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<u>Believe Me, If All Those Endearing Young Charms</u>
Thomas Moore 1779-1852 from his Irish Melodies (1808-1834) Believe me, if all those endearing young charms Which I gaze on so fondly today Were to change by tomorrow and fleet in my arms Like fairy gifts fading away. Thou wouldst still be adored as this moment thou art Let thy loveliness fade as it will And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart Would entwine itself verdantly still. It is not while beauty and youth are thine own And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear That the fervor and faith of a soul can be known To which time will but make thee more dear. No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets But as truly loves on to the close As the sunflower turns to her God when he sets The same look which she turned when he rose. |
Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands
<dd>by Bob Dylan With your mercury mouth in the missionary times, And your eyes like smoke and your prayers like rhymes, And your silver cross, and your voice like chimes, Oh, who among them do they think could bury you? With your pockets well protected at last, And your streetcar visions which you place on the grass, And your flesh like silk, and your face like glass, Who among them do they think could carry you? Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands, Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes, My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums, Should I leave them by your gate, Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait? With your sheets like metal and your belt like lace, And your deck of cards missing the jack and the ace, And your basement clothes and your hollow face, Who among them can think he could outguess you? With your silhouette when the sunlight dims Into your eyes where the moonlight swims, And your match-book songs and your gypsy hymns, Who among them would try to impress you? Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands, Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes, My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums, Should I leave them by your gate, Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait? The kings of Tyrus with their convict list Are waiting in line for their geranium kiss, And you wouldn't know it would happen like this, But who among them really wants just to kiss you? With your childhood flames on your midnight rug, And your Spanish manners and your mother's drugs, And your cowboy mouth and your curfew plugs, Who among them do you think could resist you? Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands, Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes, My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums, Should I leave them by your gate, Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait? Oh, the farmers and the businessmen, they all did decide To show you the dead angels that they used to hide. But why did they pick you to sympathize with their side? Oh, how could they ever mistake you? They wished you'd accepted the blame for the farm, But with the sea at your feet and the phony false alarm, And with the child of a hoodlum wrapped up in your arms, How could they ever, ever persuade you? Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands, Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes, My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums, Should I leave them by your gate, Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait? With your sheet-metal memory of Cannery Row, And your magazine-husband who one day just had to go, And your gentleness now, which you just can't help but show, Who among them do you think would employ you? Now you stand with your thief, you're on his parole With your holy medallion which your fingertips fold, And your saintlike face and your ghostlike soul, Oh, who among them do you think could destroy you Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands, Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes, My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums, Should I leave them by your gate, Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait? . ================================================== The most covetted teacher in my high school as far as I knew it was Harold Bonticoe (forgive me if after all these years I've misremembered the spelling). Mr. B had the gifted tenth grade English block, & among his popular devices was to use pop lyrics to demonstrate the basics of poetry. Somewhere along the line I know he got depressed. The last time I spoke with him, he told me that after years of using this Dylan song, he couldn't explain what Dylan meant by "my warehouse eyes my Arabian drums." Was he afraid that he had accepted the value of this lyric as poetry because of some hype in Rolling Stone? Was he trying to see "eyes" as a verb, missing the comma? Was it just too much to accept that drums could be "Arabian" without much else in the lyric to back up the connection to the Middle East? (It just now hits me that these could be oil drums from Saudi Arabia... but that would make Dylan, gasp, a prophet.) Still, putting aside a teacher's self-doubt, these lines would not have been out of place in a poem by Hart Crane or Lorca. I don't find it at all far fetched to see this as poetry. I believe it was probably written as verse & then thrown over a few fairly easy chord changes after the fact. It's the first song I ever learned on the guitar. It's one of my favorite poems. |
Mike, thanks for posting the Dylan. There are few poets in history who thrill me quite the way Dylan does.
