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Konten disediakan oleh Ryan Nance. Semua konten podcast termasuk episode, grafik, dan deskripsi podcast diunggah dan disediakan langsung oleh Ryan Nance atau mitra platform podcast mereka. Jika Anda yakin seseorang menggunakan karya berhak cipta Anda tanpa izin, Anda dapat mengikuti proses yang diuraikan di sini https://id.player.fm/legal.
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Lipstick on the Rim
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1 Amy Schumer & Brianne Howey on the Importance of Female Friendships, Navigating Hollywood's Double Standards, Sharing Their Birth Stories, and MORE 50:05
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This week, in what might be the funniest episode yet, Molly and Emese are joined by co-stars Amy Schumer and Brianne Howey. They get candid about motherhood, career evolution, and their new film, Kinda Pregnant —which unexpectedly led to Amy’s latest health discovery. Amy opens up about how public criticism led her to uncover her Cushing syndrome diagnosis, what it’s like to navigate comedy and Hollywood as a mom, and the importance of sharing birth stories without shame. Brianne shares how becoming a mother has shifted her perspective on work, how Ginny & Georgia ’s Georgia Miller compares to real-life parenting, and the power of female friendships in the industry. We also go behind the scenes of their new Netflix film, Kinda Pregnant —how Molly first got the script, why Amy and Brianne were drawn to the project, and what it means for women today. Plus, they reflect on their early career struggles, the moment they knew they “made it,” and how motherhood has reshaped their ambitions. From career highs to personal challenges, this episode is raw, funny, and packed with insights. Mentioned in the Episode: Kinda Pregnant Ginny & Georgia Meerkat 30 Rock Last Comic Standing Charlie Sheen Roast Inside Amy Schumer Amy Schumer on the Howard Stern Show Trainwreck Life & Beth Expecting Amy 45RPM Clothing Brand A Sony Music Entertainment production. Find more great podcasts from Sony Music Entertainment at sonymusic.com/podcasts and follow us at @sonypodcasts To bring your brand to life in this podcast, email podcastadsales@sonymusic.com Learn more about your ad choices. Visit podcastchoices.com/adchoices…
Word Machine - 5 things I learned today
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Konten disediakan oleh Ryan Nance. Semua konten podcast termasuk episode, grafik, dan deskripsi podcast diunggah dan disediakan langsung oleh Ryan Nance atau mitra platform podcast mereka. Jika Anda yakin seseorang menggunakan karya berhak cipta Anda tanpa izin, Anda dapat mengikuti proses yang diuraikan di sini https://id.player.fm/legal.
A weekly reading of poems, from ancient and foreign to contemporary and familiar
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7 episode
Tandai semua (belum/sudah) diputar ...
Manage series 1057992
Konten disediakan oleh Ryan Nance. Semua konten podcast termasuk episode, grafik, dan deskripsi podcast diunggah dan disediakan langsung oleh Ryan Nance atau mitra platform podcast mereka. Jika Anda yakin seseorang menggunakan karya berhak cipta Anda tanpa izin, Anda dapat mengikuti proses yang diuraikan di sini https://id.player.fm/legal.
A weekly reading of poems, from ancient and foreign to contemporary and familiar
…
continue reading
7 episode
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×Sharks in the Rivers Ada Limón We’ll say unbelievable things to each other in the early morning— our blue coming up from our roots, our water rising in our extraordinary limbs. All night I dreamt of bonfires and burn piles and ghosts of men, and spirits behind those birds of flame. I cannot tell anymore when a door opens or closes, I can only hear the frame saying, Walk through . It is a short walkway— into another bedroom. Consider the handle. Consider the key. I say to a friend, how scared I am of sharks. How I thought I saw them in the creek across from my street. I once watched for them, holding a bundle of rattlesnake grass in my hand, shaking like a weak-leaf girl. She sends me an article from a recent National Geographic that says, Sharks bite fewer people each year than New Yorkers do, according to Health Department records. Then she sends me on my way. Into the City of Sharks. Through another doorway, I walk to the East River saying, Sharks are people too. Sharks are people too. Sharks are people too. I write all the things I need on the bottom of my tennis shoes. I say, Let’s walk together . The sun behind me is like a fire. Tiny flames in the river’s ripples. I say something to God, but he’s not a living thing, so I say it to the river, I say, I want to walk through this doorway But without all those ghosts on the edge, I want them to stay here. I want them to go on without me. I want them to burn in the water. Vintage Robert Hass They had agreed, walking into the delicatessen on Sixth Avenue, that their friends’ affairs were focused and saddened by massive projection; movie screens in their childhood were immense, and someone had proposed that