Poemusical prompt
 

Please post poems inspired by music. (This could be providing lyrics to melodies, writing about a particular theme, or anything else.)

I'll start small-ish. This one's inspired by Mussorgsky's 'Gnomus' from Pictures at an Exhibition:


Gnomus

Tree axed to earth may gain rebirth in many carven shapes,
and from this holm jumps out a gnome intent on certain japes:
not planting blooms nor collecting 'shrooms nor casting rods for fish,
but cracking nuts to fill his guts is this one's fondest wish.

Come supper times, high up he climbs, and searches for his fare;
as dishes fly, shocked diners cry, 'Do mind my silverware!'
His eyes alight with pure delight upon the helpless snack;
he leaps, he gnaws, he clamps his jaws, the nut.. goes.. CRACK!

Here are a couple of pieces that appeared on Metrical a few years ago. This seems a good spot to give them another airing, although I should warn you that, most uncharacteristically, neither is at all humorous.


The Prince of Venosa

My thoughts on love? Good Sir, my wife betrayed me -
Yes, me, Gesualdo da Venosa, Prince,
And Count of Conza. She most foully played me,
So love’s a topic that revolts me since.

Her lover I dispatched by sword and gun;
On her, I used a well-honed hunting‑knife,
And when I saw that she was not quite done,
I slit the throat of my adulterous wife.

The only solace was my composition,
My madrigals, my sacred Tenebrae,
For music mitigates the soul’s attrition,
And, through the darkness, brings a glimpse of day.

My life has been both anguished and dramatic;
Perhaps that’s why my music’s so chromatic.

Requiem

Mozart was dying - not, as he thought, poisoned;
Perhaps rheumatic fever? No one’s sure.
The Requiem that sounded in his head
Was still unfinished, fragments of a score
His swollen hands could not complete; instead,
He hummed to others all those themes that foisoned
Within his mind. The day before he died,
He sang the work with family and friends,
And wept in desperation when they came
To “Lacrimosa”. Who knows how it ends?
He left it incomplete, but all the same,
What music-lover can remain dry-eyed?

People have been too ready to condemn
His wife, Constanze, for the common grave
Outside Vienna where his corpse was flung.
But, sadly, Mozart never learnt to save,
And died in debt. His death was mourned unsung -
She had no money for a Requiem.

Background Music

Ella sings “Is you is or is you ain’t”
But now I know and need no longer guess.
You ain’t. And now the soup is flavourless.

I talk too loudly. Ella sings again:
“you can’t be mine and someone else’s too”
Can’t fault you, Miss Fitzgerald; this is true.

Ella is in her element. She sings
“Miss Otis regrets”. Oh, Ella, so do I;
I’d give a lot not to have lunched today.

The fish is foul and the wine tastes of tar.
Ella is singing “all the things you are”;
I cannot think of anything to say.

Ella sings “every time we say goodbye”.
The sweetness leaches from the crème brulée.
I concentrate on trying not to die
A little.

Upheaval

Buried in the Haiti earthquake of 2010, musician Romel Joseph recalled concertos to keep his sanity. —Miami Herald

Sibelius and Brahms will pull me through
the dark, the dust (though everywhere all strings
have snapped, gone mute) — and Beethoven — my true
companions. Once per hour my wristwatch rings

as if school were still in session. I remain
immobile, yet they’re bound to pull me through,
release me from the deafening shrieks of pain.
Are you not coming, friends? You’re overdue.

The walls, the beams, the nails cannot subdue
more than my flesh. In chambers of my mind
the old composers sing — they’ll pull me through.
They always have. Will someone go and find

the broken fiddle bows? I want to know:
where are the children hiding? All I view
are streams of tones before blind eyes. Their flow,
I’m confident, can pull — will pull me through.

(Appeared in Better Than Starbucks.)

One Summer Day

An allusion to Beethoven

While walking through the woods one summer day,
he glanced along a river, clear and bright,
saw bubbling notes like dappled fish at play,
and dashed them off that night by candlelight.
Meandering down coniferous-scented trails
where chickadees and tree frogs made such noise,
he didn’t hear a thing except the scales
and chords and cadences that were his toys.
He couldn’t hear the leaves in the aspen thickets,
the deer flies buzzing round his graying hair,
the sound of countless madly rasping crickets,
nor the peals of far-off thunder in the air.
Yet who can miss those leaves, that summer breeze,
that river rushing through his symphonies?

(Appeared in The Society of Classical Poets.)

