#chopin
I'm getting used to being alone again,
To noiseless evenings, torturing by coolness,
To sickening evenings with their twinkle stars,
Which harshly tear my soul by stuffy stillness.
I'm getting used to being alone again,
Alone with Chopin in all the evenings long.
I fall upon my pillow and shut off,
And in the morning my alarm's 'ding-dong'
Well now, hello, my dear, and come in.
Where've you got lost, my sweet and precious friend?
We'll wade through whole life with you, my loneliness,
From this time forth up even to the end.
Mar 22, 2025
Mar 22, 2025 at 6:22 PM UTC
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"""""
Whether composed,
ailing...or up and about,
i'm always roaming
in this untouched forest,
where trees are tall with
inspirations...abundantly
blooming with lovely
words and phrases...and,
i always find you there.
i see you peeking, at the start
or, in the middle,
at the end...even between
the lines of a poem.
you're bound to mind
by indestructible ropes
made from vines and roots
of a durable tree...you seem
to be, unthinkably permanent,
not even Chopin's etudes,
or Schubert's serenade
could unbind you.
you emerge from buckets i fill
with water, or from the ***
where i make meat sauce...you
rise amongst tangled leaves of
the asparagus fern, or the crisp
and fragrant oregano plants.
there, you dwell pensively
within my forest of thoughts
because............because,
you are the poem,
the longest, i ever wrote.
~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~
~~~~~
sally b
©Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
August 22, 2021
Aug 22, 2021
Aug 22, 2021 at 3:34 AM UTC
Normally this isn’t the way it goes, but this time I’ll do differently
And so I ask who are you? What is your name?
Do you like running? I do as long as I can breathe
I dream of a day where I can run freely in silent poplar forests without my lungs weighing me down
What is your favorite kind of music? Do you like pop, rock, or hip-hop?
Is your soul kneaded and worked by tender hands like Jazz? Swing?
I may not look the part, but I love classical music; there’s something about listening to Chopin’s Nocturnes that makes me feel as if I am right there with him, sitting in the pews of an abandoned church whose dead parishioners long ago grew bored of contemplating their sins. I feel as if I am gently sipping his breath like one would coffee that’s still a bit too hot, savoring the stories he weaves out of thin piano strings that taste like moonlight
It is a flavor that seldom is tiresome
I wish I could cook some for you
If you could go anywhere, anywhere in the world, where would it be?
Would you roll into an airport with your luggage in New York? Tokyo?
Would you brave the crushing heat of Cairo for a glimpse of Giza?
I would go anywhere, anywhere you’d like, as long as we come home
I’ll open the door and immediately turn on the space heater—I can sense you hate being cold
While the tea is warming on the stove, we’ll talk about your favorite artist’s best album
Listening until we’re interrupted by the shrill shriek of a teapot needing attention
And that night I will dream that my footsteps will never be lonely
I’m terribly sorry, who are you and what is your name?
I do not know; you are there and I am in here; my mouth is so dry it hurts
Neither coffee nor alcohol can spur me to action
There is nothing I can drink
I can imagine, but I will never ask
I already have, so many times
Dec 24, 2019
Dec 24, 2019 at 8:35 PM UTC
Sometimes you can hear not with ears, but with a skin: with your fingers on fabric, with your hair sinking thought the palms, with your muscles on anxious joints.
Sometimes you can hear not the music, but emotions. Words, voices, harmony, rhythm, — all of them are spiralling into one multidimensional Rubik's Cube; all of them are thickening into a rich hodgepodge of colours; and then you can’t understand if the drums are ringing inside of your brains or if the song itself is closing its eyes with joy.
Sometimes you can hear nothing.
And nothing can sometimes hear you.
Today you hear winter.
Being on the ground floor it’d be like being outside.
Your elbows are on a windowsill. Your droopy eyes are chained to a sleepy late-night path.
You are therefore one short step from that path: just breathe and touch the earth with your cosy socks. The earth is chubby because of yesterday’s raindrops.
Smells like roaring lorry. Hears like water and warm winter.
The colour palette is in shades of a half past four morning.
On the opposite side of your street your neighbour still keeps Christmas: the garland made of white-blue lights flickers during four finger taps, and is lit during three. One-two-three-four, one-two-three. You can almost hear ‘Fantaisie Impromptu’ by Chopin. Right. Four. Left. Three.
That white-blue trembling sneaks into puddles along with the low smiles of lanterns further down the block. The blue glow is dancing, the copper illumination is dearer.
The cat runs — grey mouse — grey stain — on the canvas.
The windows are like card backs in Tarot spread on the walls like on the tables.
The windows are mirrors, and the mirrors are caves.
The windows run with perspective.
With the cat.
Tell us, sky! Do you exist? Have you been always franking us? Both on the left, both on the right one cannot find a difference. Your colour is lullabying.
Your colour is dual; at first glance it’s pure blue-plum gouache, but looking closely… The sky is scarlet. Scarlet as a wisp of a tapestry.