I don't have the book with me, but Christopher Ricks analyzes this song in a very interesting way. If I recall correctly, and I may not, there are many parallels with a poem by Swinburne, enough to conclude that Dylan must have had the Swinburne poem in mind.... though his song is also entirely original. I wonder if these lyrics lose something if you never heard Dylan sing it. Some of the words that Dylan hits hard provide rhymes and echos that one might not hear without knowing the performance. ** PS-- Songs and poems are different, of course, but I think there's a song by Irving Berlin that speaks for both poets and songwriters in the following verses: Let me sing a funny song With crazy words that roll along And if my song can start you laughing I'm happy Let me sing a sad refrain Of broken hearts who love in vain And if my song can start you crying I'm happy [This message has been edited by Roger Slater (edited January 18, 2005).] |
Roger--
there's an unquestionable Swinburne air to Dylan's lyric, & Swinburne was fond of meantioning low lands, or at least he did so in a few key poems, but I don't know of any direct parallel. I love S's "Ave Atque Vale" to Baudelaire -- but I'm sure you knew I would. Ha. |
Quote:
--CS |
Clay, good to see you back! KEB [This message has been edited by Katy Evans-Bush (edited January 20, 2005).] |
I have always liked this oldie, which swings along. It could almost make it as a poem, I think. Love me or Leave Me Love me or leave me and let me be lonely You won’t believe me but I love you only I’d rather be lonely than happy with somebody else. You might find the night time the right time for kissing Night time is my time for just reminiscing Regretting instead of forgetting with somebody else. There’ll be no one unless that someone is you I intended to be independently blue I want you love, don’t wanna borrow Have it today to give back tomorrow Your love is my love There’s no love for nobody else. Say, love me or leave me and let me be lonely You won’t believe me but I love you only I’d rather be lonely than happy with somebody else. You might find the night time the right time for kissing Night time is my time for just reminiscing Regretting instead of forgetting with somebody else. There’ll be no one unless that someone is you I intended to be independently blue Say I want your love, don’t wanna borrow Have it today to give back tomorrow Your love is my love My love is your love There’s no love for nobody else. - Walter Donaldson, Gus Kahn (1928) BANNED POST |
Noel Coward really knew what he was saying in "Private Lives" when he made a character say:
"extraordinary how potent cheap music is". It's because when it succeeds it speaks. Janet |
<u>The Harp That Once Through Tara’s Halls</u>
Thomas Moore 1779-1852 The harp that once through Tara's halls The soul of music shed, Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls As if that soul were fled. So sleeps the pride of former days, So glory's thrill is o'er, And hearts that once beat high for praise Now feel that praise no more. No more to chiefs and ladies bright, The harp of Tara swells; The chord alone, that breaks at night, Its tale of ruin tells. Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes, The only throb she gives Is when some heart indignant breaks, To show that still she lives. |
Bobby,
You have me sniffing into a cambric handkerchief with John McCormack and James Joyce ;) Janet |
Datura (Tori Amos)
Get out of my garden Passsion vine Texas sage Indigo spires salvia Conferderate jasmine Royal cape plumbago Arica palm Pygmy date palm Snow-on-the-mountain Pink Powderpuff Datura Crinum lily St. Christopher's lily Silver dollar eucalytus White african iris Katie's cham ruella Variegated shell finger Florida coontie Datura Ming fern Sword fern Dianella Walking iris Chocolate cherries allamanda Awabuki viburnum Is there room in my heart For you to follow your heart And not need more blood From the tip of your star Walking iris Chocolate cherries allamanda Awabuki viburnun Natal plum Black magic ti Mexican bush sage Gumbo limbo Golden shrimp Belize shrimp Senna Weeping sabicu Golden shower tree Golden trumpet tree Bird of paradise Come in Variegated shell ginger Datura Lonicera Red velvet costus Xanadu philodendron Snow queen hibiscus Frangipani Frangipani Bleeding heart Persian shield Cat's whiskers Royal palm Sweet alyssum Petting bamboo Orange jasmine Clitoria blue pea Downy jasmine Datura Frangipani Frangipani Dividing Canaan Piece by piece |
Here’s another one for our Janet. It was popular with the immigrant Irish soldiers from New York during the American Civil War.
<u>The Minstrel Boy</u> Thomas Moore 1779-1852 The Minstrel Boy to the war is gone In the ranks of death you will find him; His father's sword he hath girded on, And his wild harp slung behind him; "Land of Song!" said the warrior bard, "Tho' all the world betrays thee, One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard, One faithful harp shall praise thee!" The Minstrel fell! But the foeman's chain Could not bring that proud soul under; The harp he lov'd ne'er spoke again, For he tore its chords asunder; And said "No chains shall sully thee, Thou soul of love and brav'ry! Thy songs were made for the pure and free, They shall never sound in slavery!" |
Bobby, and don't think I haven't sung it ;)
Janet |
Bob,
"Minstrel Boy" is great, as are the others, all of which read more like poems than most lyrics for me. They have none of the sing-song elements that disqualify most popular lyrics as poems (my own criteria): no excessive internal rhyming; no excessively repeated refrains. I wonder about the composition process of Thomas Moore's poems. They seem as if they were written as poems first, then set to music? On another note, it's interesting that the blues form of terza rima (2 repeated lines, followed by a third line tying the bundle up semantically) has passed into usage as a form for modernist poets. Anyway, here's my offering. It's got a repeated refrain, but in an 8-line stanza it doesn't stick out so much. Maybe it's sing-songy--but some good images. John Boxcars © 1977 Butch Hancock Well I gave all my money to the banker this month Now I got no more money to spend She smiled when she saw me comin' through that door When I left she said, "Come back again." I watched them lonesome boxcar wheels Turnin' down the tracks out of town And it's on that lonesome railroad track I'm gonna lay my burden down. I was raised on a farm the first years of my life Life was pretty good they say I'll probably live to be some ripe ol' age If death'll stay out of my way This world can take my money and time But it sure can't take my soul I'm goin' down to the railroad tracks Watch them lonesome boxcars roll. There's some big ol' Buicks at the Baptist church Caddilacs at the Church of Christ I parked my camel by an ol' haystack I'll be lookin for that needle all night There ain't gonna be no radial tires Turnin' down the streets of gold I'm goin down to the railroad tracks And watch them lonesome boxcars roll. Now if you ever heard the whistle on a fast freight train Beatin' out a beautiful tune If you ever seen the cold blue railroad tracks Shinin' by the light of the moon If you ever felt the locomotive shake the ground I know you don't have to be told Why I'm goin down to the railroad tracks And watch them lonesome boxcars roll. John [This message has been edited by J.A. Crider (edited January 23, 2005).] |
Hi Bobby et al.