String Theory

Since everything’s made of curved space,
the universe came into being
from nothing, for everything’s nothing.
So while spending some time at my place,
since all that we are is vibration,
if we chance to be face to face,
perhaps about to embrace,
remember we’re nothing but string-loops.
When by accident fingers enlace
and our bodies get closer, imagine,
as we vibrate in other dimensions,
you’re my cello and I am your bass.

Rushing to the Gig

Walking the dog, then rushing to rehearsal

in traffic slow as slugs, exhaust from cars

making him gag, the place as far as Mars,

to play Variations On a Theme of Purcell

might seem to some a big ordeal, for what?

It wouldn’t have been so terrible had he

made sure to read the call sheet. For you see,

after he got through walking the small mutt,

he took him home, then headed for a city

which wasn’t where the orchestra was meeting.

When he realized, his brain cells started beating

him up. But it was not such a great pity,

for then he raced and got to the right place.

It would have helped, though, to have brought his bass.

(Appeared in Light.)

The Cymbal Player

As bows and fingers quiver strings,
as lungs and lips whip up the air,
as notes soar on great falcon wings,

one player, seated in his chair
like a finch hid in a maple tree,
as if the creature wouldn’t dare

trill out above the symphony
(perhaps in fear of being caught
by a raptor high above the lea),

begins to rise like an afterthought
amid the pianissimos
and, like a hunter’s rifle shot

as bright as ninety-nine rainbows
of overtones, he spreads, then hits
two plates together. The ether glows

like sunlight through the woods. He sits
back down. And yet the clang still rings
and darts and dances, flutters, flits

and, for the merest moment, clings,
then fades away like all brief things.

(Originally appeared in The Chimaera.)

A Change of Tune

While Abbie ambles round the food emporium
a shower of shallow ditties from the ceiling
renders her skull an empty auditorium.
She reaches for a carton of Darjeeling
and slips it in her shoulder bag. Is stealing
from stores that spew such pabulum so wrong?
As Abbie nears the apples, an appealing
melody makes her stop. No shopworn song,

but Bach — far out! — played by E. Power Biggs.
She grabs some miso (joy of man’s desiring),
St. Matthew Passion fruit, preludes and figs,
a wedge of Brandenburg. (Perhaps they’re hiring!)
But now she has to leave, her bliss too brief:
Muzak again. And, yes, she’s still a thief.

Variation of L12:
a few selected sweets. (Perhaps they’re hiring!)

Cherry Blossom Reverie

On Hearing Keiko Abe Play the Marimba

As mallets frolic, leap and fall
and blur into a cloud of flowers,
the rosewood fills the spacious hall

with dazzling white sakura showers
borne from the tree we picnicked under,
all our minutes, all our hours

passing like this tuneful wonder
quickening my memory
and, wild as taiko-drumming-thunder,

we danced beneath that floral tree
that shook the garlands from its hair.
That night I dreamed a glorious sea

of petals washed ashore, the air,
the land, our very souls in thrall
to blossoms blowing everywhere.

I see you whirling in the squall
as mallets frolic, leap and fall.

(Appeared in Cahoodaloodaling and Autumn Sky Poetry Daily.)

The Snare Drummer’s Plight

The highlight of the evening is Bolero.

The snare drummer begins the famous beat,

the marrow of the land of the torero.



The players, who have sprayed themselves with Deet,

ignore the insects swarming in the light

or lighting on the scores. The music’s bite

and lyric passion build each bar, with singing

strings, winds, and brass — while buzzing bugs seek meat.

One gently touches down and starts to eat
blood from the snare drum player’s nose. The stinging

clings like a picador’s sharp lance of worry.



How can he stop to scratch? His part must never

cut out. Time’s poky arrow will not hurry.

Bolero! May it live — not last — forever.

(Appeared in Autumn Sky Poetry Daily.)

The Silver of the Stars

We all look at a focal point in motion,

a stick moved by an arm moved by a brain.

We all have ears that listen to the rain

of timbres bouncing off the walls. What notion

had moved a mind to think of such a song,

where flutes echo the silver of the stars,

where oboes, cellos, clarinets, guitars

evoke the forest maples, where a gong

conjures up the Bronze Age? We rehearse—

a group of instruments as differing

as all the suns that make the universe.

Yet as our metals, woods, and drumheads sing,

they link us to the tremolos and trills

that once lulled us in the valleys and the hills.

(Appeared in The Chimaera.)

