Yonnas Getahun recites I Can Allege No Cause, Sonnet 49, by William Shakespeare.  Enjoy! 

Against that time, if ever that time come,
When I shall see thee frown on my defects,
When as thy love hath cast his utmost sum,
Called to that audit by advis'd respects;
Against that time when thou shalt strangely pass,
And scarcely greet me with that sun, thine eye,
When love, converted from the thing it was,
Shall reasons find of settled gravity;
Against that time do I ensconce me here,
Within the knowledge of mine own desert,
And this my hand, against my self uprear,
To guard the lawful reasons on thy part: 
   To leave poor me thou hast the strength of laws,
   Since why to love I can allege no cause.

I Can Allege No Cause By William Shakespeare

"I came to Seattle on the Wednesday morning train from Portland. I came here for the purpose of killing Creffield. I saw them this morning on First Ave and shot the man. That is all there is to it. He ruined my two sisters and I took his life." For Beyond the Porch 31 Omar Willey takes us to First and Cherry in 1903.  

Please enjoy and share.  


Holy Roller Shot Down Like A Dog Beyond the Porch 31 by Omar Willey

Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,
So do our minutes hasten to their end;
Each changing place with that which goes before,
In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
Nativity, once in the main of light,
Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd,
Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight,
And Time, that gave, doth now his gift confound.
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth,
And delves the parallels in beauty's brow,
Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,
And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow.
   And yet to times in hope my verse shall stand,
   Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand. 

Campbell Thibo, Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore

Lola Peters recites Sonnet 61, Is it Thy Will, by William Shakespeare.  Enjoy!  

Is it thy will, thy image should keep open
My heavy eyelids to the weary night?
Dost thou desire my slumbers should be broken,
While shadows like to thee do mock my sight?
Is it thy spirit that thou send'st from thee
So far from home into my deeds to pry,
To find out shames and idle hours in me,
The scope and tenor of thy jealousy?
O, no! thy love, though much, is not so great:
It is my love that keeps mine eye awake:
Mine own true love that doth my rest defeat,
To play the watchman ever for thy sake:
   For thee watch I, whilst thou dost wake elsewhere,
   From me far off, with others all too near.

Lola Peters Recites Is It Thy Will by Shakespeare

Time's injurious Hand, Sonnet 63, by William Shakespeare recited by Yonnas Getahun.  Enjoy!  

Against my love shall be as I am now,
With Time's injurious hand crushed and o'erworn;
When hours have drained his blood and filled his brow
With lines and wrinkles; when his youthful morn
Hath travelled on to age's steepy night;
And all those beauties whereof now he's king
Are vanishing, or vanished out of sight,
Stealing away the treasure of his spring; 
For such a time do I now fortify
Against confounding age's cruel knife,
That he shall never cut from memory
My sweet love's beauty, though my lover's life:
   His beauty shall in these black lines be seen,
   And they shall live, and he in them still green.

Time's injurious Hand By William Shakespeare recited by Yonnas Getahun

Yonnas recites Sonnet 66, I Leave My Love Alone, by William Shakespeare.  Enjoy!  

Tired with all these, for restful death I cry,
As to behold desert a beggar born,
And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity,
And purest faith unhappily forsworn,
And gilded honour shamefully misplaced,
And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,
And right perfection wrongfully disgraced,
And strength by limping sway disabled
And art made tongue-tied by authority,
And folly, doctor-like, controlling skill,
And simple truth miscalled simplicity,
And captive good attending captain ill:
   Tired with all these, from these would I be gone,
   Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.


I Leave My Love Alone By William Shakespeare

Campbell Thibo recites, Sonnet 76, Why Is My Verse So Barren Of New Pride by William Shakespeare from the porch of Hugo House.  Enjoy!  

