When you consider that poetry was originally primarily an oral art form, it's remarkable how rarely contemporary poetry lovers listen to poets reading their work. I'd be surprised if most admirers of Robert Lowell have heard a recording of him reading "Skunk Hour," or if many admirers of Elizabeth Bishop know the sound of her actual voice.
Granted, it's rare that a contemporary poet writes with the intention of performing a poem. There's an expectation that a poem should succeed in a quiet existence on the page. Even so, I find that listening to a poet read can give you valuable insight into how he interprets the musical qualities of his work, along with, at times, how he intended to manage the poem's emotional impact. In some cases, a poet's interpretation of his poem--or the simple reality of his actual voice--will surprise you.
What follows is a sampling of the audio recordings available to you online. I expect you'll be surprised at how far back these recordings go. If you enjoy them, you should visit The Poetry Archive, the brainchild of Britain's poet laureate Andrew Motion. Extensive and well designed, the archive focuses heavily on British poets. The Academy of American Poets also has an excellent archive of almost 800 recordings available here. Audio collections available for purchase include Poetry Speaks, and The Voice of the Poet series from Random House.
Alfred Lord Tennyson
A wax cylinder recording of Alfred Lord Tennyson's "The Charge of the Light Brigade." Barely audible, it's extraordinary to hear the ghostly voice of the great poet.
Robert Browning
This on is also hard to hear, but you can make out Browning's high-pitched voice as he reads "How They Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix." The recording was made in 1889, the year of Browning's death.
Walt Whitman
An 1890 recording of Walt Whitman reading his poem "America." Whitman would have been about 70 years old.
William Butler Yeats
Here's William Butler Yeats reading his poem "The Lake Isle of Innisfree." Notice how he embraces the musical qualities of his verse.
Robert Frost
A collection of recordings is available at robertfrostoutloud.com
Allen Ginsberg
Here's Allen Ginsberg reading his famous poem "Howl."
Gwendolyn Brooks
Gwendolyn Brooks performing her often anthologized poem "We Real Cool," recorded when Brooks was 66.
Elizabeth Bishop
Contrast that with the lack of performance in Elizabeth Bishop's poem for Robert Lowell: "The Armadillo". It was recorded in November of 1977, when Bishop was 66 years old.
Robert Lowell
A recording of Lowell's poem "Skunk Hour," inspired by "The Armadillo" and written for Bishop. Listen to how Lowell emphasizes the music in the second half of the following stanza, evidence that he intended it as a crescendo.
only skunks, that search
in the moonlight for a bite to eat.
They march on their soles up Main Street:
white stripes, moonstruck eyes' red fire
under the chalk-dry and spar spire
of the Trinitarian Church.
Michele Somerville: Allen Ginsberg: Buddhist Rabbi
Its about an eskimo hunting a wounded bear until it dies then he guts it open and crawls inside to get warm from the cold then falls asleep and has a dream. Kinda morbid but very primal.
Here's Yeat's Easter 1916:
http://www.textflows.com/flow/15528
Or Berryman's DreamSong 1:
http://www.textflows.com/flow/15206
There a many more on the website of the Academy of American Poets:
http://poets.org/textflows
This TextFlow form you link to is an interesting hybrid. Clearly still text, but it does capture some of the cadence of an oral performance. I thoroughly enjoyed the Yeats (Easter 1916) although the pause and rhythm were not always what I expected. But it seems to humanize the writing and remind you that it is the shadow of a human voice (even if only in our head).
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VT_WpXlqW1s&feature=related
Is that really true? While the expectation you cite is certainly there, I don't know many poets who don't wonder if something will work when spoken. (Double negative madness!)
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message he is dead.
put crepe bows round the white necks of public doves
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West.
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever; I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
W.H. Auden (my mother got to hear him recite that many years ago)