Thanks, Brian, Ann, Martin. Some great stuff there :-)

I've just realised 'Poemusicals' looks like musicals by Poe. I quite like that idea. This is new:


Bite too

But I could be a devil to you
I could bite like a tarantula
Right through the skin
And leave my poison dripping
Deliciously unsuspecting
Protecting you from all harm
Except perhaps from these arms
That hold you. (Faithless, 'Tarantula')


So you think you're a devil. You wish. Come, let's level:
00your bites leave no poison in me.
You have only saliva, mere man, whereas I've a
00true toxin I'll unleash with glee.
You may gnash your incisors and get a few risers
00from thoughts that you're causing me pain,
and that I need protecting. As if. Stop projecting.
00I don't want to tell you again.
I've a secret. I'm hybrid. I’m woman–arachnid.
00Some night I’ll go Tara on you.
I'll be huge, hot and hairy. You'll find me quite scary.
00You'll find that I like to bite too.

Fliss, Wow, that's excellent! Your poem certainly has a bite to it. And the anapests give it a wonderful lilt. Here are some double-dactyls, some of which I wrote for The Spectator (Competition No. 3162) thread.

Melody, harmony,
Sergei Rachmaninoff,
playing on stage, had a
memory slip;

played some wrong notes which, at
Birdland today, would sound
jazzicologically
utterly hip!


Higgledy-piggledy,
Mily Balakirev,
though quite inventive, wrote
at a snail’s pace.

He was inspiring, though —
Amateur writers grew
ultra-illustrious
thanks to his grace!


Higgledy-piggledy,
Daniel Barenboim
formed an alliance with
Edward Said.

Launched a youth orchestra—
Jewish and Arab play
ultra-concordantly!
What’s to forbid?


Schmorowitz, florowitz,
Vladimir Horowitz
practiced piano from
midnight till noon;

mastered such difficult
ultra-applaudable
works — yet, if pressed, couldn’t
carry a tune!


Higgledy-piggledy,
Simon & Garfunkel,
raised in the Kew Gardens
Hills part of Queens,

started a duo to
tickle girls’ fancies and,
ultra-delightfully,
had by their teens!


Higgledy-piggledy,
Sergei Prokofiev,
slammed as a “Formalist,”
landed in straits.

Trying to stifle him—
fools!—did you know he was
BeethovenMozartBach?
One of the greats!

If you want to read others (of mine and fellow Spherians) here is the link to the original thread:
https://www.ablemuse.com/erato/showthread.php?t=32144

And here are the results:
https://www.ablemuse.com/erato/showthread.php?t=32181

The Timpanist
(i.m. Alexander Lepak)

No gages graced those drums. No need to look
and check. He went on ear alone. The bowls
of hammered copper rumbled so they shook
the auditorium with thunder-rolls
or purred like surf-washed gravel, gently heaving.
We called him “Big Foot.” Working the tuning pedals,
he managed, though a thousand themes were weaving
contrapuntal mischief round the kettles,
to nail his pitches. Lowering his nose
as if he were about to smell the skin
or whisper secrets to it—in this pose,
he’d flick it with a finger, tuning in
to harmony, polyphony and scale,
mount music’s rolling cumuli, and sail.

* * *

A Grand Slam at the Opera

The timpanist would catch his baseball games
on headphones in the pit throughout each rest
while divas trilled about their ill-starred flames.
One night, as opera and the game progressed,
amid the final fiery duet,
a shout made Carmen all but drop her shawl,
a tone of triumph no one will forget —
a thrilled “Home run!” resounded through the hall.

Posted this planet poem in the wrong thread.

Quick Change

     backstage at The Nutcracker

The oboe sighs its last insinuation.
Applause. I tense. I ought to hear her bare
feet in the hallway. Flutes start shrilling. There!
The harem-girl trots up for transformation.

I fight the hooks-and-eyes and perspiration
that hold her clothes on. Something rips. I swear.
Applause. No time. I hurriedly prepare
her tights. The music’s much too fast. Damnation!

Applause. Just one more song to go, and I’m
still fumbling with the buckle of her shoe!
We hoist the massive, domelike skirt in place.
I fasten it. Applause. I paint her face
with Mother Ginger’s clown-lips, just in time.

From gorgeous to grotesque, so fast.
From gorgeous to grotesque, so fast. So true.