I think we do need to distinguish between works that are written as poems and that are later set to music, which is the case with the Thomas Moore poems that have been posted, or Francis Scott Key's "The Star-Spangled Banner" or, a couple of more recent examples, Housman's "A Shropshire Lad" set to music by George Butterworth, or Hardy's "Winter Words" set to music by Benjamin Britten. A work expressly written to serve as the lyrics of a song is a different animal. Moore's lyrics read as poetry because even if the poet wrote them be sung, they are poems not just songs. All the best Chris [This message has been edited by ChrisGeorge (edited January 22, 2005).] |
Here's a Dylan song that gains immeasurably from its music and performance. From "Time Out Of Mind," I think the peformance is perfection. I'm wondering if anyone who is unfamiliar with the song will agree, from the lyrics alone, that it is incredibly moving and beautiful. I particularly love the refrain, and the "sugar town" line practically knocked me down the first time I heard it.
Tryin' To Get To Heaven Before They Close The Door The air is getting hotter There's a rumbling in the skies I've been wading through the high muddy water With the heat rising in my eyes Every day your memory grows dimmer It doesn't haunt me like it did before I've been walking through the middle of nowhere Trying to get to heaven before they close the door When I was in Missouri They would not let me be I had to leave there in a hurry I only saw what they let me see You broke a heart that loved you Now you can seal up the book and not write anymore I've been walking that lonesome valley Trying to get to heaven before they close the door People on the platforms Waiting for the trains I can hear their hearts a-beatin' Like pendulums swinging on chains When you think that you lost everything You find out you can always lose a little more I'm just going down the road feeling bad Trying to get to heaven before they close the door I'm going down the river Down to New Orleans They tell me everything is gonna be all right But I don't know what "all right" even means I was riding in a buggy with Miss Mary-Jane Miss Mary-Jane got a house in Baltimore I been all around the world, boys Now I'm trying to get to heaven before they close the door Gonna sleep down in the parlor And relive my dreams I'll close my eyes and I wonder If everything is as hollow as it seems Some trains don't pull no gamblers No midnight ramblers, like they did before I been to Sugar Town, I shook the sugar down Now I'm trying to get to heaven before they close the door |
Highlands
by Bob Dylan Well my heart's in the Highlands gentle and fair. Honeysuckle blooming in the wildwood air. Bluebelles blazing, where the Aberdeen waters flow. Well my heart's in the Highlands, I'm gonna go there when I feel good enough to go. Windows were shakin' all night in my dreams. Everything was exactly the way that it seems. Woke up this morning and I looked at the same old page Same ol' rat race Life in the same ol' cage. I don't want nothing from anyone, ain't that much to take. Wouldn't know the difference between a real blonde and a fake. Feel like a prisoner in a world of mystery I wish someone would come And push back the clock for me Well my heart's in the Highlands wherever I roam. That's where I'll be when I get called home. The wind, it whispers to the buckeyed trees in rhyme. Well my heart's in the Highland, I can only get there one step at a time. I'm listening to Neil Young, I gotta turn up the sound, Someone's always yelling turn it down. Feel like I'm drifting Drifting from scene the scene, I'm wondering what in the devil could it all possibly mean? Insanity is smashing up against my soul, You can say I was on anything but a roll. If I had a conscience, well I just might blow my top, What would I do with it anyway Maybe take it to the pawn shop. My heart's in the Highlands at the break of dawn. By the beautiful lake of the Black Swan, Big white clouds, like chariots that swing down low. Well my heart's in the Highlands Only place left to go. I'm in Boston town, in some restaurant I got no idea what I want. Well, maybe I do but I'm just really not sure Waitress comes over, Nobody in the place but me and her It must be a holiday, there's nobody around, She studies me closely as I sit down, She got a pretty face and long white shiny legs, She says, "What'll it be?" I say, "I don't know, you got any soft boiled eggs?" She looks at me, Says "I'd bring you some, but we're out of 'm, you picked the wrong time to come." Then she says, "I know you're an artist, draw a picture of me!" I say, "I would if I could, but, I don't do sketches from memory." "Well", she says, "I'm right here in front of you, or haven't you looked?" I say," all right, I know, but I don't have my drawing book!" She gives me a napkin, she says, "you can do it on that" I say, "yes I could but, I don't know where my pencil is at!" She pulls one out from behind her ear She says "all right now, go ahead, draw me, I'm standing right here" I make a few lines, and I show it for her to see. Well she takes a napkin and throws it back And says "that don't look a thing like me!" I said, "Oh, kind miss, it most certainly does" She says, "you must be jokin.'" I say, "I wish I was!" Then she says, "you don't read women authors, do you?" Least that's what I think I hear her say, "Well", I say, "how would you know and what would it matter anyway?" "Well", she says, "you just don't seem like you do!" I said, "you're way wrong." She says, "which ones have you read then?" I say, "I read Erica Jong!" She goes away for a minute and I slide up out of my chair I step outside back to the busy street, but nobody's going anywhere. Well my heart's in the Highlands, with the horses and hounds Way up in the border country, far from the towns. With the twang of the arrow and a snap of the bow My heart's in the Highlands Can't see any other way to go. Every day is the same thing out the door, Feel further away then ever before. Some things in life, it gets too late to learn, Well, I'm lost somewhere I must have made a few bad turns I see people in the park forgetting their troubles and woes, They're drinking and dancing, wearing bright colored clothes. All the young men with their young women looking so good, Well, I'd trade places with any of them In a minute, if I could. I'm crossing the street to get away from a mangy dog, Talking to myself in a monologue. I think what I need might be a full length leather coat. Somebody just asked me If I registered to vote. The sun is beginning to shine on me But it's not like the sun that used to be. The party's over, and there's less and less to say, I got new eyes Everything looks far away. Well, my heart's in the Highlands at the break of day, Over the hills and far away. There's a way to get there, and I'll figure it out somehow, But I'm already there in my mind And that's good enough for now. |
The thing that bothers me in this thread is that there are hundreds of even better poetic songs with which nobody here seems to be acquainted.
