Chinese Poetry: Han and Six Dynasties Joshua Crebo 2026-09-20 | Chinese Poetry: Han and Six Dynasties
“…again I hear these waters, rolling from their mountain-springs with a soft inland murmur.” Joshua Crebo 2024-08-30 | ...
The Phenomenal Woman Book Tag! Joshua Crebo 2024-08-24 | @BookChatWithPat8668 @MarilynMayaMendoza Other channels mentioned: @NicholasOfAutrecourt @saintdonoghue @HannahsBooks Thank you for watching!My email: joshuacrebo [at] gmail.comMy Instagram: josh_crebo
The Reader’s Profile Tag Joshua Crebo 2024-08-04 | 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.comMy Instagram: josh_crebo
Reading Update: Anne of Green Gables, and more! Joshua Crebo 2024-07-24 | Instagram: josh_creboEmail: joshuacrebo [at] gmail.comChannels mentioned: Justin @TriumphalReads Books mentioned: Anne of Green Gables by L.M. MontgomeryAnne of Avonlea by L.M. MontgomeryEuthyphro by PlatoBeowulfThe Divine Comedy by Dante AlighieriThe Collected Poems by Ursula K. Le GuinThe Selected Essays by Samuel JohnsonI 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!
Some Thoughts On Dune Joshua Crebo 2024-06-29 | Email: joshuacrebo [at] gmail.comInstagram: josh_creboIn 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 Merrill Joshua Crebo 2024-06-27 | Instagram: josh_creboEmail: joshuacrebo [at] gmail.comHope you enjoy!!!
Some Summer Books ☀️ Joshua Crebo 2024-06-21 | Please excuse any stuttering in the video. I talk about my recent and future summer reads here. I hope you enjoy it.Instagram: josh_creboEmail: joshuacrebo [at] gmail
Poetry Thursday: Chidiock Tichborne Joshua Crebo 2024-06-06 | Hope you enjoyed!Email: joshuacrebo [at] gmail.comInstagram: josh_crebo
Three Poems by Seamus Heaney Joshua Crebo 2024-06-03 | 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_creboEmail: joshuacrebo [at] gmail.com
Recent Reads + Pile of Possibilities 📚 Joshua Crebo 2024-06-01 | Books mentioned:The Common Reader by Virginia WoolfThe Silmarillion by JRR TolkienThe Conquering Family by Thomas B. CostainDune by Frank HerbertThe Symposium by PlatoRunaway Horses by Yukio MishimaBernard Shaw by Michael HolroydBooktubers mentioned:Steve Donoghue @saintdonoghue Justin @TriumphalReads Email: joshuacrebo [at] gmail.comInstagram: josh_creboThank you for watching!
Poetry Thursday: Sir Philip Sidney Joshua Crebo 2024-05-31 | Instagram: josh_creboEmail: JoshuaCrebo [at] gmail.comHope 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: Torna Joshua Crebo 2024-05-25 | 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_creboEmail: joshuacrebo [at] gmail.com
The April Showers/Rainy Day Book Tag! Joshua Crebo 2024-05-25 | I was tagged by Pat @BookChatWithPat8668 Thank you so much, Pat!This tag was created by Sabrina @BeyondtheBookReviews1. 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_creboHope you all enjoyed!!!
Poetry Thursday: Sir Edward Dyer Joshua Crebo 2024-05-24 | Hope you enjoyed the video. Feel free to leave a comment about either of the poems!Instagram: josh_crebo
Irish Poetry Saturday: Amergin Joshua Crebo 2024-05-18 | Email: joshuacrebo [at] gmail.comInstagram: josh_creboI 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 Wever Joshua Crebo 2024-05-17 | Instagram: josh_creboEmail: joshuacrebo [at] gmail.comA 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 #poetry Joshua Crebo 2024-05-16 | Instagram: josh_creboEmail: JoshuaCrebo [at] gmail.comI 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 Recitation Joshua Crebo 2024-05-16 | Instagram: josh_creboEmail: JoshuaCrebo [at] gmail.comI 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 Crebo 2024-05-14 | Instagram: josh_creboEmail: joshuacrebo [at] gmail.comBooks from the likes of Trollope, Rabelais, Hardy, Antonia Fraser, and many more!
