, I am thinking of you.
The room is turning slowly away from the moon.
This is pleasurable. Or shall I cross that out and say
it is sad? In one of the tenses I singing
an impossible song of desire that you cannot hear.
La lala la. See? I close my eyes and imagine the dark hills I would have to cross
to reach you. For I am in love with you
and this is what it is like or what it is like in words.
"I Am!" by John Clare ‖ Tom Hiddleston (12/02) [without music]
This is a re-upload of Tom reading poetry for Ximalaya FM from 2019 without the background music.
"I Am!" by John Clare
I am—yet what I am none cares or knows;
My friends forsake me like a memory lost:
I am the self-consumer of my woes—
They rise and vanish in oblivious host,
Like shadows in love’s frenzied stifled throes
And yet I am, and live—like vapours tossed
Into the nothingness of scorn and noise,
Into the living sea of waking dreams,
Where there is neither sense of life or joys,
But the vast shipwreck of my life’s esteems;
Even the dearest that I loved the best
Are strange—nay, rather, stranger than the rest.
I long for scenes where man hath never trod
A place where woman never smiled or wept
There to abide with my Creator, God,
And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept,
Untroubling and untroubled where I lie
The grass below—above the vaulted sky.
"The Mower" by Philip Larkin ‖ Tom Hiddleston (12/01) [without music]
This is a re-upload of Tom reading poetry for Ximalaya FM from 2019 without the background music.
"The Mower" by Philip Larkin
The mower stalled, twice; kneeling, I found
A hedgehog jammed up against the blades,
Killed. It had been in the long grass.
I had seen it before, and even fed it, once.
Now I had mauled its unobtrusive world
Unmendably. Burial was no help:
Next morning I got up and it did not.
The first day after a death, the new absence
Is always the same; we should be careful
Of each other, we should be kind
While there is still time.
"And the days are not full enough" by Ezra Pound ‖ Tom Hiddleston (12/05) [without music]
This is a re-upload of Tom reading poetry for Ximalaya FM from 2019 without the background music.
"And the days are not full enough" by Ezra Pound
And the days are not full enough
And the nights are not full enough
And life slips by like a field mouse
Not shaking the grass.
"Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night" by Dylan Thomas ‖ Tom Hiddleston (12/12) [without music]
This is a re-upload of Tom reading poetry for Ximalaya FM from 2019 without the background music.
You can also listen to the same poem from Sir Anthony Hopkins, Sir Jonathan Pryce, Alfred Molina, Michael Sheen and Susan Sarandon
"Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night" by Dylan Thomas
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on that sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
"Diving into the Wreck" by Adrienne Rich ‖ Tom Hiddleston (12/10) [without music]
This is a re-upload of Tom reading poetry for Ximalaya FM from 2019 without the background music.
"Diving into the Wreck" by Adrienne Rich
First having read the book of myths,
and loaded the camera,
and checked the edge of the knife-blade,
I put on
the body-armor of black rubber
the absurd flippers
the grave and awkward mask.
I am having to do this
not like Cousteau with his
assiduous team
aboard the sun-flooded schooner
but here alone.
There is a ladder.
The ladder is always there
hanging innocently
close to the side of the schooner.
We know what it is for,
we who have used it.
Otherwise
it is a piece of maritime floss
some sundry equipment.
I go down.
Rung after rung and still
the oxygen immerses me
the blue light
the clear atoms
of our human air.
I go down.
My flippers cripple me,
I crawl like an insect down the ladder
and there is no one
to tell me when the ocean
will begin.
First the air is blue and then
it is bluer and then green and then
black I am blacking out and yet
my mask is powerful
it pumps my blood with power
the sea is another story
the sea is not a question of power
I have to learn alone
to turn my body without force
in the deep element.
And now: it is easy to forget
what I came for
among so many who have always
lived here
swaying their crenellated fans
between the reefs
and besides
you breathe differently down here.
I came to explore the wreck.
The words are purposes.
The words are maps.
I came to see the damage that was done
and the treasures that prevail.
I stroke the beam of my lamp
slowly along the flank
of something more permanent
than fish or weed
the thing I came for:
the wreck and not the story of the wreck
the thing itself and not the myth
the drowned face always staring
toward the sun
the evidence of damage
worn by salt and sway into this threadbare beauty
the ribs of the disaster
curving their assertion
among the tentative haunters.
This is the place.
And I am here, the mermaid whose dark hair
streams black, the merman in his armored body.
We circle silently
about the wreck
we dive into the hold.
I am she: I am he
whose drowned face sleeps with open eyes
whose breasts still bear the stress
whose silver, copper, vermeil cargo lies
obscurely inside barrels
half-wedged and left to rot
we are the half-destroyed instruments
that once held to a course
the water-eaten log
the fouled compass
We are, I am, you are
by cowardice or courage
the one who find our way
back to this scene
carrying a knife, a camera
a book of myths
in which
our names do not appear.
"Clenched Soul" by Pablo Neruda ‖ Tom Hiddleston (12/07) [without music]
This is a re-upload of Tom reading poetry for Ximalaya FM from 2019 without the background music.
"Clenched Soul" by Pablo Neruda
We have lost even this twilight.
No one saw us this evening hand in hand
while the blue night dropped on the world.
I have seen from my window
the fiesta of sunset in the distant mountain tops.
Sometimes a piece of sun
burned like a coin in my hand.
I remembered you with my soul clenched
in that sadness of mine that you know.
Where were you then?
Who else was there?
Saying what?
Why will the whole of love come on me suddenly
when I am sad and feel you are far away?
The book fell that always closed at twilight
and my blue sweater rolled like a hurt dog at my feet.
Always, always you recede through the evenings
toward the twilight erasing statues.
"Invictus" by William Ernest Henley ‖ Tom Hiddleston (12/06) [without music]
This is a re-upload of Tom reading poetry for Ximalaya FM from 2019 without the background music.
"Invictus" by William Ernest Henley
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate,
I am the captain of my soul.