Why is my verse so barren of new pride,
So far from variation or quick change?
Why with the time do I not glance aside
To new-found methods, and to compounds strange?
Why write I still all one, ever the same,
And keep invention in a noted weed,
That every word doth almost tell my name,
Showing their birth, and where they did proceed?
O! know sweet love I always write of you,
And you and love are still my argument;
So all my best is dressing old words new,
Spending again what is already spent:
   For as the sun is daily new and old,
   So is my love still telling what is told.

Campbell Thibo recites Why Is My Verse So Barren Of New Pride by William Shakespeare

Omar Willey reconnects us to Great Depression days in Seattle, the men and women who built unwelcomed make shift houses and the visionary ones who would build Yesler Terrace.  

"Enter Jesse Epstein."

Please enjoy and share.  


Beyond the Porch 33 Jesse Epstein & Yessler Terrace by Omar Willey

Yonnas recite, Sonnet 83, Barren Tender of a Poets Debt by William Shakespeare.  Enjoy!  

I never saw that you did painting need,
And therefore to your fair no painting set;
I found, or thought I found, you did exceed
The barren tender of a poet's debt:
And therefore have I slept in your report,
That you yourself, being extant, well might show
How far a modern quill doth come too short,
Speaking of worth, what worth in you doth grow. 
This silence for my sin you did impute,
Which shall be most my glory being dumb;
For I impair not beauty being mute,
When others would give life, and bring a tomb.
   There lives more life in one of your fair eyes
   Than both your poets can in praise devise.

Yonnas recites Barren Tender of a Poets Debt by William Shakespeare

SONNET 95

How sweet and lovely dost thou make the shame
Which, like a canker in the fragrant rose,
Doth spot the beauty of thy budding name!
O, in what sweets dost thou thy sins enclose!
That tongue that tells the story of thy days,
Making lascivious comments on thy sport,
Cannot dispraise but in a kind of praise;
Naming thy name blesses an ill report.
O, what a mansion have those vices got
Which for their habitation chose out thee,
Where beauty's veil doth cover every blot,
And all things turn to fair that eyes can see!
   Take heed, dear heart, of this large privilege;
   The hardest knife ill-used doth lose his edge. 

Yonnas reads How Sweet and Lovely by William Shakespeare

(Sonnet 98)  
From you have I been absent in the spring,
When proud pied April, dressed in all his trim,
Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing,
That heavy Saturn laughed and leapt with him.
Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell
Of different flowers in odour and in hue,
Could make me any summer's story tell,
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew: 
Nor did I wonder at the lily's white,
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;
They were but sweet, but figures of delight,
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.
   Yet seemed it winter still, and you away,
   As with your shadow I with these did play.

Shakespeare Sonnet 98 I been absent in the spring

(Sonnet 101, read from the porch at Giddens School, 20th and Lane)

O truant Muse what shall be thy amends
For thy neglect of truth in beauty dyed?
Both truth and beauty on my love depends;
So dost thou too, and therein dignified.
Make answer Muse: wilt thou not haply say,
'Truth needs no colour, with his colour fixed;
Beauty no pencil, beauty's truth to lay;
But best is best, if never intermixed'?
Because he needs no praise, wilt thou be dumb?
Excuse not silence so, for't lies in thee
To make him much outlive a gilded tomb
And to be praised of ages yet to be.
   Then do thy office, Muse; I teach thee how
   To make him seem, long hence, as he shows now.

Campbell speaks 'O truant Muse'

(Sonnet 113 from Poetry Garden via Seattle Center)
Since I left you, mine eye is in my mind;
And that which governs me to go about
Doth part his function and is partly blind,
Seems seeing, but effectually is out;
For it no form delivers to the heart
Of bird, of flower, or shape which it doth latch:
Of his quick objects hath the mind no part, 
Nor his own vision holds what it doth catch;
For if it see the rud'st or gentlest sight,
The most sweet favour or deformed'st creature,
The mountain or the sea, the day or night,
The crow, or dove, it shapes them to your feature.
   Incapable of more, replete with you,
   My most true mind thus maketh mine eye untrue.

