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One Poem Only is a daily ritual: one poem, center stage, just for now.
Epitaph On A Tyrant
W. H. Auden
Perfection, of a kind, was what he was after,
And the poetry he invented was easy to understand;
He knew human folly like the back of his hand,
And was greatly interested in armies and fleets;
When he laughed, respectable senators burst with laughter,
And when he cried the little children died in the streets.
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One Poem Only — Epitaph On A Tyrant by W. H. Auden | One Poem Only. Machine-transcribed; use the interactive transcript above to jump the player to any line.
This is one poem only. I'm Maggie Devers. One poem, nothing more, nothing less. This April is National Poetry Month, and one poem only is doing something special. It's called Right After. Listen to the Daily poem, then write your own in response. Share it using hashtag right after OPO. I'll be featuring selected poems on the podcast in June. I can't wait to write with you. Arbatath on a tyrant. Perfection of a kind was what he was after, and the poetry he invented was easy to understand. He knew human folly like the back of his hand, and was greatly interested in armies and fleets. When he laughed, respectable senators burst with laughter, and when he cried, the little children died in the streets. By WH Auden.
Thank you for listening, poetry lover. Come back tomorrow. The curtain rises again.
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