#mozart
Mozart makes me
feel like
I'm soaring through
cotton candy clouds of
pure joy; if joy were
fluffy and white, and
soothed every ache in
my body and mind.
Wolfie is far better
than ***** and ******
As I lie here getting
older and closer to
death, I feel so young and
alive. I think I could
climb a tree.
Nov 11, 2023
Nov 11, 2023 at 10:34 AM UTC
I lost my dog Mozart
To neurological damage
My Mozart
March 24, 2020
At least Mozart
Is out of misery
And at peace
Mozart...I miss you
Feb 9, 2022
Feb 9, 2022 at 6:10 PM UTC
Mozart lay cold in that square box.
Salieri observed tearful.
"With this vexing star dimmed, who shall
Brighten the sky at night?" He sighed,
"In my hatred I forgot
The fire you stoked in me,
Alas."
Jul 16, 2020
Jul 16, 2020 at 5:19 PM UTC
“They are an inexhaustible spring of delight. Their diversity corresponds to our most varied moods, from the state of quiet content in which all we ask of art is entertainment, exquisite rather than deep, the exuberance of animal spirits, the consciousness of physical and moral health, to melancholy, sorrow and even revolt, and to an Olympian serenity breathing the air of the mountain tops. The comparative uniformity which we notice between them at first sight disappears with closer scrutiny. The feeling is never the same from one to the other; each one is characterised by a personality of its own and the variety of their inspiration shows itself ever greater as we travel more deeply into them.”
Cuthbert Girdlestone
Mozart and his Piano Concertos, 1939
Jul 12, 2020
Jul 12, 2020 at 8:42 AM UTC
The musicality of the moment,
Brought by the way my tongue
Flicks against my palate with
A satisfying smack like bubblegum tricks
Is a greater bliss than the pauses
Between a Mozart piece
Where the essence of the music lies.
The peace, the stillness, the absorption
Of higher vibrational photons and forests
Of enchantment, reading manuscripts,
Prescription bottles, poetry, philosophy,
Thirsty to fill a void grey and dull,
Coloring my world with the sound of language.
Finding new ways to contort and contemplate
Writing and meaning and verse.
Channeling insights from the universe.
Jun 20, 2020
Jun 20, 2020 at 7:54 PM UTC
So noisy, it’s crushing
Its songs; sad ones
happy ones, silly ones.
It's jokes; fallen pens,
****** texts, Durcan’s poetry.
None of these thoughts are helpful.
Not even by a little bit.
Pastel highlighters, a new pencil case
My jacket is green.
I did the bare minimum of Spanish
I organised a previous debate’s cards
My Irish notes glare at me.
My math's teacher won't give up.
I keep all of history in my head,
But not in a place I can access.
I can give you Sinn Fein manifesto
but not the sections of Mozart’s
23rd concerto in A major.
The room is loud, but silent in
Comparison to my argumentative mind.
Busy, so busy.
Nothing will be done.
Apr 9, 2020
Apr 9, 2020 at 9:31 PM UTC
Autumn was an old Viennese street held up in sacrifice to the sky,
With burnt-song offerings that still see through the clouds, as they see through you.
His was cobbler craft of reed-winded flame for the foot in tune,
Amid the outsnuffed shopkeepers’ lights and the candlesmoke of midnight hours,
Pulsing above the inner heart of the Ringstrasse
Of brass signs and paving stones, misted and mute.
His was the candelabra of wick-notes
Wanded through the windowed rooms of forested night.
His were those woods filled with doorways, bookcases, and stairs
And everything dim and warm with people, no longer there.
*********
The winter sunlight played across the keyboard of crypted windows,
And in the muted under-roofs of ice and snow,
On one window, like a hand in whole rest,
The caramelized glass swallowed the flame-image of the stray redbird
And the black carriage wheels that passed.
In the long hallway of the Viennese flat,
One candle remained lit in the mouth of song.
Jun 20, 2019
Jun 20, 2019 at 6:43 PM UTC
orchids,
alien and other worldly.
beauty,
bordering the grotesque and bizarre,
strangely exhilarating.
variations,
wild and uninhibited,
even orgiastic,
of a mind, as if,
not of this world;
shapes and sizes,
folds and spirals
colours and colourations.
at times,
more animal or insect,
than flower.
if a rose is Mozart,
an orchid, Stravinsky.