Yonnas recites Incapable of More by William Shakespeare

(Sonnet 126 from balcony of 5268 University Avenue/Seattle) 

O thou, my lovely boy, who in thy power
Dost hold Time's fickle glass, his sickle, hour;
Who hast by waning grown, and therein showest
Thy lovers withering, as thy sweet self growest.
If Nature, sovereign mistress over wrack,
As thou goest onwards still will pluck thee back,
She keeps thee to this purpose, that her skill
May time disgrace and wretched minutes kill.
Yet fear her, O thou minion of her pleasure!
She may detain, but not still keep, her treasure:
Her audit (though delayed) answered must be,
And her quietus is to render thee.
   (                                           )
   (                                            )

Yonnas recites O Thou, My Lovely Boy by William Shakespeare

(Sonnet 129 from the Porch of Hugo House)
The expense of spirit in a waste of shame
Is lust in action: and till action, lust
Is perjured, murderous, bloody, full of blame,
Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust;
Enjoyed no sooner but despised straight;
Past reason hunted; and no sooner had,
Past reason hated, as a swallowed bait,
On purpose laid to make the taker mad.
Mad in pursuit and in possession so;
Had, having, and in quest to have extreme;
A bliss in proof, and proved, a very woe;
Before, a joy proposed; behind a dream.
   All this the world well knows; yet none knows well
   To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.


Stuart Wiliams recites The Expense of Spirit

(Sonnet 137 from West Hollywood, CA)

Thou blind fool, Love, what dost thou to mine eyes,
That they behold, and see not what they see?
They know what beauty is, see where it lies,
Yet what the best is take the worst to be.
If eyes, corrupt by over-partial looks, 
Be anchored in the bay where all men ride,
Why of eyes' falsehood hast thou forged hooks,
Whereto the judgment of my heart is tied?
Why should my heart think that a several plot,
Which my heart knows the wide world's common place?
Or mine eyes, seeing this, say this is not,
To put fair truth upon so foul a face?
   In things right true my heart and eyes have erred,
   And to this false plague are they now transferred.

Erin Pike recites "What the best is take the worst to be" by William Shakespeare

(Sonnet 137 recited from Portugal)

Thou blind fool, Love, what dost thou to mine eyes,
That they behold, and see not what they see?
They know what beauty is, see where it lies,
Yet what the best is take the worst to be.
If eyes, corrupt by over-partial looks, 
Be anchored in the bay where all men ride,
Why of eyes' falsehood hast thou forged hooks,
Whereto the judgment of my heart is tied?
Why should my heart think that a several plot,
Which my heart knows the wide world's common place?
Or mine eyes, seeing this, say this is not,
To put fair truth upon so foul a face?
   In things right true my heart and eyes have erred,
   And to this false plague are they now transferred.

Gemma Fairlie recites "Thou Blind Fool" by William Shakespeare

(Sonnet 141 from Culver City, CA)
In faith I do not love thee with mine eyes, 
For they in thee a thousand errors note;
But 'tis my heart that loves what they despise,
Who, in despite of view, is pleased to dote.
Nor are mine ears with thy tongue's tune delighted;
Nor tender feeling, to base touches prone,
Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited
To any sensual feast with thee alone:
But my five wits nor my five senses can
Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee,
Who leaves unswayed the likeness of a man,
Thy proud heart's slave and vassal wretch to be:
   Only my plague thus far I count my gain,
   That she that makes me sin awards me pain.

Erin Pike recites "She that makes me sin awards me pain" by William Shakespeare

(Sonnet 147 from a porch overlooking a body of water) 

My love is as a fever longing still,
For that which longer nurseth the disease;
Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,
The uncertain sickly appetite to please.
My reason, the physician to my love, 
Angry that his prescriptions are not kept,
Hath left me, and I desperate now approve
Desire is death, which physic did except.
Past cure I am, now Reason is past care,
And frantic-mad with evermore unrest;
My thoughts and my discourse as madmen's are,
At random from the truth vainly expressed;
   For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright,
   Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.