The scarpestry breaks through plumouache.
Suddenly a little white twinkle hops into winter, and suddenly dies.
Your heart has grown to your tongue root and to your little alcove under your ribs, and the heart is writing-writing-writing, and is escorting passing cars, and is fuming-fuming-fuming, and is sweating like in a sauna.
It’s dribbling outside.
Homely.
Nothingly.
Nov 5, 2019
Nov 5, 2019 at 12:33 PM UTC
A procession of pink lilies
upon a blackened road with
white dots on its surface
For what do they protest?
Dusk and twilight approaching
Everyone is holding a
black candle in its hands
The trees turned down
their blank stare and
lapsed into silence
Someone's playing Chopin's
funeral march on a piano
covered with ivy
It is a requiem mass about
the death of pure beauty
Jan 5, 2019
Jan 5, 2019 at 6:39 AM UTC
I said it was not meant for me,
But what did I mean?
For any youth, any love,
Whose prey who might be,
On whom you’d lean,
In your semi-corseted skirt,
Or dressed full fig.,
Stalking into town,
Shocking men in wigs,
Luring them into false love,
As others had been?
Would you capture me,
Chaining my soul to your heart,
So I must carry on playing
At your command?
I see your dress under the piano,
And your boots and pantaloons;
The piano is not my voice,
Though you insist it is.
I shot a drunken man for you,
Which made me more your slave.
You woke urges I suppressed,
Too strong for one so frail.
With words you pushed me
But caused music to pour
From me as love did.
A storm of disapproval raged all round
Our Paris nest of love and art,
You came and went like a soldier, shielding us,
And at home you urged me on,
To impromptu inventions,
Yet causing us to depart.
Packed into a cabochon,
You shanghaied me,
Away to Majorca
And the wintry sea.
Your searing love and the island’s cold
Were too much for me,
And I escaped with my art.
Jul 8, 2018
Jul 8, 2018 at 8:52 PM UTC
the floating liquid pearls
from the Moon clouds--
and--
the smell of Sunday.
the window, a shield from the rain
yet I Feel it in me
as I drip out--Drop, by
drop.
through a cord, Chopin walks into my ears
and sits--
never begins but has been playing,
as droplets become piano keys.
far away, a chime Echoes
from a spiderweb of
iron, under a velvet sky
full of ghosts.
little golden moons line the shops,
and their moonlight blends into the fallen water,
and paints the Street
with an aroma of rose.
the dull click of shoes on cobblestone
crescendos
to where I linger--
i turn, and he takes me by the hand.
each step, a note--
we move with the Rain.
composing a piece already written,
already played.
in joins the rose, and the
watercolor moons--
two fragments of stars
dancing underneath the rest.
but I slip; fade,
a halfstep removed,
and like the cobweb clouds outside my window,
my mind rolls on.
Nov 5, 2017
Nov 5, 2017 at 10:47 PM UTC
ancient aches in chains
contained in the howls and hyacinth
the breast of syntonic refrain
halcyon honey hews sentience
with peals painting elysian fields
saturated in nocturnal opalescence
eclipse echoes along cathedral aisles
cleansing heathens in fifth progression
anointment of epiphany reconciled
Oct 17, 2017
Oct 17, 2017 at 12:42 PM UTC
I wonder where it's at
that Chopin recital
of the Nocturnes,
he muses, she said
the pianist's name
which sounded Polish,
but where she didn't say.
She was talking to another
woman on the train,
sitting to one side
in a window seat.
A goddess in a green dress,
legs crossed, thigh showing,
but no news where it was at,
whether they were going
or when or not.
He dared a glance,
taking the goddess
and the other to mind,
then closing his eyes
pretending to be blind.
Sep 2, 2017
Sep 2, 2017 at 1:25 PM UTC
the sound of Waltz Nocturne
in A Minor, does Chopin's rhythm a romantic duet's dance
played time and again by todays masters
re discovering the innocent genius of a child
the Waltz,
a composition to be heard in every generation to come
to bring romance and tears
to bring joy and humor
to bring a song for dance and the music of a memory
A musicians legacy might be just for you.
May 17, 2017
May 17, 2017 at 11:23 AM UTC
I play the Chopin piece
over and over
on the piano.
Mother behind me
in her chair
listening critically
the tips of her fingers
tapping the beat of time
on the arm.
I think of Benny
being there
his chin on my shoulder
breathing
him whispering words
in my ear.
You played that bar
or so too fast
Mother says
go back.
I stop and go back
and begin again.
Trying to focus
my fingers nimble
my mind elsewhere
not on Chopin's piece
even as I play.
I muse
on Benny and I
in my bed at night
when he stayed
and I crept to the room
he was in
close to him
kissing and holding
but no ***
just in case.
That's not how
Chopin meant it
to be played
Mother says
pushing thoughts
of Benny
from my head.
