The Phenomenal Woman Book Tag!Joshua Crebo2024-08-24 | @BookChatWithPat8668 @MarilynMayaMendoza
Other channels mentioned: @NicholasOfAutrecourt @saintdonoghue @HannahsBooks
Thank you for watching!
My email: joshuacrebo [at] gmail.com My Instagram: josh_creboReading Update! Thomas Mann and James BaldwinJoshua Crebo2024-10-18 | ...“…again I hear these waters, rolling from their mountain-springs with a soft inland murmur.”Joshua Crebo2024-08-30 | ...Resolution and IndependenceJoshua Crebo2024-08-17 | ...A Potential Reading ProjectJoshua Crebo2024-08-14 | ...The Reader’s Profile TagJoshua Crebo2024-08-04 | This tag was created by @HilaryBGreen and I was tagged by @BookChatWithPat8668. Thanks to both of you guys!
1. What for you makes a good book? 2. What are you currently reading? 3. What's the last book you didn't finish and why? 4. What obscure book do you wish other people would read? 5. What's the longest book you've ever read? 6. If you could have a dinner party with five fictional characters, who would they be? 7. Five books you'd want if stranded on a desert island. 8. One book you could not put down. 9. Five books or authors you will never read. 10. If you were to write a book, what would it be about? 11. Tag some people.
My email, should you care to chat: joshuacrebo [at] gmail.com My Instagram: josh_creboPoetry Thursday: Love among the RuinsJoshua Crebo2024-07-25 | ...Reading Update: Anne of Green Gables, and more!Joshua Crebo2024-07-24 | Instagram: josh_crebo Email: joshuacrebo [at] gmail.com
Channels mentioned: Justin @TriumphalReads
Books mentioned: Anne of Green Gables by L.M. Montgomery Anne of Avonlea by L.M. Montgomery Euthyphro by Plato Beowulf The Divine Comedy by Dante Alighieri The Collected Poems by Ursula K. Le Guin The Selected Essays by Samuel Johnson
I forgot to mention one book in particular, which I began reading in June, but which I DNF’d earlier this month: that is, Mary Queen of Scots by Antonia Fraser. I hope to pick it up back up in the future, but this July just wasn’t the right time for this book.
Thanks for watching!Wilfrid Scawen BluntJoshua Crebo2024-07-16 | ...Some Thoughts On DuneJoshua Crebo2024-06-29 | Email: joshuacrebo [at] gmail.com Instagram: josh_crebo
In this video, I talk about Frank Herbert’s Dune. I discuss the positives and negatives of my experience reading it, and also talk about the various elements (plot, dialogue, prose) within the novel. I hope you enjoy it, and feel free to leave a comment about anything at all!
Steve Donoghue’s Channel: @saintdonoghue
I also encourage you to check out my channel’s playlist of Steve’s Dune Videos.Poetry Thursday: James MerrillJoshua Crebo2024-06-27 | Instagram: josh_crebo Email: joshuacrebo [at] gmail.com
Hope you enjoy!!!Two New BooksJoshua Crebo2024-06-24 | ...Some Summer Books ☀️Joshua Crebo2024-06-21 | Please excuse any stuttering in the video. I talk about my recent and future summer reads here. I hope you enjoy it.
Email: joshuacrebo [at] gmail.com Instagram: josh_creboThree Poems by Seamus HeaneyJoshua Crebo2024-06-03 | Three poems by Seamus Heaney, a poet I find to be difficult but rewarding:
“Poem” “The Forge” “The Peninsula” 
These poems were read from his selected poems titled “Opened Ground”. I hope you enjoyed.
Instagram: josh_crebo Email: joshuacrebo [at] gmail.comRecent Reads + Pile of Possibilities 📚Joshua Crebo2024-06-01 | Books mentioned: The Common Reader by Virginia Woolf The Silmarillion by JRR Tolkien The Conquering Family by Thomas B. Costain Dune by Frank Herbert The Symposium by Plato Runaway Horses by Yukio Mishima Bernard Shaw by Michael Holroyd
Booktubers mentioned: Steve Donoghue @saintdonoghue Justin @TriumphalReads
Thank you for watching!Poetry Thursday: Sir Philip SidneyJoshua Crebo2024-05-31 | Instagram: josh_crebo Email: JoshuaCrebo [at] gmail.com
Hope you enjoyed! This was just a short reading of some poems by Sir Philip Sidney. I’m feeling slightly under the weather, so I apologize if the readings aren’t too great and if the commentary is limited.Irish Poetry Saturday: TornaJoshua Crebo2024-05-25 | This is new series where I recite poems from the book “1000 Years of Irish Poetry,” and then comment on them. I hope you enjoy it! Feel free to leave a comment.