I speak, among others of Thomas Campian, John Dowland, Thomas Morley, Claudio Monteverdi, Henry Purcell, Johannes Brahms, Stephen C. Foster , Henri Duparc, Franz Schubert, Claude Debussy, Gustav Mahler, Richard Strauss, Manuel De Falla, Benjamin Britten and a myriad of others. I feel that the thread should be retitled, poetic songs the popular media lets us hear. Obviously posters here don't just mean contemporary poetic songs because there are some fine old ones here. The fact that James Joyce was devoted to songs should not be overlooked by poets. We recognise the need to know something of the history of poetry. I think poets would benefit from some knowledge of the history of song since it is intimately related to the history of poetry. Janet [This message has been edited by Janet Kenny (edited January 23, 2005).] |
Quite right, Janet.
Here's a pop song of an earlier age. Song Goe and catche a falling starre, Get with child a mandrake roote, Tell me, where all past yeares are, Or who cleft the Divels foot, Teach me to hear mermaides singing, Or to keep off envyies stinging, BANNED POST BANNED POST BANNED POST BANNED POST BANNED POST BANNED POST And finde BANNED POST BANNED POST BANNED POST BANNED POST BANNED POST BANNED POST What winde Serves to advance an honest minde. If thou beest borne to strange sights, Things invisible to see, Ride ten thousand days and nights, Till age snow white hairs on thee, Thou, when thou retorn'st, wilt tell mee, All strange wonders that befell thee, BANNED POST BANNED POST BANNED POST BANNED POST BANNED POST BANNED POST And sweare, BANNED POST BANNED POST BANNED POST BANNED POST BANNED POST BANNED POST No where Lives a woman true, and faire. If thou findst one, let me know, Such a Pilgrimage were sweet; Yet doe not, I would not goe, Though at next doore wee might meet, Though shee were true, when you met her, And last, till you write your letter, BANNED POST BANNED POST BANNED POST BANNED POST BANNED POST BANNED POST Yet shee BANNED POST BANNED POST BANNED POST BANNED POST BANNED POST BANNED POST Will bee False, ere I come, to two, or three. |
Desperado (Eagles)
Desperado, why don’t you come to your senses? You been out ridin’ fences for so long now Oh, you’re a hard one I know that you got your reasons These things that are pleasin’ you Can hurt you somehow Don’ you draw the queen of diamonds, boy She’ll beat you if she’s able You know the queen of hearts is always your best bet Now it seems to me, some fine things Have been laid upon your table But you only want the ones that you can’t get Desperado, oh, you ain’t gettin’ no younger Your pain and your hunger, they’re drivin’ you home And freedom, oh freedom well, that’s just some people talkin’ Your prison is walking through this world all alone Don’t your feet get cold in the winter time? The sky won’t snow and the sun won’t shine It’s hard to tell the night time from the day You’re loosin’ all your highs and lows Ain’t it funny how the feeling goes away? Desperado, why don’t you come to your senses? Come down from your fences, open the gate It may be rainin’, but there’s a rainbow above you You better let somebody love you, before it’s too late |
Janet, I agree that the history of song is a useful thing for a poet to be aquainted with. Does that mean then that you have a good knowledge of contemporary songs, such as the work of Korn, Marylin Manson, Eminem, Avril Lavigne, Nelly, Beonce etc? I must confess that I myself do not.