Kaya Axelsson recites "My Love is a Fever" by William Shakespeare

(Sonnet 149 from "from a fire escape in clifton, NJ"_

Canst thou, O cruel! say I love thee not,
When I against myself with thee partake?
Do I not think on thee, when I forgot
Am of my self, all tyrant, for thy sake?
Who hateth thee that I do call my friend,
On whom frown'st thou that I do fawn upon,
Nay, if thou lour'st on me, do I not spend
Revenge upon myself with present moan?
What merit do I in my self respect,
That is so proud thy service to despise,
When all my best doth worship thy defect,
Commanded by the motion of thine eyes?
   But, love, hate on, for now I know thy mind,
   Those that can see thou lov'st, and I am blind.

Campbell Thibo recites "Canst thou, O cruel! say I love thee not" by William Shakespeare

(Sonnet 149 from the balcony inside of SIFF Cinema Egyptian)

Canst thou, O cruel! say I love thee not,
When I against myself with thee partake?
Do I not think on thee, when I forgot
Am of my self, all tyrant, for thy sake?
Who hateth thee that I do call my friend,
On whom frown'st thou that I do fawn upon,
Nay, if thou lour'st on me, do I not spend
Revenge upon myself with present moan?
What merit do I in my self respect,
That is so proud thy service to despise,
When all my best doth worship thy defect,
Commanded by the motion of thine eyes?
   But, love, hate on, for now I know thy mind,
   Those that can see thou lov'st, and I am blind.

Jessica Charlton recites "When I against myself with thee partake?" by William Shakespeare

(Sonnet 151 from a balcony in Stratford, Ontario)

Love is too young to know what conscience is; 
Yet who knows not, conscience is born of love? 
Then, gentle cheater, urge not my amiss, 
Lest guilty of my faults thy sweet self prove. 
For thou betraying me, I do betray 
My nobler part to my gross body's treason; 
My soul doth tell my body that he may 
Triumph in love; flesh stays no farther reason, 
But rising at thy name, doth point out thee 
As his triumphant prize. Proud of this pride, 
He is contented thy poor drudge to be, 
To stand in thy affairs, fall by thy side. 
No want of conscience hold it that I call 
Her 'love,' for whose dear love I rise and fall. 

Lanise Antoine Shelley recites "Love is too young" by William Shakespeare

(Sonnet 152 from the entrance of Olympic Sculpture Park)

In loving thee thou know'st I am forsworn,
But thou art twice forsworn, to me love swearing;
In act thy bed-vow broke, and new faith torn,
In vowing new hate after new love bearing:
But why of two oaths' breach do I accuse thee, 
When I break twenty? I am perjured most;
For all my vows are oaths but to misuse thee,
And all my honest faith in thee is lost:
For I have sworn deep oaths of thy deep kindness,
Oaths of thy love, thy truth, thy constancy;
And, to enlighten thee, gave eyes to blindness,
Or made them swear against the thing they see;
   For I have sworn thee fair; more perjured eye,
   To swear against the truth so foul a lie!

Lola E Peters reads "In loving thee" by William Shakespeare

(Sonnet 153 from Rainier Beach Library, Seattle, WA)

Cupid laid by his brand and fell asleep:
A maid of Dian's this advantage found,
And his love-kindling fire did quickly steep
In a cold valley-fountain of that ground;
Which borrowed from this holy fire of Love,
A dateless lively heat, still to endure,
And grew a seething bath, which yet men prove
Against strange maladies a sovereign cure.
But at my mistress' eye Love's brand new-fired, 
The boy for trial needs would touch my breast;
I, sick withal, the help of bath desired,
And thither hied, a sad distempered guest,
   But found no cure, the bath for my help lies
   Where Cupid got new fire; my mistress' eyes.