Instagram: josh_crebo Email: joshuacrebo [at] gmail.comThe April Showers/Rainy Day Book Tag!Joshua Crebo2024-05-25 | I was tagged by Pat @BookChatWithPat8668 Thank you so much, Pat!
This tag was created by Sabrina @BeyondtheBookReviews
1. SHARE A BOOK WITH WATER ON THE COVER 2. WHAT’S A CLASSIC NOVEL YOU’D LIKE TO CURL UP ON THE COUCH WITH? 3. SHARE A SCARY BOOK YOU WOULD READ DURING A RAIN STORM 4. WHAT’S A GOOD BOOK REC FOR RAINY DAYS? 5. WHAT TWO CHARACTERS WOULD YOU LIKE TO SPEND A RAINY DAY WITH? 6. SHARE A BOOK THAT HAS BLUE ON THE COVER 7. WHAT BOOK HAS A RAINY SETTING AT SOME POINT? 8. WHAT BOOK WOULD YOU NOT MIND USING AS AN UMBRELLA? 9. WHICH CHARACTER WOULD YOU LIKE TO SHARE AN UMBRELLA WITH? 10. SHARE A NOVEL WITH A DRY BEGINNING BUT AMAZING ENDING
I tag any one who watches this video and wants to join in!
Instagram: josh_crebo
Hope you all enjoyed!!!Poetry Thursday: Sir Edward DyerJoshua Crebo2024-05-24 | Hope you enjoyed the video. Feel free to leave a comment about either of the poems!
I figured I would start this new series: Irish Poetry Saturday! I’ll be reading from the book “1000 Years of Irish Poetry”, edited by Kathleen Hoagland.
If you have any thoughts about the poems, feel free to leave a comment. 👍Poetry Thursday: Robert WeverJoshua Crebo2024-05-17 | Instagram: josh_crebo Email: joshuacrebo [at] gmail.com
A very short poetry reading of Robert Wever’s “In Youth is Pleasure”. I make a few comments on the poem at the end. Feel free to tell me what you thought of the poem!“Break, break, break” by Alfred Lord Tennyson #englishpoet #books #tennyson #poetryJoshua Crebo2024-05-16 | Instagram: josh_crebo Email: JoshuaCrebo [at] gmail.com
I had an eventful baseball game this evening, and didn’t play as well as I wanted to. But nothing lifts the spirits like poetry, especially this poem by James Merrill.A Pick-Me-Up Poetry RecitationJoshua Crebo2024-05-16 | Instagram: josh_crebo Email: JoshuaCrebo [at] gmail.com
I had an eventful baseball game this evening, and didn’t play as well as I wanted to. But nothing lifts the spirits like poetry, especially this poem by James Merrill.A Book Haul!Joshua Crebo2024-05-14 | Instagram: josh_crebo Email: joshuacrebo [at] gmail.com
Books from the likes of Trollope, Rabelais, Hardy, Antonia Fraser, and many more!The Don’t You Forget About Me Tag!Joshua Crebo2024-05-10 | Don’t You Forget About Me
I was tagged by Pat: @BookChatWithPat8668 This tag was created by Jolene: @BookwormAdventureGirl It was inspired by Brian: @BookishTexan
You decide how many books to share with each prompt.
1. Clean Slates: books you’ve read that you don’t remember anything about.
2. Genie’s Lamp: books you wish you could forget.
3. Forgotten Gems: book you think need more love.
4. Forget Me Nots: books you will always remember.
Tag some cool people who love books.