First published in Lucid Rhythms. Since this poem bewildered a lot of people, I should note that there is applause between each of the following variations in Tchaicovsky's Nutcracker ballet: Arabian dancers (Coffee), Chinese dancers (Tea), Russian dancers (Candy Canes), French dancers (Mirlitons - Marzipan Flutes), Mother Ginger/Gigogne and her Polichinelles (Ginger Snaps - small clown-children who emerge from her giant skirt). Traditionally, Mother Ginger is played by a man in drag, but in my daughters' youth ballet she was usually played by a teenaged girl who had also been cast as an Arabian dancer.


Here's a sequel, a few years later:


Final Performance

     backstage at The Nutcracker (2011)

It hurts to watch her watching them. It's plain
she'd love to join the other girls her age--
the dainty, tutued Mirlitons onstage.
Her clownish greasepaint doesn't hide her pain.

She's next. Her heavy hoopskirt will contain
Polichinelles...and yellow-purple-sage
bruising down one leg. I try to gauge
her stamina. I only ascertain

her stubbornness. She knows this is the last
Nutcracker her failing heart will give her.
The music starts. She radiates delight.

I smile. Then freeze. Miss Sylvia recast
that high-kicked skip as walking. Jenn! I shiver.
She'll high-kick if it kills her. And it might.


She'd just had a heart catheterization a few days before, hence the bruising down her leg (it had gone in through a femoral artery). Thanks to her heart donor, my elder daughter is now a college graduate, married, and living happily in Toronto.


Depending on how much time you have, someone whose name rings a bell also published a very long poem inspired by Leonard Bernstein's Chichester Psalms.

My Singing Basenji

My Basenji does not, of course, bark,
but she sings just as well as a lark.
**A coloratura
**who sang with bravura,
in the opera world, she left her “mark.”

Acclaimed for her excellent ear,
she sang twelve different operas a year.
**Her pitch was so sure
**and her tone was so pure
that her listeners, enthralled, would all cheer.

Her voice, loud and clear as a bell,
transfixed you, caused teardrops to swell.
**Her voice never cracked.
**The theaters were packed.
All were awed till the last curtain fell.

Her fan club consisted of bats,
opossums, raccoons, mice and rats,
**badgers, beavers and bears,
**humans, horses and hares,
coyotes … and even some cats.

Then one evening while singing Menotti
at the Met with the great Pavarotti,
**in the opening scene
**something quite unforeseen—
she squatted and out popped a potty

right on the proscenium stage!
The director went into a rage.
**The orchestra stopped,
**the curtain then dropped,
and they threw the poor dog in a cage.

That was it for my canine’s career.
But she still loves to sing, never fear!
**Though she ain’t no bow-wow-er,
**genes combined to endow ’er
with a voice that is pure crystal clear.

Of late she sings oldies and folk
and jazz. (Do you think I would joke?)
**She’s now singing for me
**with her paw on my knee
as we sit in our yard by the oak.

(Appeared in Lighten Up Online.)

Julie, great to see you here. Congrats for being published in Lucid Rhythms. I'm familiar with the performance of The Nutcracker, so I don't find the applauses odd. It's a wonderful poem, likewise 'Final Performance', and I've bookmarked the very long piece.

Martin, thanks for all the poems and links. Thanks also for enjoying my latest modest piece. Here's a sonnet inspired by one of Debussy's preludes (I'll rework it at some stage):


The hills of Anacapri

The world may hold much higher hills than these
00above Capri, quite modest in their heights,
not looming over close Tyrrhenian seas
00but leaning, taking in the sloping sights
of whitewashed homes on peaceful little lanes
00and veggie gardens in their leafy lines
and shops for cheeses, olives, gathered grains
00for fresh-baked breads, and jars of sun-washed wines;
yes, something more than majesty is here
00amidst the cliffs and stones and tropic plants,
the calls of gulls and goats that soothe the ear
00together with the monastery chants –
it is the spirit, kind and full of mirth,
such happiness on this Campanian earth.

Brian - I enjoyed both of your poems. Gesualdo was certainly a character!
I read that Mozart actually died because his doctor drew too much blood from him and he went into shock. But here is another hypothesis I just found:
https://www.chron.com/news/bizarre/a...rs-1735278.php

Annie - I love the combination of Ella’s singing in the background during the N’s meal and how it has a huge influence on how she (the N) assesses the taste of her dinner.

Fliss - I really enjoyed “The Hills of Anacapri.” It’s so image-filled and lyrical! Debussy, by the way, is one of my favorite composers. Here is a poem with both planets and music. It’s a blues sonnet.

