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23:24
Actor Seamus Dever from "Army Wives" and "General Hospital." Plus, Tony Sano, a host on ABC's "I Survived a Japanese Game Show." And actress Jasmine Dustin from the upcoming Adam Sandler movie, "Bedtime Stories."
6 Oct 2008
375
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1:06
Seamus Heaney reads his poem The Forge The Forge by Seamus Heaney (1939-) All I know is a door into the dark. Outside, old axles and iron hoops rusting; Inside, the hammered anvil's short-pitched ring, The unpredictable fantail of sparks Or hiss when a new shoe toughens in water. The anvil must be somewhere at the centre, Horned as a unicorn, at one end square, Set there immoveable: an altar Where he expends himself in shape and music. Sometimes, leather-aproned, hairs in his nose, He leans out on the jamb, recalls a clatter Of hoofs where traffic is flashing in rows; Then grunts and goes in, with a slam and a flick To beat real iron out, to work the bellows.
19 Sep 2011
498
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1:29
Seamus Heaney reads his poem Mid-Term Break at the National Gallery of Ireland. Mid-Term Break by Seamus Heaney (1939-) I sat all morning in the college sick bay Counting bells knelling classes to a close. At two o'clock our neighbors drove me home. In the porch I met my father crying — He had always taken funerals in his stride — And Big Jim Evans saying it was a hard blow. The baby cooed and laughed and rocked the pram When I came in, and I was embarrassed By old men standing up to shake my hand And tell me they were "sorry for my trouble," Whispers informed strangers I was the eldest, Away at school, as my mother held my hand In hers and coughed out angry tearless sighs. At ten o'clock the ambulance arrived With the corpse, stanched and bandaged by the nurses. Next morning I went up into the room. Snowdrops And candles soothed the bedside; I saw him For the first time in six weeks. Paler now, Wearing a poppy bruise on his left temple, He lay in the four foot box as in his cot. No gaudy scars, the bumper knocked him clear. A four foot box, a foot for every year.
13 Sep 2011
491
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1:15
Seamus Heaney reads from The Cure At Troy, his translation of The Philoctetes by Sophocles - The Convention Centre, Dublin 18 March 2011 - The verses are spoken by the chorus at the end of the play. Human Beings Suffer From The Cure At Troy by Seamus Heaney (1939-) CHORUS: Human beings suffer, They torture one another, They get hurt and get hard. No poem or play or song Can fully right a wrong Inflicted and endured. History says, don't hope On this side of the grave. But then, once in a lifetime The longed-for tidal wave Of justice can rise up, And hope and history rhyme. So hope for a great sea-change On the far side of revenge. Believe that a farther shore Is reachable from here. Believe in miracles And cures and healing wells. Call miracle self-healing: The utter, self-revealing Double-take of feeling. If there's fire on the mountain And lightning and storm And a god speaks from the sky That means someone is hearing The outcry and the birth-cry Of new life at its term. It means once in a lifetime That justice can rise up And hope and history rhyme.
13 Sep 2011
645
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1:15
Seamus Heaney reads his poem Postscript at The Convention Centre, Dublin on 18 March 2011 Postscript by Seamus Heaney (1939-) And some time make the time to drive out west Into County Clare, along the Flaggy Shore, In September or October, when the wind And the light are working off each other So that the ocean on one side is wild With foam and glitter, and inland among stones The surface of a slate-grey lake is lit By the earthed lightning of a flock of swans, Their feathers roughed and ruffling, white on white, Their fully grown headstrong-looking heads Tucked or cresting or busy underwater. Useless to think you'll park and capture it More thoroughly. You are neither here nor there, A hurry through which known and strange things pass As big soft buffetings come at the car sideways And catch the heart off guard and blow it open.
13 Sep 2011
401
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3:29
*******www.ulster-scots****** Ulster-Scots based community radio station fUSe FM operating out of Maghera Orange Hall. Maghera, County Londonderry, Northern Ireland. Ulster-Scots / Scotch-Irish history and culture. Distributed by Tubemogul.