I tag: @saintdonoghue @aaronfacer @davidnovakreadspoetry @books_and_bocadillos
Books mentioned: Othello by William Shakespeare King Lear by William Shakespeare Hamlet by William Shakespeare Permanent Astonishment by Tomson Highway The Idylls of the King by Alfred Lord Tennyson Charles Dickens by G.K. Chesterton Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen Tales from Earthsea by Ursula K. Le GuinPoetry Thursday: Henry Howard, Earl of SurreyJoshua Crebo2024-05-10 | Email: joshuacrebo [at] gmail.com Instagram: josh_crebo
In this video, I read and comment on three poems by Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey. I hope you enjoy!Poetry Thursday: Sir Thomas WyattJoshua Crebo2024-05-02 | ...Reading Update: Woolf, Sand, and more!Joshua Crebo2024-05-01 | Just a rambling update on what I’ve been reading, what my reading plans are, and many other things!
My Instagram: josh_crebo My Email: joshuacrebo [at] gmail.comBook 1, The Prelude (1805) by William WordsworthJoshua Crebo2024-04-30 | Thumbnail: A Mountain Landscape with Rainbow, Caspar David Friedrich, 1809-10 (Museum Folkwang, Essen)
This video is a reading of William Wordsworth’s epic autobiographical poem “The Prelude, or Growth of a Poet’s Mind.” Here, I start with the first book in the poem, titled “Introduction, Childhood and Schooltime.” The edition I am reading from is the 1805 manuscript, as opposed to the 1850 one.The Chess Book Tag (Jane Eyre Spoilers at 4:20-5:20)Joshua Crebo2024-04-23 | I may have unintentionally revealed some details about the plot of Jane Eyre. So sorry! The spoilers start at 4:20 and go on until 5:20.
And thanks also to Aaron for creating this wonderful tag: https://m.youtube.com/@AaronReadABookA Short Reading Update: Le Guin and HawthorneJoshua Crebo2024-04-18 | Introduction music: Beethoven Sonata No. 30 played by Walter Gieseking on Warner.“When First I Journeyed Hither” by William WordsworthJoshua Crebo2024-04-16 | Introduction: Beethoven Sonata No. 30, Gieseking.
When first I journeyed hither, to a home And dwelling of my own, it was a cold And stormy season, and from week to week The pathways and the public roads were clogged With frequent showers of snow. Upon a hill At a short distance from my house there stands A stately fir-grove, whither I was wont To hasten, for within its shade I found Commodious harbour, a sequestered nook Or cloister with an unencumbered floor. Here in safe covert on the shallow snow, And sometimes on a speck of visible earth, The red-breast near me hopped, nor was I loth To sympathize with vulgar coppice birds That hither came. A single beech tree grew Within this grove of firs, and on the fork Of that one beech there was a thrush’s nest, A last year’s nest conspicuously built At such small elevation from the ground That even an unbreeched boy might look into it: Sure sign I thought that they who in that house Of nature and of love had made their home Among the fir-trees, all the summer long Dwelt in a quiet place: and oftentimes A few sheep, stragglers of a scattered flock, Were my companions and would look at me From the remotest outskirts of the grove, Some nook where they had made their final stand Huddling together from two fears, the fear Of me and of the storm. Full many an hour Here did I lose. But in this grove, the trees Had by the planter been so crowded each Upon on the other, and withal had thriven In such perplexed array that I in vain Between their stems endeavoured to find out A length of open space where I might walk Backwards and forwards long as I had liking In easy and mechanic thoughtlessness. And, for this cause, I loved the shady grove Less than I wished to love a place so sweet.
I have a Brother: many times the leaves Have faded, many times the spring has touched The heart of bird and beast since from the shores Of Windermere, from Esthwaite’s cheerful Lake And her grey cottages, from all the life And beauty of his native hills he went To be a Sea-boy on the barren seas.
When we had been divided fourteen years At length he came to sojourn a short while Beneath my roof, nor had the sun twice set Before he made discovery of this grove Whither from that time forward he repaired With daily visitation. Other haunts Meanwhile were mine but from the sultry heat One morning chancing to betake myself To this forsaken covert, there I found A hoary pathway traced around the trees And winding on with such an easy line Along a natural opening that I stood Much wondering at my own simplicity That I myself had ever failed in search Of what was now so obvious. With a sense Of lively joy did I behold this path Beneath the fir-trees, for at once I knew That by my Brother’s steps it had been traced. My thoughts were pleased within me to perceive That hither he had brought a finer eye, A heart more wakeful: that more loth to part From place so lovely he had worn the track, One of his own deep paths! by pacing here With that habitual restlessness of foot Wherewith the Sailor measures o’er and o’er His short domain upon the Vessel’s deck While she is travelling through the dreary seas.