Dr. Georgia McDade recites "Against strange maladies a sovereign cure" by William Shakespeare

(Last sonnet No. 154 on the 400 year anniversary of Shakespeare's death from David H. Koch Theater (New York City Ballet), Lincoln Center, NY)

The little Love-god lying once asleep,
Laid by his side his heart-inflaming brand,
Whilst many nymphs that vowed chaste life to keep
Came tripping by; but in her maiden hand
The fairest votary took up that fire
Which many legions of true hearts had warmed;
And so the General of hot desire
Was, sleeping, by a virgin hand disarmed.
This brand she quenched in a cool well by,
Which from Love's fire took heat perpetual,
Growing a bath and healthful remedy,
For men diseased; but I, my mistress' thrall,
   Came there for cure and this by that I prove, 
   Love's fire heats water, water cools not love.


Campbell Thibo recites "The little Love-god lying once asleep" by William Shakespeare

(Sonnet 154 on the 400 year anniversary of Shakespeare from the original porch/balcony where a year ago Porchlit started in Seattle, WA)


The little Love-god lying once asleep,
Laid by his side his heart-inflaming brand,
Whilst many nymphs that vowed chaste life to keep
Came tripping by; but in her maiden hand
The fairest votary took up that fire
Which many legions of true hearts had warmed;
And so the General of hot desire
Was, sleeping, by a virgin hand disarmed.
This brand she quenched in a cool well by,
Which from Love's fire took heat perpetual,
Growing a bath and healthful remedy,
For men diseased; but I, my mistress' thrall,
   Came there for cure and this by that I prove, 
   Love's fire heats water, water cools not love.


Yonnas Getahun recites  "Came there for cure"by William Shakespeare

(Sonnet 154 from Town Hall, Seattle, WA after Seattle Poetry Grand Slam)
The little Love-god lying once asleep,
Laid by his side his heart-inflaming brand,
Whilst many nymphs that vowed chaste life to keep
Came tripping by; but in her maiden hand
The fairest votary took up that fire
Which many legions of true hearts had warmed;
And so the General of hot desire
Was, sleeping, by a virgin hand disarmed.
This brand she quenched in a cool well by,
Which from Love's fire took heat perpetual,
Growing a bath and healthful remedy,
For men diseased; but I, my mistress' thrall,
   Came there for cure and this by that I prove, 
   Love's fire heats water, water cools not love.


Jessica Charlton recites Sonnet 154 by William Shakespeare

Once a quarter a volunteer from Porchlit reads poems from the Poetry Garden located at Seattle Center.  This time Yonnas recites the poems etched and found on the stones of the garden from poets such as Margie Piercy, Pablo Neruda, Margaret Atwood, Hildegard of Bingen and Annie Sexton.  

Especial thanks to Seattle Center, Office of Arts & Culture and Elisheba Johnson for working with Porchlit.  






Poem from the Poetry Garden recited by Yonnas Getahun

Oh dead bird come live here
next to this dictionary. 
We will take walks 
by the edges of trauma.

by Maged Zaher
recited by Campbell Thibo for Porchlit from 12th Avenue S & King St in Seattle, WA.

An Untitled Poem By Maged Zaher recited by Campbell Thibo

Thank you Seattle Center and Office of Arts & Culture for partnering with Porchilt(http://porchlit.org/)!  This is the fourth installment, or quarterly reading, for 2016.   Special thank you to Laura Randall for inspiring this selection.  Enjoy!!! 

That time of year thou may'st in me behold 
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, 
Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. 
In me thou see'st the twilight of such day, 
As after sunset fadeth in the west, 
Which by-and-by black night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest. 
In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire 
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, 
As the death-bed whereon it must expire 
Consum'd with that which it was nourish'd by. 
   This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong,
   To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang by William Shakespeare

Lament for Syria by Amineh Abou Kerech

Syrian doves croon above my head
their call cries in my eyes.
I’m trying to design a country
that will go with my poetry
and not get in the way when I’m thinking,
where soldiers don’t walk over my face.
I’m trying to design a country
which will be worthy of me if I’m ever a poet
and make allowances if I burst into tears.
I’m trying to design a City
of Love, Peace, Concord and Virtue,
free of mess, war, wreckage and misery.
Advertisement

*

Oh Syria, my love
I hear your moaning
in the cries of the doves.
I hear your screaming cry.
I left your land and merciful soil
And your fragrance of jasmine
My wing is broken like your wing.