Here's an oldie. As She Moved Through The Fair (traditional Irish song) My young love said to me, "My mother won't mind And my father won't slight you for your lack of kind" And she stepped away from me and this she did say: It will not be long, love, till our wedding day" As she stepped away from me and she moved through the fair And fondly I watched her move here and move there And then she turned homeward with one star awake Like the swan in the evening moves over the lake The people were saying, no two e'er were wed But one had a sorrow that never was said And I smiled as she passed with her goods and her gear, And that was the last that I saw of my dear. Last night she came to me, my dead love came in So softly she came that her feet made no din As she laid her hand on me and this she did say "It will not be long, love, 'til our wedding day" |
Alexander,
That's a truly lovely song. I know little about most current popular songs although when I was younger I did know many. But at the same time I knew the heritage of songs. That's what I think is being lost. I was talking about major masterpieces by composers as great as the great historical poets. Of course I love a lot of 20th century popular music. I put myself through college by playing it on the piano in restaurants but I am now very out of touch. Many popular songs join the great permanent stream of music. But there are centuries of seriously magnificent songs which are being lost because the culture of recitals is dying for commercial reasons and therefore the recorded repertoire is narrowing because of a smaller public demand. That's why I was so insistent on General Talk about the great, late Victoria De Los Angeles who was a supreme singer of exquisite songs. There are songs which are the equal of any of the greatest poetry and they are fading from the public memory. Janet |
<u>Lord Randal</u>
1 'O WHERE ha you been, Lord Randal, my son? And where ha you been, my handsome young man?' 'I ha been at the greenwood; mother, mak my bed soon, For I'm wearied wi hunting, and fain wad lie down.' 2 'An wha met ye there, Lord Randal, my son? An wha met you there, my handsome young man?' 'O I met wi my true-love; mother, mak my bed soon, For I'm wearied wi huntin, an fain wad lie own.' 3 'And what did she give you, Lord Randal, my son? And what did she give you, my handsome young man?' 'Eels fried in a pan; mother, mak my bed soon, For I'm wearied wi huntin, and fain wad lie down.' 4 'And wha gat your leavins, Lord Randal, my son? And wha gat your leavins, my handsome young man?' 'My hawks and my hounds; mother, mak my bed soon, For I'm wearied wi hunting and fain wad lie down.' 5 'And what becam of them, Lord Randal, my son? And what becam of them, my handsome young man?' 'They stretched their legs out an died; mother, mak my bed soon, For I'm wearied wi huntin, and fain wad lie down' 6 'O I fear you are poisoned, Lord Randal, my son! I fear you are poisoned, my handsome young man.' 'O yes, I am poisoned; mother, mak my bed soon, For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie down.' 7 'What d'ye leave to your mother, Lord Randal, my son? What d'ye leave to your mother, my handsome young man?' 'Four and twenty milk kye; mother, mak my bed soon, For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie down.' 8 'What d'ye leave to your sister, Lord Randal, my son? What d'ye leave to your sister, my handsome young man?' 'My gold and my silver; mother, mak my bed soon, For I'm sick at the heart, an I fain wad lie down.' 9 'What d'ye leave to your brother, Lord Randal, my son? What d'ye leave to your brother, my handsome young man?' 'My houses and my lands; mother, mak my bed soon, For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie down.' 10 'What d'ye leave to your true-love, Lord Randal my son? What d'ye leave to your true-love, my handsome young man?' 'I leave her hell and fire; mother, mak my bed soon, For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie down.' [This message has been edited by Robert E. Jordan (edited January 23, 2005).] |
Janet, I agree that this is sad. I find it odd that when there is so much music about that fuses different styles from different cultures there is less that plunders that other country called the past.
I would be very sad if Gaelic songs were forgotten for instance. I had a friend from Ireland who sung to me at times (she sang the song I posted above once, and it was heartbreakingly wonderful). But actually I think that folk music is doing fairly well, judging by, the number of traditional singers I see in english pubs. Here's a modern folk song, I think it is extremely beautiful as a song or a poem. The Queen and The Soldier (Suzanne Vega) The soldier came knocking upon the queen's door He said, "I am not fighting for you any more" The queen knew she'd seen his face someplace before And slowly she let him inside. He said, "I've watched your palace up here on the hill And I've wondered who's the woman for whom we all kill But I am leaving tomorrow and you can do what you will Only first I am asking you why." Down in the long narrow hall he was led Into her rooms with her tapestries red And she never once took the crown from her head She asked him there to sit down. He said, "I see you now, and you are so very young But I've seen more battles lost than I have battles won And I've got this intuition, says it's all for your fun And now will you tell me why?" The young queen, she fixed him with an arrogant eye She said, "You won't understand, and you may as well not try" But her face was a child's, and he thought she would cry But she closed herself up like a fan. And she said, "I've swallowed a secret burning thread It cuts me inside, and often I've bled" He laid his hand then on top of her head And he bowed her down to the ground. "Tell me how hungry are you? How weak you must feel As you are living here alone, and you are never revealed But I won't march again on your battlefield" And he took her to the window to see. And the sun, it was gold, though the sky, it was gray And she wanted more than she ever could say But she knew how it frightened her, and she turned away And would not look at his face again. And he said, "I want to live as an honest man To get all I deserve and to give all I can And to love a young woman who I don't understand Your highness, your ways are very strange." But the crown, it had fallen, and she thought she would break And she stood there, ashamed of the way her heart ached She took him to the doorstep and she asked him to wait She would only be a moment inside. Out in the distance her order was heard And the soldier was killed, still waiting for her word And while the queen went on strangeling in the solitude she preferred The battle continued on |