May 15, 2019
May 15, 2019 at 6:44 AM UTC
He passed away in 1791,
aged thirty five.
He never saw a car,
never heard a noise of a machine.
His lungs never breathed a smog.
He didn't wait
for the industrial revolution,
wild capitalism and their awful
consequences.
He left much earlier,
saving his senses
from the ugliness of the world,
from the unpleasant times,
which were soon to come.
He didn't die,
he only withdrew
from
the end of the world.
Sep 16, 2018
Sep 16, 2018 at 4:20 PM UTC
Take me to Vienna where the music walks.
Where the buildings invite you to sit,
And accompany them for a cup of melange.
Where the many palace gardens have jovial pique-niques,
With their bikes resting by the trees.
Take me to Vienna where life ebbs out
Where the past lives on,
And composers wave out the windows.
Take me to Klimt's golden city,
The city where even the grey Donau is welcoming.
Take me to Vienna and don't take me back.
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 3:05 AM UTC
Oak and pine
Trailmix
Staff
Electric lights
Harsh sounds
Blue
Crystal gaze
Wax figurines
Limp with a twist
Metal and plastic
Compose a score
Mozart baking tragedy
Red begets the black
Summer fun
Mar 10, 2018
Mar 10, 2018 at 2:07 AM UTC
do you honestly believe
that just because she has
those infamous violin hips
that gives you any right
to play her?
you’ll be in for a
rude awakening
when you finally realize
no sweet harmony will
come from her
you will not hold her
by her delicate neck
and drag your worn bow
across her thin, ****** strings
as if she was the first, or last
orchestra instrument of yours
do not forget about
deep viola, and intuitive cello
do not mock mighty trumpet and jazzy sax
with your tenuous conductor’s wand
you are no master of a spectacular concerto.
go away Amadeus, you’ve lost your mind
if you can sit down comfortably
and think you won’t have to pay for
defacing every instrument in this precious ensemble
you once had.
-11/13/17 c.m.
Nov 13, 2017
Nov 13, 2017 at 1:43 PM UTC
*I listen to music by Mozart,
I listen to music by Bach,
I’m carried away through the night,
with no thought of care for the clock.
Sonatas by Beethoven,
I hear waltzes by Strauss,
in fancy, I see myself in beautiful gown,
as I float serenely about the house.
A gentle number by the King,
love me tender, now on my mind,
lost in thoughts, dancing around,
I leave the passing night behind.*
~
Oct 6, 2017
Oct 6, 2017 at 9:59 PM UTC
You play along
the piano keys
the Mozart piece
played from memory
your fingers can walk
in the dark,
your mother
is in the kitchen
preparing breakfast
you can smell the bacon
and imagine your mother
listening to you play
ears cocked
for any errors
in tone or speed,
you want Benedict
there behind you
his hands around your waist
as you play
his breath on your neck,
you play the Mozart
and imagine Benedict
is holding you near him
his chin on your shoulder
his whispered words
in your ear,
you are going too fast there
your mother calls out
from the kitchen
her tone critical,
you adjust the speed
focus on Mozart
not Benedict
that's more like it
your mother says
you must focus,
that half hour you spent
in the guest bed
where Benedict was
that night he stayed
is alive in your mind
as you play,
you come to the end
of the piece
the echo of the last note
hangs in the air
and you wish Benedict
was there.
Dec 14, 2016
Dec 14, 2016 at 2:54 AM UTC
Hindi (in Roman script)
Kyon maine tumse pyaar kiya,
Ye to mujhe pata nahin...
Maine tum mein kya dekha tha,
Ye bhi mujhe pata nahin...
Kyon maine tumse pyaar kiya,
Ye to mujhe pata nahin...
English
Why I loved you I don't know that...
What I liked in you I don't know that...
What I had seen in you I don't know that...
I don't know that, I don't know that...
Why I loved you I don't know that...
I liked in you I don't know what...