When thou hadst gone away from Esthwaite’s shore And taken thy first leave of these green hills And rocks that were the play-ground of thy youth. Year followed year my Brother! And we two Conversing not knew little in what mold Each other’s minds were fashioned, and at length When once again we met in Grasmere Vale Between us there was little other bond Than common feelings of fraternal love. But thou a School-boy to the Sea hadst carried Undying recollections, Nature there Was with thee, she who loved us both, she still Was with thee, and even so thou didst become A silent Poet! from the solitude Of the vast Sea didst bring a watchful heart Still couchant, an inevitable ear And an eye practised like a blind man’s touch. Back to the joyless ocean thou art gone: And now I call the path-way by thy name And love the fir-grove with a perfect love. Thither do I repair when cloudless suns Shine hot or winds blow troublesome and strong; And there I sit at evening when the steep Of Silver-How, and Grasmere’s silent Lake And one green Island gleam between the stems Of the close firs, a visionary scene! And while I gaze upon this spectacle Of clouded splendour, on this dream-like sight Of solemn loveliness, I think on thee My Brother, and on all which thou hast lost. Nor seldom, if I rightly guess, when Thou, Muttering the verses which I muttered first Among the mountains, through the midnight watch Art pacing to and fro the Vessel’s deck In some far region, here, while o’er my head At every impulse of the moving breeze The fir-grove murmurs with a sea-like sound, Alone I tread this path, for aught I know Timing my steps to thine, and with a store Of indistinguishable sympathies Mingling most earnest wishes for the day When We, and others whom we love shall meet A second time in Grasmere’s happy Vale.A Tenancy by James MerrillJoshua Crebo2024-04-13 | Something in the light of this March afternoon Recalls that first and dazzling one Of 1946. I sat elated In my old clothes, in the first of several Furnished rooms, head cocked for the kind of sound That is recognized only when heard. A fresh snowfall muffled the road, unplowed To leave blanker and brighter The bright, blank page turned overnight.
A yellow pencil in midair Kept sketching unfamiliar numerals, The 9 and 6 forming a stereoscope Through which to seize the Real Old Fashioned Winter of my landlord’s phrase, Through the ponderous idèes reçues Of oak, velour, crochet, also the mantel’s Baby figures, value told me In some detail at the outset, might be plumbed For signs I should not know until I saw them.
But the objects, innocent (As we all once were) of annual depreciation, The more I looked, grew shallower, Pined under a luminous plaid robe Thrown over us by the twin mullions, sashes, And unequal oblong panes Of windows and storm windows. The latter, Furiously washed, then left to dry unpolished, Projected onto the opposite wall Translucent spatterings, like pebbles under water.
And indeed, from within, ripples Of heat had begun visibly bearing up and away The bouquets and wreaths of a quarter century. Let them go, what did I want with them? It was time to change that wallpaper! Brittle, sallow in the new radiance, Time to set the last wreath floating out Above the dead, to sweep up flowers. The dance Had ended, it was light; the men looked tired And awkward in their uniforms. I sat, head thrown back, and with the dried tears Of light on my own cheeks, proposed This bargain with—say with the source of light: That, given a few years more (Seven or ten or, what seemed vast, fifteen) To spend in love, in a country not at war, I would give in return All I had. All? A little sun Rose in my throat, the lease was drawn.
I did not even feel the time expire.
I feel it though, today, in this new room, Mine, with my things and thoughts, a view Of housetops, treetops, the walls bare. A changing light is deepening, is changing To a gilt ballroom chair a chair Bound to break under someone before long. I let the light change also me. The body that lived through that day And the sufficient love and relative peace Of those short years, is now not mine. Would it be called a soul? It knows, at any rate, That when the light dies and the bell rings It’s leaner veteran will rise to face Partners not recognized Until drunk young again and gowned in changing Flushes; and strains will rise, The bone-tipped baton beating, rapid, faint From the street below, from my depressions —
From the doorbell which rings. One foot asleep, I hop To let my three friends in. They stamp Themselves free of the spring’s Last snow — or so we hope.