May 3, 2017
May 3, 2017 at 2:59 PM UTC
Let's make these fingers play,
Across eighty-eight keys of wood and ebony,
In perfect, scale, rhythm and harmony.
Decipher the dots and dashes,
And break all the rules,
once you know all the clashes.
You could learn,
From the masters of this game,
Probably Beethoven,
Who played it with honesty and power;
Or Chopin,
Who played it with delicateness,
And poetry;
Or even Liszt,
Who played without hesitation,
And to woo women;
Or Rachmaninoff,
Who used his sizely hands,
To the fullest,
Using clean moves and precision.
There are many masters of this game,
But I promise,
It's the only game which will keep you,
Entertained.
Till the very end.
Feb 21, 2017
Feb 21, 2017 at 11:56 PM UTC
Op. 61
and every chord strikes me like a bullet in the chest
and i can't breathe, i can't walk
because every chord reminds me of you,
and the loud thud of my own heartbeat
Sep 6, 2016
Sep 6, 2016 at 10:39 PM UTC
my favorite movie
clueless
my favorite song
nocturne
and you would never see them through
and so you would never know me.
tonight I asked you
when you last saw me sober
and you couldn't give me an answer.
tonight, I told you
just how many bottles
of *** I go through
in a week.
that night that I cried
over you
is a continent and a month away
but it existed.
I listen to nocturne
and blues.
and I could've spent this night
alone on your sofa.
but instead I spend it alone
on my floor
because here
I play Chopin
for myself
and not for you.
Aug 27, 2015
Aug 27, 2015 at 6:51 AM UTC
There is something divine, of light through clouds,
in that cantabile,
the plaintive, golden chords, minor falls,
radiating from the deepest recess of the soul
a tugging lilt of melody.
To think these might be the lowest harmonies of heaven
the simplest of notes in Gabriel's voice
the sweetest, must be so,
It is a wonder
the heart does not break with beauty.
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 5:41 PM UTC
Searching for their love ideal
To plant there a dawn so real,
God gave them hope to go ahead
And palm flowers for their dream bed.
In their naked room without windows,
Not touched with the innuendos,
With written words for music wed
And palm flowers for their dream bed,
The cradle of their nascent thought
Could cut their main Gordian knot-
Baptism of freedom in the head
And palm flowers for their dream bed.
Searching for their love ideal
And palm flowers for their dream bed.
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 5:53 PM UTC
If I had Chopin's twiddly fingers,
Or Freddie's range
Would you look at me the same?
Probably.
Nov 25, 2014
Nov 25, 2014 at 9:04 PM UTC
And amid the rhythmic song of the crickets, the trickle of a departing storm, and the quiet lull of Chopin’s Nocturne No. 1 in B flat, the screech of an unruly vehicle is heard, yet it is off in the distance and only slightly interrupts the dreamer’s dream. She sets her thoughts free so that they may swirl around her mixing with the wetness of the day. She is peaceful as is the chilled air that nibbles at her skin causing her hair to raise, but she likes it, for she grows weary of the thick, exhausting heat that has so frequently plagued her soul. Dreaming is, and forever will be her one true escape.
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 10:31 PM UTC
A library of poetry
cannot articulate
what is found in
two minutes of Chopin.
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 6:19 PM UTC
Three days absent of sleep.
Three days deprived of food.
Three days without direction, function, and moral collection.
Three days spent swallowed whole in the depths of plausible correction.
Oh my sweet, I fear no fate can contain this inevitable fear
buried tightly within my chest.
Concaved isolation,
bitterness consumed the best of me.
72 hours of solitariness.
72 hours of repression.
72 hours of apprehension.
72 hours of loss of consciousness.
Whispers of evergreens
chant to me.
Beige stained sheets become
nothing more than a distant memory.
Three months without you.
Three months desperate for lips,
which once caressed my *******
Three months stripped of scalloped palms, and
crazed for circles traced across my neck.
Three months craving ocean eyes
softly speaking, “we’ll be alright.”
Warm baths filled to the brim
creamy, and delicate skins
while Chopin’s ballad danced in the twilight.
Forever delude us.
Forever spoil us.
Still 13 weeks without you.
13 weeks craving the vibrations of gentle breath,
humming me to sleep, silently sooth me.
13 weeks without fingertips tangling fine locks,
morphing into screams of our names
13 weeks without sideways smiles,
rich and modest, but assertive with simple grins.
13 weeks lusting after charcoal hair nuzzled in my chest,
Alluring arms wrapped around me.
The burden of our romance weighs my mind.
Yet, let us go make our visit, I say
to yellow smoke that lingers on streets and window-panes.
It’s time for indecisions, maybe a hundred visions with
Intoxication to bury us, exhilaration to uncover us.
There will be time to wonder, “Do I dare?
Do I dare fall back into the abyss of my mind?”
There will be time,
‘till voices wake us.
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 9:00 PM UTC