Andrew Scott “Speed” master post. 

The Master Speed By Robert Frost

There Came a Wind Like a Bugle By Emily Dickinson

On The Road by Jack Kerouac

Retirement by William Cowper

An excerpt from Trainspotting

The Underground by Seamus Heaney

The Names of the Hare by anonymous

There where the waves shatter by Pablo Neruda

Zoom! by Simon Armitage

Andrew Scott reads: Zoom! by Simon Armitage

It begins as a house, an end terracein this case but it will not stop there. Soon it isan avenue which cambers arrogantly past the Mechanics’ Institute,turns left at the main road without even lookingand quickly it is a town with all four major clearing banks,a daily paper and a football team pushing for promotion. On it goes, oblivious of the Planning Acts,the green belts, and before we know it it is out of our hands: city, nation, hemisphere, universe, hammering out in all directionsuntil suddenly, mercifully, it is drawn aside through the eyeof a black hole and bulleted into a neighbouring galaxy, emergingsmaller and smoother than a billiard ball but weighing more than Saturn. People stop me in the street, badger mein the check-out queue and ask “What is this, this that is so smalland so very smooth but whose mass is greater than the ringed planet?” It’s just words I assure them. But they will not have it.

Andrew Scott reads: The Master Speed By Robert Frost

No speed of wind or water rushing by 
but you have speed far greater. You can climb 
back up a stream of radiance to the sky, 
and back through history up the stream of time. 
And you were given this swiftness, not for haste 
nor chiefly that you may go where you will, 
but in the rush of everything to waste, 
that you may have the power of standing still— 
off any still or moving thing you say. 
Two such as you with such a master speed 
From one another once you are agreed 
that life is only life forevermore 
together wing to wing and oar to oar.

Andrew Scott reads: There Came a Wind Like a Bugle By Emily Dickinson

There came a wind like a bugle;
It quivered through the grass,
And a green chill upon the heat
So ominous did pass
We barred the windows and the doors
As from an emerald ghost;
The doom’s electric moccasin
That very instant passed.
On a strange mob of panting trees,
And fences fled away,
And rivers where the houses ran
The living looked that day.
The bell within the steeple wild
The flying tidings whirled.
How much can come
And much can go,
And yet abide the world! 

 Andrew Scott reading: On The Road  by Jack Kerouac.

Now we’re heading down to New Orleans to dig Old Bull Lee and ain’t that going to be kicks and listen will you to this old tenorman blow his top” — he shot up the radio volume till the car shuddered — “and listen to him tell the story and put down true relaxation and knowledge.”

     We all jumped to the music and agreed. The purity of the road. The white line in the middle of the highway unrolled and hugged our left front tire as if glued to our groove. Dean hunched his muscular neck, T-shirted in the winter night, and blasted the car along. He insisted I drive through Baltimore for traffic practice; that was all right, except he and Marylou insisted on steering while they kissed and fooled around. It was crazy; the radio was on full blast. Dean beat drums on the dashboard till a great sag developed in it; I did too. The poor Hudson — the slow boat to China — was receiving her beating.