Singing the Blues Between Mars and Jupiter


I sit here on this oblong asteroid,

atop this pirouetting asteroid,

recalling the adventures we enjoyed,



those times we tumbled in low gravity,

the thrill of tumbling in low gravity

like butterflies when you and I were “we.”



I hurtle through the void among the dust.

I hurtle with the stones and with the dust.

Sweep me to Earth on a tangent solar gust.



Once more we’ll skip and play in mutual orbit.

We’ll trip and dance and dart in mutual orbit

and feel each wave of moonlight and absorb it.



Come visit. Girl, don’t give me the cold shoulder.

Unfreeze the ancient ices on this boulder!

(Appeared in Tilt-a-Whirl: A Poetry Sporadical of Repeating Forms.)

Julie - I've seen "Quick Change" a while back on Metrical. I loved it then and still do. It was nice to read it again! "Final Performance" is disturbing and very well written. I remember your long poem at The New Verse News. I enjoyed it a lot and will read it again later today. By the way, I've played The Nutcracker more times than I can count. I've also played Chichester Psalms several times, too, both in its original full orchestral version and also the chamber version. I think The Nutcracker is perhaps Tchaikovski's best piece. Chichester Psalms is one of Bernstein's most enjoyable pieces, too.

Lost Chords

He had the ears for quarter tones
before the world unloosed a din
akin to cannonades of stones
drumming on auditory skin

that tried in vain to cry, “Be quiet!”
He had the ears for quarter tones
till horns and helicons ran riot
with gongs and bells and bass trombones

exciting his minutest bones
with thrumming, raucous resonance
while, now, a warbler’s quarter tones
fall dead like birds that hit a fence.

At times, however, surf or rain,
when soughing into megaphones,
will almost touch the heart or brain
of one whose ears heard quarter tones.

Here's another poem which has to do with both planets and music. (I'll also post this in the Planet Poem thread.)

Celestial Euphony

As dark and distant spheres resound like whale song in our ears
***and cosmic microwaves caress our spirit,
we pioneer, alone, across infinities of tone,
***amazed that we’re the only ones who hear it.

While we glide amid the planets plump as plums and pomegranates,
***sailing with the interstellar current,
the sounds we make are quiet or they’re louder than a riot,
***but for grooving, neither’s ever a deterrent.

With clari-snare and flute-o-phone and tromba-sax and lute,
***xylo-horn and cymbal-harp and cello,
we shake our little craft with a great hurricane-like draft,
***cacophonous while synchronously mellow.

There’s no one at the wheel; the skipper capers to a reel,
***a jig, flamenco, jota, or a salsa.
While galaxies collide, we’re absolutely occupied
***as we zip through space in a ship as light as balsa.

If we chance on a black hole and, inattentive, lose control,
***free-falling ever faster in its eddy,
we won’t freak out or panic, we will go on being manic
***till the cosmos bellows, “Guys, enough already!

(Appeared in Lighten Up Online. It's also the first poem in my book Celestial Euphony.)

Hi Martin,

Thanks for enjoying 'Anacapri'. Debussy's one of my favourites too. I often listen to his piano music while I'm at work and I've written a poem inspired by each of his preludes.

I enjoyed your blues piece (combining music and planets). Quarter tones are cool and I like all the instruments in 'Celestial Euphony'. Congrats on your book too :-)

I'm heading back to Mussorgsky now. Here's 'The Old Castle'; the furtive flavour of the movement (particularly in Ravel's orchestral version) brought to mind a secret love affair when I wrote the poem a few years ago. Sorry it's a bit long!


The Old Castle

The stone wall stands so tall, for a moment he sighs
00and considers returning to town,
when a memory comes, of her beautiful eyes
00and her figure so graceful in gown,
then he sees a firm foothold, determines to try
00to make true on the promise he swore,
'I shall sing to my love of my love till I die,
00then my spirit sing love evermore!'

He embarks on the climb, scales the uppermost heights,
00and peers down into grand garden grounds,
lustrous lawns, beauteous blooms, clothed in moon's languid lights,
00and the guards on their stern midnight rounds,
but they do not glance up as they march swiftly by,
00and he tunes to the flowery floor,
'I shall sing to my love of my love till I die,
00then my spirit sing love evermore!'

He descends among lime limbs to crouch in long grass,
00then steals slowly alongside box hedge,
as soft lavender lemon balm southerlies pass,
00with the scent of the far sea and sedge,
then he hears distant waves breaking hungry and high
00and he calls to the warrior roar,
'I shall sing to my love of my love till I die,
00then my spirit sing love evermore!'

