matilda-woodhouse46
I'm fairly new to poetry; hardly written any before....I am mainly a prose writer- flash fictions and working on a novel. Yet, upon listening to Ludwig van Beethoven's Pastoral Symphony one late night in March '14 inspiration flowed....his music is auditory poetry; a man who could not hear too well, yet heard what we all need to hear- his glorious music. / / I live in a city in a small house full of books, many of them vintage and some Victorian editions of John Keats' poetry, with a hundred year old piano, a 1930s gramophone, curios and my dreams. / / I long to live in the country....
On finding a little piece of living past-a fragment of paper dating from 1836, in an 1880s edition of George Elliot's Scenes of Clerical life (published by Blackwood and Sons).
The Paper holds many stories of the past, what secrets can it tell?
A carriage rolling over gravel, pulled by black horses;
an elegant gentleman and his sweetheart,
taking long walks in the park.
Her gloved hand in his, she wears her new dress,
shimmering blue which is echoed in her eyes,
and admired by her gentleman companion.
Marriage follows, a family of six children,
the faded dress given to the maid in the kitchen,
who wears it every Sunday into holes.
The Rag man collects it at the back door,
throws it into his cart, it begins a new life-
pulped by rough, red hands in a big vat,
the dress mixes with other rags, old unwanted
garments transforming into paper.
Its new life records the publisher's expenses;
pencils, ink, pens; all neatly inked into
its surface, kept in a book in a bureau.
Years pass and the records become old;
no longer needed; the pages are torn out,
cut neatly with scissors in a steady hand,
and fitted into the spine of a new book,
which tells the fictional tale of Milby Town.
History and fiction merge into one;
young lovers, hard working servants, Rag Men
and factory workers; pages turn- they record lives;
both real and imagined and speak to the future.
Sep 10, 2014
Sep 10, 2014 at 11:41 PM UTC
The leaves crunch under my feet and the wind plays with my hair,
the distant scent of woodsmoke fills the air.
I stop and breathe in the fresh scent of nature, here I find repose,
in my pocket a scrap of paper and pencil, I take them and compose.
Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 10:13 PM UTC
Frost makes patterns on the window panes
as his warm breath rises into the cold room.
Seated at his piano, the labour of his fingers on the keys,
ice trickles down the glass, like a tear drop.
Outside, voices rise into the October air,
their breath forming small clouds
of daily concerns, admonishments,
hurried footsteps, carriages passing by the window.
He rises to light the fire, sips at hot coffee,
warmth seeping within, quill scratches at paper,
creative fire rising, the ice withdraws, flows
into a series of memories, expressed by warm fingertips.
Tentatively, slowly, an inner world is revealed,
of a musician whose ears are frozen to chattering voices,
but who strikes fire into the hearts of those
who listen, and are swept away by the flood of passion.
Memories rise and fall with the notes in his silent room;
faces of those loved and lost, and longings to hear again,
the sound of the wind carrying the song of birds, shepherd's flutes,
and the timbre of sweet conversation.
With a soft sigh, he falls into her smile and rippling laughter;
the rising music pours out a torrent of youthful hope, then anguished despair, descending into quavering acceptance,
as browned leaves drift against the window.
Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 3:52 PM UTC
Hirtengesang. Frohe und dankbare Gefühle nach dem Sturm (Shepherds' song; cheerful and thankful feelings after the storm)
Droplets shaken,
fall from the old hat
as sensitive fingers
send them
back home.
Sunlight warms
brown faces,
knotty hands clasped
in thanks and joy.
Muted voices,
in the ears
of a silent man
walking away,
his notebook carrying
the sounds he hears in his soul.
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 10:28 AM UTC
Gewitter, Sturm (Thunderstorm)
Water falls
on the page
and taps the battered hat.
Voices rise
over the groans in the sky.
Seeking the arms
of the trees
sodden bodies huddle together
as one
shrugs into his coat
and raises his eyes to the Heavens.
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 10:27 AM UTC
Lustiges Zusammensein der Landleute (Happy gathering of country folk)
Piping rises in the air,
rough fingers tapping a rhythm
as earth stained feet
circle to nature's beat.
A scherzo of blurring colours
and laughter
seeping into the ink
of Beethoven's notebook.
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 10:26 AM UTC
Szene am Bach (Scene at the brook)
Reflections in the water-
gold undulates into the blue;
windows into other eyes
seeing anew.
Hearing with the heart,
ink stained fingers
scratch across the page.
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 10:26 AM UTC
(First Movement: Erwachen heiterer Empfindungen bei der Ankunft auf dem Lande (Awakening of cheerful feelings upon arrival in the country)
Leaves blow in the breeze
the music of trees
carried in the wind
to the ears who can hear
the symphony of nature.
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 10:24 AM UTC
Ludwig van Beethoven had a wretched cook;
who could make him a good soup?
He got in a mood and threw a book,
as the servant was such a fool,
to lie and act like a mule.
Ach! ***** Beethoven complains;
bad cooking gives him pains.
Only those whose heart is pure, will not find,
their soup on the floor.
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 10:22 AM UTC