Hi Janet
Of course the songs of Benjamin Britten are "poetic" -- for the very reason that they are poems set to music, which is the case with his song cycle based on Thomas Hardy's "Winter Words" or his settings of Michelangelo's sonnets. Perhaps I am stating the obvious here, but these are not instances of these pieces being written as songs, but as poems first that were secondly reinterpreted as songs by a composer at some later time. I assume the same applies to the pieces by Brahms and the other composers that you mentioned. All the best Chris |
<u>Dives and Lazarus</u>
I AS it fell out upon a day, Rich Dives he made a feast, And he invited all his friends And gentry of the best. II Then Lazarus laid him down and down, And down at Dives’ door; ‘Some meat, some drink, brother Dives, Bestow upon the poor!’— III ‘Thou art none of my brother, Lazarus, That lies begging at my door; No meat nor drink will I give thee, Nor bestow upon the poor.’ IV Then Lazarus laid him down and down, And down at Dives’ wall, ‘Some meat, some drink, brother Dives, Or with hunger starve I shall!’— V ‘Thou art none of my brother, Lazarus, That lies begging at my wall; No meat nor drink will I give thee, But with hunger starve you shall.’ VI Then Lazarus laid him down and down, And down at Dives’ gate: ‘Some meat, some drink, brother Dives, For Jesus Christ his sake!’— VII ‘Thou art none of my brother, Lazarus, That lies begging at my gate; No meat nor drink will I give thee, For Jesus Christ his sake.’ VIII Then Dives sent out his merry men, To whip poor Lazarus away; They had no power to strike a stroke, But flung their whips away. IX Then Dives sent out his hungry dogs, To bite him as he lay; They had no power to bite at all, But lickéd his sores away. X As it fell out upon a day, Poor Lazarus sicken’d and died; Then came two angels out of heaven His soul therein to guide. XI ‘Rise up, rise up, brother Lazarus, And go along with me; For you’ve a place prepared in heaven, To sit on an angel’s knee.’ XII As it fell out upon a day, Rich Dives sicken’d and died; Then came two serpents out of hell, His soul therein to guide. XIII ‘Rise up, rise up, brother Dives, And go with us to see A dismal place, prepared in hell, To sit on a serpent’s knee.’ XIV Then Dives look’d up with his eyes, And saw poor Lazarus blest: ‘Give me one drop of water, brother Lazarus, To quench my flaming thirst. XV ‘Oh had I as many years to abide As there are blades of grass, Then there would be an end, but now Hell’s pains will ne’er be past! XVI ‘Oh was I now but alive again, The space of one half hour! Oh that I had my peace secure! Then the devil should have no power.’ |
Chris,
Nowhere is this discussion does anyone separate words from music. The word "song" is erroneously used by popular writers and most posters here to mean words that please them. A song succeeds by the marriage of words and music, whether or not the words were conceived separately. Most musicologists who trace the history of any particular folksong find many threads and many "histories". I wanted to speak of the phenomenon of deliberately created songs by individuals of outstanding ability and scholarship. That isn't thought elitist whan we speak of poetry. Why are songs different? The genius of Britten was to unite words and music so that they became one. That is true of all great composers of songs, wherther folk singers or classical composers. We take poetry very seriously and when we discuss poetry we try to find the finest examples we know. Here we are still doing that but ignore the nature of song. We are more demanding when we write of poetry. I decided to make a case for the highest achievements of song. I hear professional pop commentators using the word "music" when they are speaking of the lyrics. Janet |
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------------------ Mark Allinson http://markallinson.netpublish.net/ |
Mark, I absolutely love that poem. It was one of the first poems I ever loved. It depends how well set whether or not it is entitled to be in a discussion about a song. Hugo Wolf set a German translation of a poem by Michelangelo and it is, in mmy opinion, one of the most profound songs ever written. I was replying to Chris's statements about Britten which I thought had the cat by the tail. Schubert's great settings of Goethe fulfil Goethe who was already great. The greatness of the song is that the music equalled or even surpassed the original. There are many meanings to song and the words of popular songs (which well may last in human memory beyond their generation like the lutanist's songs I mentioned) are engraved in our minds through their marriage to music. But there are levels of greatness in song as there are in poetry. Sometimes a great song elevates a less good poem. I am trying to protect the magic thing that a song is. Janet |
The German translation of a poem by Michelangelo which Hugo Wold set to music. The best recording is a historical recording by the great Ukrainian bass, Alexander Kipnis. The piano part is as important as the vocal part. It is available on historical archive recordings.