need was unlovable. The delicatessen had a chicken salad with chunks of cooked chicken in a creamy basil mayonnaise a shade lighter than the Coast Range in August; it was gray outside, February. Eating with plastic forks, walking and talking in the sleety afternoon, they passed a house where Djuna Barnes was still, reportedly, making sentences. Bashō said: avoid adjectives of scale, you will love the world more and desire it less. And there were other propositions to consider: childhood, VistaVision, a pair of wet, mobile lips on the screen at least eight feet long. On the corner a blind man with one leg was selling pencils. He must have received a disability check, but it didn’t feed his hunger for public agony, and he sat on the sidewalk slack-jawed, with a tin cup, his face and opaque eyes turned upward in a look of blind, questing pathos— half Job, half mole. Would the good Christ of Manhattan have restored his sight and two thirds of his left leg? Or would he have healed his heart and left him there in a mutilated body? And what would that peace feel like? It makes you want, at this point, a quick cut, or a reaction shot. “The taxis rivered up Sixth Avenue.” “A little sunlight touched the steeple of the First Magyar Reform Church.” In fact, the clerk in the liquor store was appalled. “No, no,” he said, “that cabernet can’t be drunk for another five years.”…
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1 Episode 6: Constantine Cavafy & Linda Gregg 22:45
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Waiting for the Barbarians by C.P. Cavafy translation by Edmund Keely What are we waiting for, assembled in the forum? The barbarians are due here today. Why isn’t anything going on in the senate? Why are the senators sitting there without legislating? Because the barbarians are coming today. What’s the point of senators making laws now? Once the barbarians are here, they’ll do the legislating. Why did our emperor get up so early, and why is he sitting enthroned at the city’s main gate, in state, wearing the crown? Because the barbarians are coming today and the emperor’s waiting to receive their leader. He’s even got a scroll to give him, loaded with titles, with imposing names. Why have our two consuls and praetors come out today wearing their embroidered, their scarlet togas? Why have they put on bracelets with so many amethysts, rings sparkling with magnificent emeralds? Why are they carrying elegant canes beautifully worked in silver and gold? Because the barbarians are coming today and things like that dazzle the barbarians. Why don’t our distinguished orators turn up as usual to make their speeches, say what they have to say? Because the barbarians are coming today and they’re bored by rhetoric and public speaking. Why this sudden bewilderment, this confusion? (How serious people’s faces have become.) Why are the streets and squares emptying so rapidly, everyone going home lost in thought? Because night has fallen and the barbarians haven't come. And some of our men just in from the border say there are no barbarians any longer. Now what’s going to happen to us without barbarians? Those people were a kind of solution. Alone with the Goddess by Linda Gregg The young men ride their horses fast on the wet sand of Parangtritis. Back and forth, with the water sliding up to them and away. This is the sea where the goddess lives, angry, her lover taken away. Don’t wear red, don’t wear green here, the people say. Do not swim in the sea. Give her an offering. I give a coconut to protect the man I love. The water pushes it back. I wade out and throw it farther. “The goddess does not accept your gift,” an old woman says. I say perhaps she likes me and we are playing a game. The old woman is silent, the horses wear blinders of cloth, the young men exalt in their bodies, not seeing right or left, pretending to be brave. Sliding on and off their beautiful horses on the wet beach at Parangtritis. Devereau Chumrau is an actor of stage and screen, with notable appearances in Neil Gaiman's Neverwhere at Sacred Fools in Los Angeles, Lynn Nottage's Las Meninas at the Asolo Rep, and appearances on television show including Dexter and Key & Peele. Devereau Chumrau…
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1 Episode 5: Tracy K. Smith & Donald Revell 12:18
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Duende by Tracy K. Smith 1. The earth is dry and they live wanting. Each with a small reservoir Of furious music heavy in the throat. They drag it out and with nails in their feet Coax the night into being. Brief believing. A skirt shimmering with sequins and lies. And in this night that is not night, Each word is a wish, each phrase A shape their bodies ache to fill— I’m going to braid my hair Braid many colors into my hair I’ll put a long braid in my hair And write your name there They defy gravity to feel tugged back. The clatter, the mad slap of landing. 