The Don’t You Forget About Me Tag! Joshua Crebo 2024-05-10 | Don’t You Forget About MeI 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 ShakespeareKing Lear by William ShakespeareHamlet by William ShakespearePermanent Astonishment by Tomson HighwayThe Idylls of the King by Alfred Lord TennysonCharles Dickens by G.K. ChestertonPride and Prejudice by Jane AustenTales from Earthsea by Ursula K. Le Guin
Poetry Thursday: Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey Joshua Crebo 2024-05-10 | Email: joshuacrebo [at] gmail.comInstagram: josh_creboIn this video, I read and comment on three poems by Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey. I hope you enjoy!
Reading Update: Woolf, Sand, and more! Joshua Crebo 2024-05-01 | Just a rambling update on what I’ve been reading, what my reading plans are, and many other things!My Instagram: josh_creboMy Email: joshuacrebo [at] gmail.com
Book 1, The Prelude (1805) by William Wordsworth Joshua Crebo 2024-04-30 | Thumbnail: A Mountain Landscape with Rainbow, Caspar David Friedrich, 1809-10 (Museum Folkwang, Essen)Email: joshuacrebo@gmail.comInstagram: josh_creboThis 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 Crebo 2024-04-23 | 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. I am grateful to Pat for tagging me:https://m.youtube.com/@BookChatWithPat8668And thanks also to Aaron for creating this wonderful tag:https://m.youtube.com/@AaronReadABook
A Short Reading Update: Le Guin and Hawthorne Joshua Crebo 2024-04-18 | Introduction music: Beethoven Sonata No. 30 played by Walter Gieseking on Warner.
“When First I Journeyed Hither” by William Wordsworth Joshua Crebo 2024-04-16 | Introduction: Beethoven Sonata No. 30, Gieseking.When first I journeyed hither, to a homeAnd dwelling of my own, it was a coldAnd stormy season, and from week to weekThe pathways and the public roads were cloggedWith frequent showers of snow. Upon a hillAt a short distance from my house there standsA stately fir-grove, whither I was wontTo hasten, for within its shade I foundCommodious harbour, a sequestered nookOr 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 lothTo sympathize with vulgar coppice birdsThat hither came. A single beech tree grewWithin this grove of firs, and on the forkOf that one beech there was a thrush’s nest,A last year’s nest conspicuously builtAt such small elevation from the groundThat even an unbreeched boy might look into it:Sure sign I thought that they who in that houseOf nature and of love had made their homeAmong the fir-trees, all the summer longDwelt in a quiet place: and oftentimesA few sheep, stragglers of a scattered flock,Were my companions and would look at meFrom the remotest outskirts of the grove,Some nook where they had made their final standHuddling together from two fears, the fearOf me and of the storm. Full many an hourHere did I lose. But in this grove, the treesHad by the planter been so crowded eachUpon on the other, and withal had thrivenIn such perplexed array that I in vainBetween their stems endeavoured to find outA length of open space where I might walkBackwards and forwards long as I had likingIn easy and mechanic thoughtlessness.And, for this cause, I loved the shady groveLess than I wished to love a place so sweet.I have a Brother: many times the leavesHave faded, many times the spring has touchedThe heart of bird and beast since from the shoresOf Windermere, from Esthwaite’s cheerful LakeAnd her grey cottages, from all the lifeAnd beauty of his native hills he wentTo be a Sea-boy on the barren seas.When we had been divided fourteen yearsAt length he came to sojourn a short whileBeneath my roof, nor had the sun twice setBefore he made discovery of this groveWhither from that time forward he repairedWith daily visitation. Other hauntsMeanwhile were mine but from the sultry heatOne morning chancing to betake myselfTo this forsaken covert, there I foundA hoary pathway traced around the treesAnd winding on with such an easy lineAlong a natural opening that I stoodMuch wondering at my own simplicityThat I myself had ever failed in searchOf what was now so obvious. With a senseOf lively joy did I behold this pathBeneath the fir-trees, for at once I knewThat by my Brother’s steps it had been traced.My thoughts were pleased within me to perceiveThat hither he had brought a finer eye,A heart more wakeful: that more loth to partFrom place so lovely he had worn the track,One of his own deep paths! by pacing hereWith that habitual restlessness of footWherewith the Sailor measures o’er and o’erHis short domain upon the Vessel’s deckWhile she is travelling through the dreary seas.When thou hadst gone away from Esthwaite’s shoreAnd taken thy first leave of these green hillsAnd rocks that were the play-ground of thy youth.Year followed year my