Alles endet, was entstehet. Alles, alles rings vergehet, Denn die Zeit flieht, und die Sonne Sieht, daß alles rings vergehet, Denken, Reden, Schmerz, und Wonne; Und die wir zu Enkeln hatten Schwanden wie bei Tag die Schatten, Wie ein Dunst im Windeshauch. Menschen waren wir ja auch, Froh und traurig, so wie ihr, Und nun sind wir leblos hier, Sind nur Erde, wie ihr sehet. Alles ended, was entstehet. Alles, alles rings vergehet. _____ Here is my translation and Michelangelo's original.. This is a translation of one of many poems written by the great Italian sculptor and painter, Michelangelo Buonarroti (1475-1564). Chiunche nasce a morte arriva All who are born arrive at death with the passing of time: and the sun leaves no thing alive. Gone pleasure and pain skills, words and our ancient lineages– these are as shadows to sun – smoke to wind. We were as you were, men happy and sad, like you, and now, as you see, we are in the earth, deprived of life. we are in the earth, All beings arrive at death. Here, where once our eyes were, with radiance in each socket; these now are empty, horrid and black, born away by time itself. __________________ Michelangelo’s original poem rhymes but because the poem is so stark and strong I decided not to sacrifice meaning to rhyme. The meter and rhyme are both important and so here is the original text, written some time before 1524 when Michelangelo was influenced by Savonarola. __________________ Chiunche nasce a morte arriva nel fuggir del tempo; e ‘l sole niuna cosa lascia viva. Manca il dolce e quel che dole e gl’ingegni e le parole; e le nostre antiche prole al sole ombre, al vento un fummo. Come voi uomini fummo, lieti e tristi, come siete; e or siàn, come vedete, terra al sol, di vita priva. terra al sol,Ogni cosa a morte arriva. Già fur gli occhi nostri interi con la luce in ogni speco; or son voti, orrendi e neri, e ciò porta il tempo seco. |
<u>Eagles Going To Superbowl
Ode To Joy</u> Schiller – Beethoven O Freunde, nicht diese Töne! Sondern laßt uns angenehmere anstimmen und freudenvollere. Freude! Freude, schöner Götterfunken Tochter aus Elysium, Wir betreten feuertrunken, Himmlische, dein Heiligtum! Deine Zauber binden wieder Was die Mode streng geteilt; Alle Menschen werden Brüder, (Schiller's original: Was der Mode Schwert geteilt; Bettler werden Fürstenbrüder,) Wo dein sanfter Flügel weilt. Wem der große Wurf gelungen, Eines Freundes Freund zu sein; Wer ein holdes Weib errungen, Mische seinen Jubel ein! Ja, wer auch nur eine Seele Sein nennt auf dem Erdenrund! Und wer's nie gekonnt, der stehle Weinend sich aus diesem Bund! Freude trinken alle Wesen An den Brüsten der Natur; Alle Guten, all Bösen Folgen ihrer Rosenspur. Küsse gab sie uns und Reben, Einen Freund, geprüft im Tod; Wollust ward dem Wurm gegeben, und der Cherub steht vor Gott. Froh, wie seine Sonnen fliegen Durch des Himmels prächt'gen Plan, Laufet, Brüder, eure Bahn, Freudig, wie ein Held zum Siegen. Seid umschlungen, Millionen! Diesen Kuß der ganzen Welt! Brüder, über'm Sternenzelt Muß ein lieber Vater wohnen. Ihr stürzt nieder, Millionen? Ahnest du den Schöpfer, Welt? Such' ihn über'm Sternenzelt! Über Sternen muß er wohnen. Bobby |
Indeed Bobby!
And this song for voice and piano by Beethoven. He elevates a so so poem to sculptural greatness. Massive and tragic. In questa tomba oscura lasciami riposar; Quando vivevo, ingrata, dovevi a me pensar, Lascia che l'ombre ignude godansi pace almen E non, e non bagnar mie ceneri d'inutile velen. ( by Giuseppe Carpani ) In this dark tomb let me lie; you should have thought of me when I was alive, you ingrate. At least leave naked spectres to enjoy their peace And do not bathe my ashes with futile venom. |
In some rather wonderful cases, the line between poet and songwriter just doesn't carry much weight. I give my respects to Dylan, who is a wonderful songwriter (as distinct from poet) and all in all a far greater artist, but I'm intersted for purposes of this thread in performers like Leonard Cohen. As most will know, Cohen was actually a published poet in Canada before he started making albums, including that perennial remedy for chronic celibacy, "Suzanne." He doesn't share Dylan's breadth or prolificacy, but he's every bit as intense. Also, he's only about half the singer that Dylan is (which is saying something), and like Dylan a number of his best songs have been performed better by others. Jeff Buckley's "Hallelujah" is the Cohen fan's counterpart to Hendrix's "All Along the Watchtower."