He approaches the tower door, made of oak beams,
00yet ajar for his flight up the stairs
to her turret room, till now viewed only in dreams
00but inspiring a thousand cantaires,
then he sings to his sweetheart until he is dry
00and he whispers, 'How I thee adore!
I shall sing to my love of my love till I die,
00then my spirit sing love evermore!'

Fliss, your poem reflects the beauty of the saxophone melody, the mystery of the harmonies, and the suspense of the rising clarinet sequence. I enjoyed it.

Thanks for liking those poems of mine. “Lost Chords” is in a repeating form called a quatern. So perhaps “quarter” kind of mirrors that, since each stanza is a quarter of the whole. But it’s actually a music term, a quarter tone being one quarter of a whole tone or major second (i.e., half a semitone).

I’m also glad you liked the blues piece and “Celestial Euphony.” The book, by the way, has an assortment of poems on different topics, including several on music and astronomy, but also a lot of poems about nature and how we interact with the world around us.

Thanks, Martin; I'm pleased you enjoyed it :-)

Incidentally, I rewrote the final stanza to make 'Interrupted Serenade' (another Debussy prelude). Here it is from the later poem:

He approaches the tower, but suddenly, 'Oof!',
00he trips over a hedgehog and groans,
and the guard-dogs are on him in fury, 'Woof-woof!',
00as he lies in the herb bed and moans,
then the guards come and grab him, ignoring his sigh
00as they throw him back over the wall,
'I shall sing to my love of my love till I die,
00then my spirit... oh, bugger it all.'

You're welcome for the likes. I'd heard of quarter tones.

Some time I'll pop to Amazon to see
if I can find Celestial Euphony.

Best wishes,
Fliss

Hi Fliss,

That Debussy pieces is one I haven’t heard too often. Parts of it remind me of parts of Images pour orchestre.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jp-C3Lbgo5M&t=13s

Have you heard this video?

Michelangeli - Debussy - La Serenade interrompue
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8dzToTknolk

Here’s another rendition:

Daniel Barenboim: Debussy - La Sérénade interrompue (Préludes - Book I)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TOhsImDNQ2A

Your last stanza is really funny! I love it. (Incidentally, I figured that you knew what a quarter-tone is.)

Since you expressed interest in my book (Thank you!), here is the Amazon link:
https://www.amazon.com/Celestial-Eup...1793202&sr=8-1

Do you have any books out of your poems? If so, I’d love to read it.

Best,
Martin

Hi Martin,

Yes, I think that piece is one of Debussy's lesser-known preludes. It does sound like parts of the Images.

Thanks for the links to Michelangi and Barenboim; I watched and listened during a work break today. I like watching people playing the piano.

Re. Michelangeli, before he started playing he looked like he was going to fall onto the keyboard, and I enjoyed the facial expressions he adopted throughout the piece.

The Barenboim was interesting to watch, but I didn't find the elegant lady entirely convincing. I think the viewer is meant to imagine what takes place behind the pillars, but it wouldn't have been a bad idea to throw in at least a fleeting shot of an attractive man.

Thanks for enjoying the revised stanza. And thanks for the link to your book; I'll see if it's available on Kindle on amazon.co.uk

It hasn't occurred to me to submit anything to a publisher, so there are no books to read. A lot of my writing has taken the form of private commissions and I haven't had time to think about anything else with all the work going on too. You'll probably laugh at me, but I would like to set up my own little poetry press one day.

Now, here is 'Entry', inspired by Schumann's Waldszenen. I wrote it with Word-Bird (my mascot), who here is named 'Coo'. We posted the series on a site where Coo has quite a following. 'H'indeed' :>)


Entry

As Autumn daubs her colours in our views
0of chestnut, lime grove, oak across the way,
midst Summer's greens, those mid-September hues
0of bronze and orange, yellow, day by day,
we contemplate a trip to ancient woods
0within imagination, free from pain
and dressed in flowered gowns with matching hoods
0in fabric well designed for sun and rain,
to wander through vast avenues of pine
0or pause awhile by sweetly singing streams
and sing ourselves, while quaffing fragrant wine,
0the Waldszenen that come to us in dreams;
so, 'Let's begin,' quoth Coo, 'upon our tour
of plantings, hauntings, prophet-bird, and more.'

