The story is that Rachmaninov was depressed for three years from 1898 to 1901. Eventually he sought the help of Dr. Nikoli Dahl who saw Rachmaninov daily using hypnotherapy and psychotherapy. Rachmaninov responded favorably to these treatments. In 1902 he composed his Piano Concerto No, 2. There are, of course, many great and beautiful musical compositions.

But Rachmaninov's Piano Concerto No. 2, along with Beethoven's 1st, 3rd, 5th, 7th, and 9th symphonies, together with Bach's Brandenburg Concertos and his Toccata and Fugue in G Minor stand at the pinnacle of the world's pyramid of great music.

I have written poems since my early 20s. A poem is not a symphony, but it
is a work of art. Do I ever feel the way Rachmaninov felt when he heard
the deafening applause after No. 2 was performed for the first time?

Close.

Copyright 2020 Tod Howard Hawks

SNOW FALLS

she wakes
to a morning
with no reason for living

cries in the mirror
to be
forgiven

puts on her make-up
takes off her clothes
sits there & bleeds

until she can’t feel
the blood in her veins
runs cold

the razor blade
bleeds
bleeds

the cat
cries
to be fed

the batteries in her Walkman
go dead
the Rachmaninov stops

a letter
she will never read
drops on the Welcome mat

a mobile
rings & rings &
...stops

a member of
a minor political party
looking for her vote

rings the doorbell twice
slips on the ice & ruins his coat
curses

a man laughs
at another man’s joke
it’s a big laugh...he’s a big bloke

laughter
invades the square
there’s a chill in the air

a friend calls for her
(to go on a blind date)  
...she doesn’t hear

snow...
...snow...
...snow falls

Radio
was playing Piano Concerto
by Sergei Rachmaninov,
and I felt like passion and love
were filling my heart.

My heart is like a dove.
And I'm off,
I'm off to Paradise.

And it can rain
and it can snow,
and Fate
can tumble the dice.
Nothing can stop me now,
on my way
on my way to Paradise.

She was a friend of Amber Clark
You know, you've met her before
She's the girl who listens secretly
To Bach behind the door
The Closet Classic ******
Who wears shirts of the Ramones
But listens to Rachmaninov
whenever she's alone

Jennifer McSweeney
known by all upon the street
She had kind words for everyone
She liked everyone she'd meet
She ate meals at Giannis
Knew the Pawnbroker, Old Cy
She listened to the bluesman
Whenever she came by

Like all the folks upon the street
Jennifer was dark
Not gothic, but you could say grey
She was set to make her mark
She was going to be famous
Her face upon the Silver Screen
She was going to be a movie star
Like The Truck Stop Beauty Queen

Jennifer loved movies
Not the ones that can be found
At the local dvd store
She liked the movies without sound
Her little quirk was that she
Liked the movies from the start
They told tales in black and white
These were strong in Jenni's heart

Buster Keaton, Harold Lloyd
Fatty Arbuckle, and more
Zasu Pitts, Charlie Chase
They struck her to her core
L and H, The Keystone Kops
She loved to see them grapplin'
But none of these compared to her
deep love for Charlie Chaplin

The Cineplex would show a film
They would host a special week
When silent movies were the shows
When nobody did speak
Jennifer would take the time
To watch each film they showed
She was so happy when the week came round
She positively glowed

The kids she knew, all thought her odd
Because of what she liked
But, when the silent week was here
Jennifer was psyched
One year she went to the next town
To get a small tattoo
It was all done up in black and grey
It was what she had to do

Like other girls who have been inked
It was in the same place
But, it was little, very non descript
Of her favorite actors face
She told few friends about it
And though she never did get violent
If you laughed at her tattoo
Like Chaplin, she'd be silent

She kept it to herself most times
Her little bit of ink
As she aged she'd show it more
For the cost of just one drink
She would take them to her bedroom
And by the light of her small lamp
She would show her tattoo proudly
Chaplin....her little ***** stamp

It's the thing that she is known for
She's the girls with Charlie's face
Where others all have Chinese Words
She has Chaplin in this place
She is known for loving movies
In black and white, and though it's camp
She gives a whole new meaning to
Having a ***** stamp.

I’ve been walking down IKEA
however dull it sounds
I saw a girl
Round my age, maybe younger
With eyes as melancholic as mine
She was tapping Rachmaninov on a wooden table
with tears dripping down her hollowed face
And I shivered
Because I used to be her

Armchairs and whiskey.
Bottle on the side table.
Eyes open wide, unable
to sleep. Thoughts creep
into his shaking skull.
Hands shake and grip the bow.
He pulls his scream across a string,
because his throat won't voice his wearied woe.

The sound's more than just pain,
and it tells more of his aching bones
than it should.
He plays the tears he can't show,
and it's understood
as the instrument moans.
That's all he needs to show a world
that doesn't know what his pain sounds like.
He'd talk about it if he could. Rachmaninov understood.

no. poetry can be swirling
across the keyboard like a Rachmaninov
order from chaos
no meaning or rhyme
no rhythm all the time
idolising Bukowski
ending abruptly

My tears can't tell

the depth of my pain

in throes it breaks my heart

again and over again



yet there's no escape

and for love I'll die in vain

oh let me sleep, sleep away

to be forgotten in some unknown plain

Pianos and keys
ink
and the words start to play

She's down with the beat

Caffeinated dreams where Rachmaninov
seems really quick,

Sheet
music
from the music box maker
take a look inside the factories
pianos and
keys
ink by the litre
I meet her
at ten
pianos again
key's in the door
she
plays me some more
Bizet
she'll say something
I'll hear her,
comfortable and confidante

In the stuffed easy chair
content to be there
with her
the piano
keys
she's
comfortable too.

I  MET  HIM  WHEN  HE  WAS ONLY  EIGHTEEN MONTHS  OLD,
WITH  DARK  HAIR AND  EYES  THAT  LOOKED  SO  BOLD,
STAYING AT  HIS  GRANDPARENT'S HOUSE  FOR  AWHILE,
NOBODY KNEW THAT  HE  WOULD  BE  SO  TACTILE;
HE  GAVE  ME  HIS  TOYS AND  MYSTERIOUS  LOOK,
HE'D  TURN  OUT  GREAT NO MATTER HOW LONG IT TOOK;
MANY YEARS LATER WE SETTLED IN THE CONCERT HALL,
WE DIDN'T REALIZE THE EVENING WOULD BE SO MAGICAL,
HE STRODE ON TO THE STAGE WITH BLACK SPRINGY HAIR,
BOWED TO THE AUDIENCE AND SAT DOWN AT THE PIANO;
HE STARTED WITH RACHMANINOV CONCERT IN C MINOR,
AND THEN CONTINUED WITH CHOP'IN NOCTURNE OPUS 15,
GOD, IT WAS SO BEAUTIFUL, IT MADE YOU CRY - THE MELODY WOULD HANG,
I REMEMBERED THE SMALL BOY I MET CALLED YANG YANG.