2. And not just them. Not just The ramshackle family, the tíos, Primitos, not just the bailaor Whose heels have notched And hammered time So the hours flow in place Like a tin river, marking Only what once was. Not just the voices of scraping Against the river, nor the hands Nudging them farther, fingers Like blind birds, palms empty, Echoing. Not just the women With sober faces and flowers In their hair, the ones who dance As though they’re burying Memory—one last time— Beneath them. And I hate to do it here. To set myself heavily beside them. Not now that they’ve proven The body a myth, a parable For what not even language Moves quickly enough to name. If I call it pain, and try to touch it With my hands, my own life, It lies still and the music thins, A pulse felt for through garments. If I lean into the desire it starts from— If I lean unbuttoned into the blow Of loss after loss, love tossed Into the ecstatic void— It carries me with it farther, To chords that stretch and bend Like light through colored glass. But it races on, toward shadows Where the world I know And the world I fear Threaten to meet. 3. There is always a road, The sea, dark hair, dolor. Always a question Bigger than itself— They say you’re leaving Monday Why can’t you leave on Tuesday? Odysseus Hears of the Death of Kalypso by Donald Revell All their songs are of one hour Before dawn, when the birds begin. I sing another. In helpless midday, at the hour Even sparrows have no heart to shrill Comes news . . . Suddenly, the unimaginable Needs imagination and finds none. Violet ocean only nothing. Smoke of thyme and of cedar, Ornate birds, nothing. Even a god who came here, Hearing a sweet voice, Would find only old fires now, Brittle in the blackened trees. She was mast and sail. She was A stillness pregnant with motion, Adorable to me as, all my life, I have hidden a cruel, secret ocean In sinews and in sleep and cowardice. She forgave me. Once, she wept for me. Our child died then, and she is with him.…
Exact by Rae Armantrout Quick, before you die, describe the exact shade of this hotel carpet. What is the meaning of the irregular, yellow spheres, some hollow, gathered in patches on this bedspread? If you love me, worship the objects I have caused to represent me in my absence. * Over and over tiers of houses spill pleasantly down that hillside. It might be possible to count occurrences. 獨坐敬亭山 李白 眾鳥高飛盡 孤雲獨去閑 相看兩不厭 只有敬亭山 Zazen on Ching-t’ing Mountain by Li Po Translated by Sam Hamill The birds have vanished down the sky. Now the last cloud drains away. We sit together, the mountain and me, until only the mountain remains.…
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1 Episode 3: Carl Sandburg & Cesar Vallejo with Guest Reader Yago Cura 12:20
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I Should Like to Be Hanged on a Sunday Afternoon By Carl Sandburg I have often thought I should like to be hanged On a summer afternoon in daylight, the sun shining and bands playing, In a park or a public square or a main street corner, everybody in town looking on and talking about it, Newspaper extras spelling my name in tall headlines telling the town I am getting hanged. And I smile to the sheriff and say he will be laughed at if the rope breaks And he goes puttering, solemn, doing a duty under the law, Feeding the ropes, searching corners, testing scantlings. And before the cap is drawn over my head And before my feet are tied for the straight drop When I am asked if I have any last word to say before I go to meet my God and Maker; I speak in a cool, even voice, fixing my eyes maybe on some dark-eyed mother in the crowd, a grown dark-eyed daughter learning against her. I speak and say, “I am innocent and I am ready to meet my God face to face…” I have often thought I should like to be hanged that way on a summer afternoon in daylight, the sun shining and bands playing. Piedra negra sobre una piedra blanca by Cesar Vallejo Me moriré en París con aguacero, un día del cual tengo ya el recuerdo. Me moriré en París ?y no me corro? tal vez un jueves, como es hoy, de otoño. Jueves será, porque hoy, jueves, que proso estos versos, los húmeros me he puesto a la mala y, jamás como hoy, me he vuelto, con todo mi camino, a verme solo. César Vallejo ha muerto, le pegaban todos sin que él les haga nada; le daban duro con un palo y duro también con una soga; son testigos los días jueves y los huesos húmeros, la soledad, la lluvia, los caminos... Testimony by Cesar Vallejo , translated by Paul Muldoon I will die in Paris, on a day the rain’s been coming down hard, a day I can even now recall. I will die in Paris—I try not to take this too much to heart— on a Thursday, probably, in the Fall. It’ll be like today, a Thursday: a Thursday on which, as I make and remake this poem, the very bones in my forearms ache. Never before, along the road, have I felt more alone. César Vallejo is dead: everyone used to knock him about, they’ll say, though he’d done no harm; they hit him hard with a rod and, also, a length of rope; this will be borne out by Thursdays, by the bones in his forearms, by loneliness, by heavy rain, by the aforementioned roads. Yago S. Cura is an Adult Services Librarian at the Vernon branch of the Los Angeles Public Library in sunny South Central Los Angeles. He is a former N.Y.C. Teaching Fellow and A.L.A. Spectrum Scholar who