One has brought violets in a pot; The second, wine; the best, His open, empty hand. Now in the room The sun is shining like a lamp. I put the flowers where I need them most
And then, not asking why they come, Invite the visitors to sit. If I am host at last It is of little more than my own past. May others be at home in it.Brother Where Dost Thou Dwell by Henry David ThoreauJoshua Crebo2024-04-11 | Brother where dost thou dwell? What sun shines for thee now? Dost thou indeed farewell? As we wished here below.
What season didst thou find? 'Twas winter here. Are not the fates more kind Than they appear?
Is thy brow clear again As in thy youthful years? And was that ugly pain The summit of thy fears?
Yet thou wast cheery still, They could not quench thy fire, Thou dids't abide their will, And then retire.
Where chiefly shall I look To feel thy presence near? Along the neighboring brook May I thy voice still hear?
Dost thou still haunt the brink Of yonder river's tide? And may I ever think That thou art at my side?
What bird wilt thou employ To bring me word of thee? For it would give them joy, 'Twould give them liberty, To serve their former lord With wing and minstrelsy.
A sadder strain has mixed with their song, They've slowlier built their nests, Since thou art gone Their lively labor rests.
Where is the finch—the thrush, I used to hear? Ah! they could well abide The dying year.
Now they no more return, I hear them not; They have remained to mourn, Or else forgot.Reading Update: Earthsea!!!Joshua Crebo2024-04-07 | A little reading update, where I talk about books 2, 3, and 4 of the Earthsea series.Lycidas by John MiltonJoshua Crebo2024-04-05 | ...5 Poets You Should Read And Know! A Response VideoJoshua Crebo2024-04-01 | This is a response video to Joe Spivey’s recent video recommending 5 poets you should read and know.
I believe I called Joe Spivey “Joe-vey” somewhere in this video. Whoops! Sorry, Joe!
Here is Joe Spivey’s amazing booktube channel. He is an intelligent and witty commentator on books:
https://m.youtube.com/@JoeSpivey02Reading Update: A Wizard of Earthsea + The Essays of MontaigneJoshua Crebo2024-03-30 | ...Morte d’Arthur by TennysonJoshua Crebo2024-03-29 | This is reading of Alfred Lord Tennyson’s Morte d’Arthur. The poem means a lot to me. I haven’t read it in a couple of months—not since Christmas time. Reading it again, the effect of the poem has remained powerful and moving. I believe there are certain lines of it that will stay with me for the rest of my life.Days of 1994 by James MerrillJoshua Crebo2024-03-22 | Note: apologies for the mispronunciation of “barcarole” and the insertion of “the” in the third line of the last stanza.
These days in my friend’s house Light seeks me underground. To wake Below the level of the lawn —Half-basement cool through the worst heat— Is strange and sweet. High up, three window-slots, new slants on dawn: Through misty greens and gilts An infant sun totters on stilts of shade Up toward the high Mass of interwoven boughs, While close against the triptych panes Rock bears witness, Dragonfly Shivers in place Above tall Queen Anne’s lace— More figures from The Book of Thel by Blake (Lilly and Worm, Cloudlet and Clod of Clay) And none but drink the dewy manna in.
I shiver next, Light walking on my grave… And sleep, and wake. This time, peer out From just beneath the mirror of the lake A gentle mile uphill. Florets—the mountain laurel—float Openmouthed, devout, Set swaying by the wake of the flatboat:
Barcarole whose chords of gloom Draw forth the youngest, purest, faithfullest, Cool-crystal-casketed Hands crossed on breast, Pre-Raphaelite face radiant—and look, Not dead, O never dead! To wake, to wake Among the flaming dowels of a tomb
Below the world, the thousand things Here risen to if not above Before day ends: The spectacles, the book, Forgetful lover and forgotten love, Cobweb hung with trophy wings, The fading trumpet of a car, The knowing glance from star to star, The laughter of old friends.Reading Update: James Merrill + potential future readsJoshua Crebo2024-03-20 | ...For Proust by James MerrillJoshua Crebo2024-03-15 | Over and over something would remain Unbalanced in the painful sum of things. Past midnight you arose, rang for your things. You had to go into the world again.