8 Oct 2009
41
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3:07
*******www.redcarpetreporttv**** Mingle Media TV's Red Carpet Report and host, Paige Sullivan, were invited to come out to the Season Six Screening and Panel with cast and creators of ABC's Castle that included a red carpet arrival and live screening online for fans to watch. Get the Story from the Red Carpet Report Team - follow us on Twitter and Facebook at: *******twitter****/TheRedCarpetTV ********www.facebook****/RedCarpetReportTV *******www.redcarpetreporttv**** *******www.youtube****/MingleMediaTVNetwork About Castle - Watch on Mondays at 10|9c on ABC Wildly famous mystery novelist Richard Castle (Nathan Fillion) is bored with his own success. Then he learns that a real-world copycat killer has started staging murder scenes depicted in his novels. Castle is questioned by NYPD Detective Kate Beckett (Stana Katic), a bright and aggressive detective who keeps her investigations under tight rein. And once that case is solved, he and Beckett build on their new relationship as they look to solve more strange homicides in New York - as much fun as one can have with death and murder. For more info or to watch episodes visit *******abc.go****/shows/castle ********www.facebook****/Castle/ About The Paley Center for Media The Paley Center for Media seeks to preserve the past, illuminate the present, and envision the future through the lens of media. With the nation’s foremost public archive of television, radio, and Internet programming, the Paley Center produces programs and forums for the public, industry professionals, thought leaders, and the creative community to explore the evolving ways in which we create, consume, and share news and entertainment. In an era of unprecedented change, the Paley Center advances the understanding of media and its impact on our lives. The Paley Center for Media was founded in 1975 by William S. Paley, a pioneering innovator in the industry. For more information, please visit www.paleycenter****. For more of Mingle Media TV’s Red Carpet Report coverage, please visit our website and follow us on Twitter and Facebook here: ********www.minglemediatv**** ********www.facebook****/minglemediatvnetwork *******www.flickr****/MingleMediaTVNetwork ********www.twitter****/minglemediatv Follow our host, Paige Sullivan at ********twitter****/PaigeSull - - Distributed by OneLoad****
1 Oct 2013
276
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2:27
Seamus McManus: Beekeeper; Father of Cloud Computing
16 Jun 2009
186
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1:45
Seamus Heaney reads his poem Digging Digging by Seamus Heaney (1939-) Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests; as snug as a gun. Under my window a clean rasping sound When the spade sinks into gravelly ground: My father, digging. I look down Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds Bends low, comes up twenty years away Stooping in rhythm through potato drills Where he was digging. The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft Against the inside knee was levered firmly. He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep To scatter new potatoes that we picked Loving their cool hardness in our hands. By God, the old man could handle a spade, Just like his old man. My grandfather could cut more turf in a day Than any other man on Toner's bog. Once I carried him milk in a bottle Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up To drink it, then fell to right away Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods Over his shoulder, digging down and down For the good turf. Digging. The cold smell of potato mold, the squelch and slap Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge Through living roots awaken in my head. But I've no spade to follow men like them. Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests. I'll dig with it.
12 Sep 2011
239
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1:38
Seamus Heaney reads his poem Digging Digging by Seamus Heaney (1939-) Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests; as snug as a gun. Under my window a clean rasping sound When the spade sinks into gravelly ground: My father, digging. I look down Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds Bends low, comes up twenty years away Stooping in rhythm through potato drills Where he was digging. The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft Against the inside knee was levered firmly. He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep To scatter new potatoes that we picked Loving their cool hardness in our hands. By God, the old man could handle a spade, Just like his old man. My grandfather could cut more turf in a day Than any other man on Toner's bog. Once I carried him milk in a bottle Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up To drink it, then fell to right away Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods Over his shoulder, digging down and down For the good turf. Digging. The cold smell of potato mold, the squelch and slap Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge Through living roots awaken in my head. But I've no spade to follow men like them. Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests. I'll dig with it.
12 Sep 2011
239
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1:49
Seamus Heaney reads his poem The Tollund Man The Tollund Man by Seamus Heaney (1939-) I Some day I will go to Aarhus To see his peat-brown head, The mild pods of his eye-lids, His pointed skin cap. In the flat country near by Where they dug him out, His last gruel of winter seeds Caked in his stomach, Naked except for The cap, noose and girdle, I will stand a long time. Bridegroom to the goddess, She tightened her torc on him And opened her fen, Those dark juices working Him to a saint's kept body, Trove of the turfcutters' Honeycombed workings. Now his stained face Reposes at Aarhus. II I could risk blasphemy, Consecrate the cauldron bog Our holy ground and pray Him to make germinate The scattered, ambushed Flesh of labourers, Stockinged corpses Laid out in the farmyards, Tell-tale skin and teeth Flecking the sleepers Of four young brothers, trailed For miles along the lines. III Something of his sad freedom As he rode the tumbril Should come to me, driving, Saying the names Tollund, Grauballe, Nebelgard, Watching the pointing hands Of country people, Not knowing their tongue. Out here in Jutland In the old man-killing parishes I will feel lost, Unhappy and at home.
26 Sep 2011
627
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0:13
Compiled from a boatload of photos
26 Jun 2010
259
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