That's lovely, Fliss. Here's something interesting I found:

On the set, Schumann wrote: "The titles for pieces of music, since they again have come into favor in our day, have been censured here and there, and it has been said that 'good music needs no sign-post.' Certainly not, but neither does a title rob it of its value; and the composer, by adding one, at least prevents a complete misunderstanding of the character of his music. What is important is that such a verbal heading should be significant and apt. It may be considered the test of the general level of the composer's education."

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Waldszenen

I think it's a great idea to set up your own poetry press. I don't know what that would entail, but I'd love to see how it turns out.

Martin, thanks for that very interesting quote. I like Schumann; I used to enjoy playing his piano music. One of my first piano books was called Il Mio Primo Schumann and it had a striking line drawing of the composer on the front cover. I've just found it here.

The proposed poetry press would most likely evolve from the proposed poetry blog, linking from poets' notes on the blog to some sort of e-publishing house. I like the idea of focusing on short poems.

That said, here's a slightly longer poem, lol, inspired by another Debussy prelude:


Puck's dance

Good day! I'm Puck. I've come to stay with you. You're asking why?
Lord Oberon just sent me. He's a mighty type of guy.
Well, Fairy King's his title. And he's short and dark and cute.
So here I am, upon your porch. I'm in my sharpest suit!

Invite me in? Why, thank'ee kindly. Ginger-pig! At heel!
Yes, here's my giant guinea pig. She loves her candied peel.
Down, Ginger! Sorry! She's just pleased to see you, in her way.
She'll be no trouble, just needs feeding thirteen times per day.

So, I can cook and I can clean. I like to garden too.
And all performed as one deft dance. Let's start. There's lots to do!
I'll prep a shepherd's pie and while it bakes I'll hoover stairs.
Your orchard's full of windfalls. Puck'll pick up all the pears.

Ah, handshake. Glad to be of service. Apron on, we're off!
Well, this is strange. The pie has changed. Behold, a stroganoff!
The stairs are in the hoover bag. The pears are on the trees!
And Ginger's drunk on perry, ha. She's waltzing on her knees!

What's that? Get out? I can't. His Fairy Highness sent me here.
I'm Puck. I've come to stay with you. I couldn't be more clear.
It's what I do. I come to stay. 'Til Obers calls me back.
When? I don't know. He never says. Come, Ginger. Let's unpack!

I don't know if this is a music poem or a planet poem.

The Distant Moon

A boy named Stan goes to a restaurant
accompanied by Stephanie, his aunt
**at noon the twelfth of June.
Stan has salad, soup, and broiled fish;
aunt Stephanie has rice and a side dish
**of beans. They hear a tune

played on a baby grand: it’s “Clair de Lune.”
The restaurant is called “The Distant Moon.”
**They think something is queer
about the place. Their lunch is quite delicious,
yet there is something here that seems fictitious.
**There is no atmosphere.

It appears to be both; excellent :-)

Clair de Lune was one of my favourite piano pieces to play. For some reason, the moon turned up in another of the prelude poems. It was workshopped on Poets' Graves; many changes were suggested, until people decided they preferred the original after all, lol.


Swirls

That evening, as a full moon rose,
she played their piano for a while –
a tune of subtle swirls and slows –
and he, though ill, began to smile.

She played their piano for a while;
the scent of night-stock wafted in
and he, though ill, began to smile –
an owl outside performed a spin.

The scent of night-stock wafted in
with memories of kinder years;
an owl outside performed a spin;
the sounds were pleasing to his ears.

With memories of kinder years,
a tune of subtle swirls and slows;
the sounds were pleasing to his ears
that evening, as a full moon rose.

That's a fine pantoum, Fliss.

Discovery Concert

HSO, January 16, 2007, 10:30 a.m. at Bethel AME, Bloomfield, CT.

Bright colors, green and blue and red, like stars
in space fly to their eyes from the stained glass
***while the children listen to
the symphony as sweet as candy bars
and bitter as oppression. Woodwinds, brass,
***percussion, strings speak through

the atmosphere of this small church today
commemorating Martin Luther King,
***whose message still rings true
despite the fact mankind has a long way
to go before that dream’s what all folks sing.
***Like an island that’s in view

a good ways off (we all sit in the ship
that’s heading there), that vision features trees
***with fruits of every brand.
The journey will be quite a lengthy trip,
but not as hard as scaling hills on skis
***or tough as trying to land

on some distant planet circling Betelgeuse.
The children — skinny, fat, black, brown, and white —
***hear wild harmonious sounds
and know inside that, like these tones that fuse
and blend within their minds to cause delight,
***their dreams shall have no bounds.