Dec 10, 2016
Dec 10, 2016 at 6:06 AM UTC
Yochana
runs her slim
pale fingers
over keys
of the old
black piano,
the Mozart
sonata
coming to
life again,
but she sits
on the stool
a very
reluctant
pianist,
thinking of
Benedict
who had left
10 minutes
before hand
to go home.
Her mother
sits watching
her daughter,
how she sits,
the fingers
moving fast,
her body
moving slow
side to side.
Yochana
remembers
Benedict
hugging her
in his bed
(the guest bed),
kissing her,
their bodies
moving slow
close entwined,
listening
out in case
her parents' heard
any sounds.
Not so fast,
her mother
interrupts,
this part is
much slower.
Yochana
slows the pace
of fingers,
but the touch
of fingers,
Benedict's,
over her
still lingers.
Oct 7, 2016
Oct 7, 2016 at 3:14 AM UTC
Benedict had
gone home.
Yochana's father
had driven back
to his village miles away.
Her mother sat
in the lounge
flicking through
musical manuscripts
on the piano.
Yochana came in
from seeing
her father's car
out of sight
with Benedict
at the back.
Your mind was not
on the Schumann
as you played,
her mother said
turning and gazing
at her daughter.
I was tired,
Yochana said
walking and sitting
on the sofa
where Benedict had sat
some moments ago
before his departure.
Did you not sleep?
Her mother asked
studying her daughter’s
expression eyeing
over her body.
Not well,
Yochana said
thinking of being
in Benedict's bed
(the guest house bed
where he was).
That boy
is a distraction to you
and I can see it
in your lacklustre playing,
her mother said
I saw the way
he looked at you.
Yochana looked
at her mother and said:
it wasn't him
that distracted me
it was the boring
Schumann piece.
Her mother raised
an eyebrow.
Schumann is
never boring
he is anything but,
her mother chided
pulling her lips
into a look of disdain.
He bores me,
Yochana said
looking at the place
on the sofa where
Benedict sat
the slight indentation.
I'm not sure it is good
for that boy to be here
if it affects
your piano practice,
her mother said
studying her daughter's face
and the eyes
looking far away.
I love him,
Yochana said
looking at her
mother's face
at the eyes
peering at her.
Love him?
What do you
know of love
you're still a child
and he is
nothing to you,
the mother said,
now enough of this
nonsense you are
to practise
the Mozart will
get you going.
Yochana looked
at the piano
and rose up
and walked towards it
and sat down
on the piano stool.
Now begin
at the beginning
of the 3rd piano sonata,
her mother said.
Yochana couldn't
get being
in Benedict’s bed
out of her mind
how they
had lain there
and kissed
and touched
and got overly hot.
She began to play
the Mozart piece.
Her mother sat
in an armchair
and looked and listened.
Yochana imagined
Benedict stood behind her
as she played
his hands around her waist
his breath on her neck.
Slower with the Mozart,
her mother said sharply
not too rushed.
Yochana felt him
kissing her neck
and all was hushed.
Sep 1, 2016
Sep 1, 2016 at 2:43 AM UTC
Mozart had twenty kids but he stayed with his wife
For most of his life
You get with these girls and forever change their lives
By inseminating them and running away when you find out the news
Not cool dude
Too many baby mamas
I'm going to need a whole lot more commas
If you can't protect yourself and her, stay off of her
If India and China are telling you stop, you really need to listen.
Aug 10, 2016
Aug 10, 2016 at 5:18 AM UTC
don't listen to mozart;
lacrimosa
lack any dosage:
lacrimosa
tea; no coaster:
lacrimosa
broken toaster:
lacrimosa
Jun 9, 2016
Jun 9, 2016 at 9:17 AM UTC
Some dame sang
on the old
radio
a Verdi
aria
Sonya lay
on the bed
reading Kant
I showered
listening
to Verdi
filtering
through to me
through water
gushing down
how Sonya
could read Kant
after ***
I wondered
washing down
young Percy
my pecker
then Sonya
sang along
the Verdi
aria
I hummed some
Sinatra
melody
to contrast
the Verdi
recalling
entering
Sonya's fruit
in the bed
while Mozart's
aria
vibrated
in my head.