Here's one of my favorite Cohen songs, as transcribed by somebody on the internet. I first heard it, like most good Cohen stuff, in a version by somebody else--in this case, the same Suzanne Vega mentioned higher up in this thread. Her cover isn't to be missed. (Speaking of missing songs: is there anyone out there who isn't using iTunes yet, even if just casually? Ninety-nine cents for any song in their huge library! It also gives 30-second samples before you buy which are for the most part clearly audible--a treat!) Anyway, enough preamble. --CS Song of Isaac The door it opened slowly, my father he came in, I was nine years old. And he stood so tall above me, his blue eyes they were shining, and his voice was very cold. He said, "I've had a vision and you know I'm strong and holy; I must do what I've been told." So he started up the mountain, I was running, he was walking, and his axe was made of gold. Well, the trees they got much smaller, the lake a lady's mirror-- we stopped to drink some wine. Then he threw the bottle over, it broke a minute later, and he put his hand on mine. I thought I saw an eagle but it might have been a vulture, I never could decide. Then my father built an altar, and looked once behind his shoulder; he knew I would not hide. You who build these altars now to sacrifice these children, you must not do it anymore. For a scheme is not a vision and you never have been tempted by a demon or a god. You who stand above them now, your hatchet's blunt and bloody, you were not there before. When I lay upon a mountain, my father's hand was trembling with the beauty of the word. And if you call me brother now, forgive me if I inquire, just according to whose plan? When it all comes down to dust I will kill you if I must, I will help you if I can. When it all comes down to dust I will help you if I must, I will kill you if I can. Have mercy on our uniform, man of peace or man of war, the peacock spreads his fan. [This message has been edited by Clay Stockton (edited January 24, 2005).] |
I'm not sure of the title, but that Cohen song with the refrain "Democracy is comin' to the USA" is packed with wonder rhymes. I think he's a heckuva writer.
|
Dave, just for you . . . courtesy Google. ;)
There's just so much great stuff in Cohen . . . "Famous Blue Raincoat," "Joan of Arc," "Bird on a Wire" . . . zillions. Democracy It's coming through a hole in the air, from those nights in Tiananmen Square. It's coming from the feel that this ain't exactly real, or it's real, but it ain't exactly there. From the wars against disorder, from the sirens night and day, from the fires of the homeless, from the ashes of the gay: Democracy is coming to the U.S.A. It's coming through a crack in the wall; on a visionary flood of alcohol; from the staggering account of the Sermon on the Mount which I don't pretend to understand at all. It's coming from the silence on the dock of the bay, from the brave, the bold, the battered heart of Chevrolet: Democracy is coming to the U.S.A. It's coming from the sorrow in the street, the holy places where the races meet; from the homicidal bitchin' that goes down in every kitchen to determine who will serve and who will eat. From the wells of disappointment where the women kneel to pray for the grace of God in the desert here and the desert far away: Democracy is coming to the U.S.A. Sail on, sail on O mighty Ship of State! To the Shores of Need Past the Reefs of Greed Through the Squalls of Hate Sail on, sail on, sail on, sail on. It's coming to America first, the cradle of the best and of the worst. It's here they got the range and the machinery for change and it's here they got the spiritual thirst. It's here the family's broken and it's here the lonely say that the heart has got to open in a fundamental way: Democracy is coming to the U.S.A. It's coming from the women and the men. O baby, we'll be making love again. We'll be going down so deep the river's going to weep, and the mountain's going to shout Amen! It's coming like the tidal flood beneath the lunar sway, imperial, mysterious, in amorous array: Democracy is coming to the U.S.A. Sail on, sail on ... I'm sentimental, if you know what I mean I love the country but I can't stand the scene. And I'm neither left or right I'm just staying home tonight, getting lost in that hopeless little screen. But I'm stubborn as those garbage bags that Time cannot decay, I'm junk but I'm still holding up this little wild bouquet: Democracy is coming to the U.S.A. |
I'm stubborn as those garbage bags
that Time cannot decay, I'm junk but I'm still holding up this little wild bouquet..... I laugh every time I hear those lines. Thanks, Clay. |
Janet writes:
Quote:
I think there are technical differenfes in how you use words for songwriting as opposed to poetry, and I can't think of a single poem, set to music, which has benefited from it (Jerusalem, anyone? That lovely, awed, decate, wistful poem, set to ponderous portentous music). KEB |
Yes-I can think of one right off the bat: "All I Wanna Do" by Sheryl Crow. It's a kind of hipster twee "poem," but it makes a wonderful song.
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Surely that's a powerful, dramatic musical monologue rather than a song?
It packs a wallop and I like it but... Janet (I meant the Cohen) [This message has been edited by Janet Kenny (edited January 24, 2005).] |
Katy,
There are trillions of poems that were at least fully realised by music. Many of them are not in English. I would say that Britten's setting of a Lyke Wake Dirge is more tha equal to the words. Jerusalem is a rotten example. I can find lots of bad art in all fields. But the Russian repertoire, the French repertoire, the Spanish repertoire and the Irish and Scottish and Northumbrian. The English are not very good at it which is why I have to go elsewhere. But there are some superb settings in English as well. One has to separate singing from acting. A good actor can "put over" a song but a really fine song only needs to be sung. The sad thing about Renée Fleming is that in a more receptive age she would have been wonderful but now she has to add "posh" and "expressive" in order to grab any attention at all. Janet |
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