You stop for breath outside the lit hotel, A thin spoon bitter stimulants will stir. Jean takes your elbow, Jacque your coat. The stir Spreads—you are known to all the personnel—
As through packed public rooms you press (impending Palms, chandeliers, orchestras, more palms, The fracas and the fragrance) until your palms Are moist with fear that you will miss the friend
Conjured—but she is waiting: a child still At first glance, hung with fringes, on the low Ottoman. In voice reproachful and low She says she understands you have been ill.
And you, because your time is running out, Laugh in denial and begin to phrase Your questions. There had been a little phrase She hummed, you could not sleep tonight without
Hearing again. Then, of that day she had sworn To come, and did not, was evasive later, Would she not speak the truth two decades later, From loving-kindness learned if not inborn?
She treats you to a look you cherished, light, Bold: “Mon ami, how did we get along At all, those years?” But in her hair a long White lock has made its truce with appetite.
And presently she rises. Though in pain You let her leave—the loved one always leaves. What of the little phrase? It’s notes, like leaves In the strong tea you have contrived to drain,
Strangely intensify what you must do. Back where you came from, up the strait stair, past All understanding, bearing the whole past, Your eyes grown wide and dark, eyes of a Jew,
You make for one dim room without contour And station yourself there, beyond the pale Of cough or of gardenia, erect, pale. What happened is becoming literature.
Feverish in time, if you suspend the task, An old, old woman shuffling in to draw Curtains, will read a line or two, withdraw. The world have put on a thin gold mask.James Merrill and Elizabeth Bishop, an Excerpt from his BiographyJoshua Crebo2024-03-09 | ...Mirror by James MerrillJoshua Crebo2024-03-02 | ...The Country of a Thousand Years of Peace by James MerrillJoshua Crebo2024-02-12 | ...Easter 1916 by William Butler YeatsJoshua Crebo2024-01-18 | I have met them at close of day Coming with vivid faces From counter or desk among grey Eighteenth century houses. I have passed with a nod of the head Or polite meaningless words, Or have lingered awhile and said Polite meaningless words, And thought before I had done Of a mocking tale or a gibe To please a companion Around the fire at the club, Being certain that they and I But lived where motley is worn: All changed, changed utterly: A terrible beauty is born.
That woman’s days were spent In ignorant good-will, Her nights in argument Until her voice grew shrill. What voice more sweet than hers When, young and beautiful, She rode to harriers? This man had kept a school And rode our winged horse; This other his helper and friend Was coming into his force; He might have won fame in the end, So sensitive his nature seemed, So daring and sweet his thought. This other man I had dreamed A drunken, vainglorious lout. He had done most bitter wrong To some who are near my heart, Yet I number him in the song; He, too, has resigned his part In the casual comedy; He, too, has been changed in his turn, Transformed utterly: A terrible beauty is born.
Hearts with one purpose alone Through summer and winter seem Enchanted to a stone To trouble the living stream. The horse that comes from the road, The rider, the birds that range From cloud to tumbling cloud, Minute by minute they change; A shadow of cloud on the stream Changes minute by minute; A horse-hoof slides on the brim, And a horse plashes within it; The long-legged moor-hens dive, And hens to moor-cocks call; Minute by minute they live: The stone’s in the midst of all.
Too long a sacrifice Can make a stone of the heart. O when may it suffice? That is Heaven’s part, our part To murmur name upon name, As a mother names her child When sleep at last has come On limbs that had run wild. What is it but nightfall? No, no, not night but death; Was it needless death after all? For England may keep faith For all that is done and said. We know their dream; enough To know they dreamed and are dead; And what if excess of love Bewildered them till they died? I write it out in a verse— MacDonagh and MacBride And Connolly and Pearse Now and in time to be, Wherever green is worn, Are changed, changed utterly: A terrible beauty is born.Lost in Translation by James MerrillJoshua Crebo2024-01-09 | ...Book Haul! Three New BooksJoshua Crebo2024-01-09 | ...As One Put Drunk into the Packet-Boat by John AshberyJoshua Crebo2023-12-14 | ...