Brother! And we twoConversing not knew little in what moldEach other’s minds were fashioned, and at lengthWhen once again we met in Grasmere ValeBetween us there was little other bondThan common feelings of fraternal love.But thou a School-boy to the Sea hadst carriedUndying recollections, Nature thereWas with thee, she who loved us both, she stillWas with thee, and even so thou didst becomeA silent Poet! from the solitudeOf the vast Sea didst bring a watchful heartStill couchant, an inevitable earAnd 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 nameAnd love the fir-grove with a perfect love.Thither do I repair when cloudless sunsShine hot or winds blow troublesome and strong;And there I sit at evening when the steepOf Silver-How, and Grasmere’s silent LakeAnd one green Island gleam between the stemsOf the close firs, a visionary scene!And while I gaze upon this spectacleOf clouded splendour, on this dream-like sightOf solemn loveliness, I think on theeMy Brother, and on all which thou hast lost.Nor seldom, if I rightly guess, when Thou,Muttering the verses which I muttered firstAmong the mountains, through the midnight watchArt pacing to and fro the Vessel’s deckIn some far region, here, while o’er my headAt every impulse of the moving breezeThe fir-grove murmurs with a sea-like sound,Alone I tread this path, for aught I knowTiming my steps to thine, and with a storeOf indistinguishable sympathiesMingling most earnest wishes for the dayWhen We, and others whom we love shall meetA second time in Grasmere’s happy Vale.
A Tenancy by James Merrill Joshua Crebo 2024-04-13 | Something in the light of this March afternoonRecalls that first and dazzling oneOf 1946. I sat elatedIn my old clothes, in the first of several Furnished rooms, head cocked for the kind of soundThat is recognized only when heard.A fresh snowfall muffled the road, unplowedTo leave blanker and brighterThe bright, blank page turned overnight.A yellow pencil in midairKept sketching unfamiliar numerals,The 9 and 6 forming a stereoscopeThrough which to seize the RealOld Fashioned Winter of my landlord’s phrase,Through the ponderous idèes reçuesOf oak, velour, crochet, also the mantel’sBaby figures, value told meIn 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 robeThrown over us by the twin mullions, sashes,And unequal oblong panesOf windows and storm windows. The latter,Furiously washed, then left to dry unpolished,Projected onto the opposite wallTranslucent spatterings, like pebbles under water.And indeed, from within, ripplesOf heat had begun visibly bearing up and awayThe 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 outAbove the dead, to sweep up flowers. The danceHad ended, it was light; the men looked tiredAnd awkward in their uniforms.I sat, head thrown back, and with the dried tearsOf light on my own cheeks, proposedThis 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 returnAll I had. All? A little sunRose 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 viewOf housetops, treetops, the walls bare.A changing light is deepening, is changingTo a gilt ballroom chair a chairBound to break under someone before long.I let the light change also me.The body that lived through that dayAnd the sufficient love and relative peaceOf 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 ringsIt’s leaner veteran will rise to face Partners not recognizedUntil drunk young again and gowned in changingFlushes; 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 hopTo let my three friends in. They stampThemselves free of the spring’sLast snow — or so we hope.One has brought violets in a pot;The second, wine; the best,His open, empty hand. Now in the roomThe sun is shining like a lamp.I put the flowers where I need them mostAnd then, not asking why they come,Invite the visitors to sit.If I am host at lastIt is of little more than my own past.May others be at home in it.
Brother Where Dost Thou Dwell by Henry David Thoreau Joshua Crebo 2024-04-11 | 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 kindThan they appear?Is thy brow clear againAs in thy youthful years?And was that ugly painThe 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 lookTo feel thy presence near?Along the neighboring brookMay I thy voice still hear?Dost thou still haunt the brinkOf yonder river's tide?And may I ever thinkThat thou art at my side?What bird wilt thou employTo bring me word of thee?For it would give them joy,'Twould give them liberty,To serve their former lordWith wing and minstrelsy.A sadder strain has mixed with their song,They've slowlier built their nests,Since thou art goneTheir lively labor rests.Where is the finch—the thrush,I used to hear?Ah! they could well abideThe dying year.Now they no more return,I hear them not;They have remained to mourn,Or else forgot.