*

I am from Syria
From a land where people pick up a discarded piece of bread
So that it does not get trampled on
From a place where a mother teaches her son not to step on an ant at the end of the day.
From a place where a teenager hides his cigarette from his old brother out of respect.
From a place where old ladies would water jasmine trees at dawn.
From the neighbours’ coffee in the morning
From: after you, aunt; as you wish, uncle; with pleasure, sister…
From a place which endured, which waited, which is still waiting for relief.

*

Syria.
I will not write poetry for anyone else.

*

Can anyone teach me
how to make a homeland?
Heartfelt thanks if you can,
heartiest thanks,
from the house-sparrows,
the apple-trees of Syria,
and yours very sincerely.

Retrieved from https://www.theguardian.com/books/2017/oct/01/the-13-year-old-syrian-refugee-prizewinning-poet-amineh-abou-kerech-betjeman-prize

Lament For Syria By Amineh Abou Kerech

This poem, published by William Butler Yeats in 1899, has been set to music by Caroline Herring. I sang it looking out my window to the East.

I went out to the hazel wood,  
Because a fire was in my head,  
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,  
And hooked a berry to a thread;  
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,  
I dropped the berry in a stream  
And caught a little silver trout.  

When I had laid it on the floor  
I went to blow the fire a-flame,
But something rustled on the floor,  
And someone called me by my name:  
It had become a glimmering girl  
With apple blossom in her hair  
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.  

Though I am old with wandering  
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,  
I will find out where she has gone,  
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,  
And pluck till time and times are done,  
The silver apples of the moon,  
The golden apples of the sun.

The Song of Wandering Aengus, Yeats

Cambell Thibo sits on his stoop and reads a paragraph from "Journal of a Solitude," written by May Sarton in the early seventies.

I woke in tears this morning. I wonder whether it is possible at nearly sixty to change oneself radically. Can I learn to control resentment and hostility, the ambivalence, born somewhere far below the conscious level? If I cannot, I shall lose the person I love. There is nothing to be done but go ahead with life moment by moment and hour by hour--put out birdseed, tidy the rooms, try to create order and peace around me even if I cannot achieve it inside me.

from Journal Of A Solitude, May Sarton

In der Kindheit frühen Tagen
Hört ich oft von Engeln sagen,
Die des Himmels hehre Wonne
Tauschen mit der Erdensonne,

Daß, wo bang ein Herz in Sorgen
Schmachtet vor der Welt verborgen,
Daß, wo still es will verbluten,
Und vergehn in Tränenfluten,

Daß, wo brünstig sein Gebet
Einzig um Erlösung fleht,
Da der Engel niederschwebt,
Und es sanft gen Himmel hebt.

Ja, es stieg auch mir ein Engel nieder,
Und auf leuchtendem Gefieder
Führt er, ferne jedem Schmerz,
Meinen Geist nun himmelwärts!


The angel

English Translation © Richard Stokes

In the early days of childhood
I often heard tell of angels
Who exchange heaven's pure bliss
For the sun of earth,
So that, when a sorrowful heart
Hides its yearning from the world
And would silenly bleed away
And dissolve in streams of tears,
And when its fervent prayer
Begs only for deliverance,
That angel will fly down
And gently raise the heart to heaven.
And to me too an angel descended,
And now on shining wings
Bear my spirit, free from all pain,
Towards heaven!

Der Engel, aus dem Liederzyklus von Mathilde Wesendonck - von Cambell Thibo an einem Fenster gelesen

Aedh Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven

Porchlit was initially a site-specific, time duration Arts & History project taking place from April 23, 2015 to April 23, 2016 started by Yonnas Getahun, Campbell Thibo and Omar Willey.
Beyond the Porch is the Seattle History podcast series by Omar Willey.

Porchlit

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