also happens to publish the poetry, fiction, and prose of authors from las Américas in Hinchas de Poesía ( www.hinchasdepoesia.com ) with Jim Heavily and Jennifer Therieau. Along with Ryan Nance, he is the co-founder of the Copa Poetica ( http://copapoetica.us ), a three day reading series in Los Angeles on the rest days of the 2014 World Cup. His Spanglish blog, Spicaresque ( http://spicaresque.blogspot.com ), has had more than 58,000 visitors. Yago’s poetry has appeared in Huizache, KWELI, PALABRA, Borderlands, Lungfull!, COMBO, LIT, U.S. Latino Review, 2nd Avenue, Exquisite Corpse, FIELD, and Slope . His reviews have appeared in The St. Mark’s Poetry Project Newsletter “Scotch Tape Releases X-Ray Power!” --title of Oct. 23, 2008 article in Science section of the N.Y. Times Devoid of purpose, porpoises trace the shoals. Likewise, snipers always do their thinking in supple temples. Even plumbers understand: natural gas mains quicken suicide allure. And steaks: steaks don't understand na’fing but blanket sauce. Photons create energy as they de-adhere, trust me, enough energy! You can X-Ray your finger in the nimbus of the unspooling. Byzantine charges don't alarm applicants with fetid credit. They just slap them on like some caste patina, like lottosplooge. You still haven't inquired as to the why, the what of this seedling. This is a prerogative of unearned providence, a trophy-coated plaque. It reads, Lies Sustain the Surely Seasoned Despite Surmise. Maybe something I might make in my mind, a something short of nuance.…
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1 Episode 2: Louise Glück & Yusef Komunyakaa 9:01
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Vespers Louise Glück In your extended absence, you permit me use of earth, anticipating some return on investment. I must report failure in my assignment, principally regarding the tomato plants. I think I should not be encouraged to grow tomatoes. Or, if I am, you should withhold the heavy rains, the cold nights that come so often here, while other regions get twelve weeks of summer. All this belongs to you: on the other hand, I planted the seeds, I watched the first shoots like wings tearing the soil, and it was my heart broken by the blight, the black spot so quickly multiplying in the rows. I doubt you have a heart, in our understanding of that term. You who do not discriminate between the dead and the living, who are, in consequence, immune to foreshadowing, you may not know how much terror we bear, the spotted leaf, the red leaves of the maple falling even in August, in early darkness: I am responsible for these vines. After Summer Fell Apart Yusef Komunyakaa I can’t touch you. His face always returns; we exchange long looks in each bad dream & what I see, my God. Honey, sweetheart, I hold you against me but nothing works. Two boats moored, rocking between nowhere & nowhere. A bone inside me whispers maybe tonight, but I keep thinking about the two men wrestling nude in Lawrence’s Women in Love . I can’t get past reels of breath unwinding. He has you. Now he doesn’t. He has you again. Now he doesn’t. You’re at the edge of azaleas shaken loose by a word. I see your rose-colored skirt unfurl. He has a knife to your throat, night birds come back to their branches. A hard wind raps at the door, the new year prowling in a black overcoat. It’s been six months since we made love. Tonight I look at you hugging the pillow, half smiling in your sleep. I want to shake you & ask who. Again I touch myself, unashamed, until his face comes into focus. He’s stolen something from me & I don’t know if it has a name or not— like counting your ribs with one foolish hand & mine with the other.…
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1 Episode 1: Robinson Jeffers & John Berryman 4:34
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Rock and Hawk Robinson Jeffers Here is a symbol in which Many high tragic thoughts Watch their own eyes. This gray rock, standing tall On the headland, where the seawind Lets no tree grow, Earthquake-proved, and signatured By ages of storms: on its peak A falcon has perched. I think, here is your emblem To hang in the future sky; Not the cross, not the hive, But this; bright power, dark peace; Fierce consciousness joined with final Disinterestedness; Life with calm death; the falcon’s Realist eyes and act Married to the massive Mysticism of stone, Which failure cannot cast down Nor success make proud. Dream Song 1 John Berryman Huffy Henry hid the day, unappeasable Henry sulked. I see his point,—a trying to put things over. It was the thought that they thought they could do it made Henry wicked & away. But he should have come out and talked. All the world like a woolen lover once did seem on Henry’s side. Then came a departure. Thereafter nothing fell out as it might or ought. I don’t see how Henry, pried open for all the world to see, survived. What he has now to say is a long wonder the world can bear & be. Once in a sycamore I was glad all at the top, and I sang. Hard on the land wears the strong sea and empty grows every bed.…
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