Reading Update: Earthsea!!! Joshua Crebo 2024-04-07 | A little reading update, where I talk about books 2, 3, and 4 of the Earthsea series.
5 Poets You Should Read And Know! A Response Video Joshua Crebo 2024-04-01 | 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/@JoeSpivey02
Morte d’Arthur by Tennyson Joshua Crebo 2024-03-29 | 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 Merrill Joshua Crebo 2024-03-22 | 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 houseLight seeks me underground. To wakeBelow 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 giltsAn infant sun totters on stilts of shadeUp toward the highMass of interwoven boughs,While close against the triptych panesRock bears witness, DragonflyShivers in placeAbove 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 outFrom just beneath the mirror of the lakeA gentle mile uphill.Florets—the mountain laurel—floatOpenmouthed, devout,Set swaying by the wake of the flatboat:Barcarole whose chords of gloomDraw forth the youngest, purest, faithfullest,Cool-crystal-casketedHands crossed on breast,Pre-Raphaelite face radiant—and look,Not dead, O never dead!To wake, to wakeAmong the flaming dowels of a tombBelow the world, the thousand thingsHere risen to if not aboveBefore 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.
For Proust by James Merrill Joshua Crebo 2024-03-15 | Over and over something would remainUnbalanced 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 stirSpreads—you are known to all the personnel—As through packed public rooms you press (impendingPalms, chandeliers, orchestras, more palms,The fracas and the fragrance) until your palmsAre moist with fear that you will miss the friendConjured—but she is waiting: a child stillAt first glance, hung with fringes, on the lowOttoman. In voice reproachful and lowShe says she understands you have been ill.And you, because your time is running out,Laugh in denial and begin to phraseYour questions. There had been a little phraseShe hummed, you could not sleep tonight withoutHearing again. Then, of that day she had swornTo 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 alongAt all, those years?” But in her hair a longWhite lock has made its truce with appetite.And presently she rises. Though in painYou let her leave—the loved one always leaves.What of the little phrase? It’s notes, like leavesIn the strong tea you have contrived to drain,Strangely intensify what you must do.Back where you came from, up the strait stair, pastAll understanding, bearing the whole past,Your eyes grown wide and dark, eyes of a Jew,You make for one dim room without contourAnd station yourself there, beyond the paleOf 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 drawCurtains, will read a line or two, withdraw.The world have put on a thin gold mask.
Easter 1916 by William Butler Yeats Joshua Crebo 2024-01-18 | I have met them at close of dayComing with vivid facesFrom counter or desk among greyEighteenth century houses.I have passed with a nod of the headOr polite meaningless words,Or have lingered awhile and saidPolite meaningless words,And thought before I had doneOf a mocking tale or a gibeTo please a companionAround the fire at the club,Being certain that they and IBut lived where motley is worn:All changed, changed utterly:A terrible beauty is born.That woman’s days were spentIn ignorant good-will,Her nights in argumentUntil her voice grew shrill.What voice more sweet than hersWhen, young and beautiful,She rode to harriers?This man had kept a schoolAnd rode our winged horse;This other his helper and friendWas 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 dreamedA drunken, vainglorious lout.He had done most bitter wrongTo some who are near my heart,Yet I number him in the song;He, too, has resigned his partIn the casual comedy;He, too, has been changed in his turn,Transformed utterly:A terrible beauty is born.Hearts with one purpose aloneThrough summer and winter seemEnchanted to a stoneTo trouble the living stream.The horse that comes from the road,The rider, the birds that rangeFrom cloud to tumbling cloud,Minute by minute they change;A shadow of cloud on the streamChanges 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 sacrificeCan make a stone of the heart.O when may it suffice?That is Heaven’s part, our partTo murmur name upon name,As a mother names her childWhen sleep at last has comeOn 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 faithFor all that is done and said. We know their dream; enoughTo know they dreamed and are dead;And what if excess of loveBewildered them till they died?I write it out in a verse—MacDonagh and MacBrideAnd Connolly and PearseNow and in time to be,Wherever green is worn,Are changed, changed utterly:A terrible beauty is born.