Thanks, Martin; that one was fun to write :-)

I like 'Discovery Concert', especially for 'sweet as candy bars and bitter as oppression' and the variety of children. Is this the series?

I'll come up with something new soon; I've been jotting down ideas today and now I just need the time :-)

Best wishes,
Fliss

Hi Fliss. Yes, that's the series. That concert was with our previous conductor, Edward Cumming. I look forward to seeing your new music-inspired poem (when you finish it).

Hi Martin,

Sorry; nothing new for this thread this evening. Work has been complicated today and I ran out of time. However, here's another sonnet inspired by a Debussy prelude. It needs work, but it could be worse, maybe, lol.


Bruyères

Returning to Bruyères in 1910,
00some years before the Second World War rout,
he brought his drafting book and fine-nib pen
00in hopes to overcome his writing drought –
and this he did, upon vivacious streets
00all flanked by merry red-roofed shops and homes,
and by the castle, where astounding feats
00had been performed, as told in tunes and tomes;
his Muse sang sweetest, though, in town surrounds,
00in mountain woods with sunlight through the pines,
the calls of birds and deer his favourite sounds,
00enticing as the region's finest wines –
and Sylvie there, a girl he used to know,
he'd loved her 'til her death, so long ago.

And now for something new.

I'll be posting this poem at Freshtival too, but here I'm including the music bit.


Trip 1 of 3

Enjoy this trip
Enjoy this trip
And it is a trip
Countdown is progressing

Uno dos
Uno, dos, tres, quatro

[Dag-a-dag-a-dag, dag-a-dag-a-dag!]

F'Express


The trolley-bed awaiting me is close yet miles away.
I start to rise, get on my feet. 'Come on, come on!' I say.
The spasms start again. I scream, I roar. The pain is wild.
I want my mum. I'm 41 and suddenly a child.
I grab the bed and sit. 'No, sweet. Get on it properly now.'
I try. I scream. They grab my leg. I cry, 'Ow-ow-ow-ow...'
'What's going on?' A voice outside the curtains, soft and clear.
'They're [sigh],' Bro. A. explains. Then something else I can't quite hear.
A yellow pipe appears. It smokes. 'Inhale, good girl,' says Chong.
I breathe in breathe out, play the pipe. My woodwind lungs are strong.
The nurses blur, the spasms shrink. The curtains sway and part.
Bro. A. and Tess are here. Tess holds her hand against her heart.
'Hey yous!' I say. They hold my feet. She's left and he is right.
They raise and shift. They watch my face. We're spinning through the night.
I start to sing, of Mol' Malone, fair Dublin, pretty girls,
the cockles, mussels turn and turn in rushing rainbow whirls.
Now Brother A. is saying, 'Partly Irish', to a nurse
and Chong has finished bandaging. 'Good! Now it won't get worse.'
The spinning's slowing. Brother A. and Tess have left the room.
My clothes come off and I'm re-dressed in square-print gown of gloom.
The pain again. My nails are knives. I stab my wrist, my palm.
I whimper. Teddy Teague appears. He whispers, 'Just keep calm.'
'To AMU!' says Chong. 'Good luck,' he adds and pats my hand.
We ride to station no. 2 in Gloucester Hospiland.

I haven't posted here for a while, but I have been considering something rather ambitious, inspired by Stravinsky's The Rite of Spring.

This is all Bernstein's fault, really. I watched this video of him conducting the orchestra and a few thoughts started to spark. I think it's the fastest speed I've ever heard the Rite being played 🥰

Thanks for the link, Fliss, to that fantastic video. I've watched a lot of Bernstein performances, but I've never seen this one. It is, indeed, a fast tempo in many of the sections, especially the end of the first part, as well as the finale of the whole piece. But I love the way he stretches the tempo in the majestic brass and timpani fanfare that happens around halfway through the second part at the 26-minute mark. The most amazing thing is that Bernstein conducted the whole piece from memory (without a score).

You're welcome, Martin :-)

Yes, I was struck by the end of the first part too, I think particularly the trumpet cha-cha-cha-cha-cha-cha, if memory serves. The video isn't loading at the moment; I'll try again later so I can listen out for the fanfare you mention. Bernstein seems pretty awesome so I can well imagine him capable of conducting from memory!

I haven't got around to writing the Rite yet, but I'll try soon :)

Best wishes,
Fliss