May 17, 2016
May 17, 2016 at 3:17 PM UTC
Adam!
turn me over and sing me a song of sixpence
hearing voices, not seeing faces ... with the radio on
it's just me myself and I
driving between towns emoting, gushing
*hurt me, break me, **** me!*
at the top of my lungs
finding bars buried in backyards
on back roads of insincerity
birch bitten and chewed
logs wet and rotten
and still, chords neatly stacked in ordered rows
can you stand me on my feet?
back home
brushing my teeth yellow
biting my nails turgid, hoping she will come with me to a show
my state is of a lower-class shambling
hoping for a renewal
or rebirth
sweating on the train repeating God's name
gasping for air making people nervous staring
at their phones wondering if I am going to keel over and die
it's just me myself and I
that's right, write it out in long hand first, then go back and edit
(wishing to write like Tarkovsky)
comparing father and son - an unchecked exception
they were buried in separate coffins
one in France the other, in a timber cask
but won't I be
too?
I wish I could say, "we have a saying in my country" or "scripture says" or
"I'm lost without you" (I am and now found).
In ruins at the end of a day
building pigeon flap (or come what may)
ascending a scale of notes in a mirror of songs
behold an image
in a scale of descending notes at dawn.
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 2:25 AM UTC
It was late
Abela
was sozzled
had a job
getting her
in the lift
of the cheap
beach hotel
where we stayed
overseas
not far now
I told her
nearly there
let me walk
on my own
she told me
pushing me
to one side
in the short
passageway
I watched her
swaying walk
I can dance
she uttered
and began
to tiptoe
a dance move
moving round
and around
then collapsed
on the floor
her short skirt
showing all
help me up
don't stand there
reaching down
I lifted her
to her feet
holding her
up steady
time for bed
I told her
can't you wait?
she uttered
HE CAN'T WAIT
she bellowed
HE WANTS ***
she bellowed
I shushed her
a finger
on her lips
be quiet
it's quite late
I told her
a few doors
opened up
a few heads
looked at us
what's the noise?
a guy asked
bleary eyed
Benedict
tell the guy
to **** off
Abela said
it's ok
I told him
she's a bit
worse for drink
and moved her
in our room
and locked up
where are we?
she uttered
in our room
I replied
what room's that?
she quizzed me
hotel room
I replied
where's the loo?
want to ***
she uttered
I showed her
and shut the door
and waited by
then she sang
some Mozart
aria
then she puked
you ok?
I asked her
more Mozart
filled the room
of the loo
the the flush
of water
along side
the Mozart
she puked again
a tap ran
water splashed
then she sang
Bach arias
as she washed
you ok?
I asked her
she came out
and walked by
still singing
her short skirt
was tucked up
in her bright
pink *******
time for bed
I told her
can't you wait?
she replied
she began
to undress
unsteady
still singing
I watched her
can I help?
I asked her
if you like
she replied
no more Bach
I told her
I helped her
get undressed
then put her
in her short
pink nightie
and put her
into bed
she dozed off
and I slept
on the couch
with my coat
over me
not wanting
to disturb
her slumber
or get puked
on in bed
far away
church bells rang
and sea sounds
from the beach
she slept on
in the bed
we made love
quite lovely
in my head.
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 3:07 AM UTC
Your new side was fake
And covered in all the rust you need
To start a war.
There were springs sticking out
From holes in the mattress
The night you told me
I was void of form.
It must haunt you now
To think that I'm such a good abstraction.
Lacrimosa,
Lacrimosa...
My dear,
I'd prefer to sing alone.
To think of you washed
In all the colors falling
Like Whistler's Rocket
So far below the moon...
I cry away any sanctity
Placed upon me in my youth.
When I am stricken
With all the words
Uttered over the silence
Of our modern, beautiful
Communication...
I will fall silent.
I will fall still.
I will be quiet,
But I will be swift,
And I will be void of mercy
To all but myself.
Oct 21, 2015
Oct 21, 2015 at 7:38 PM UTC
Mozart changes the color
of eyes from deep blue
to see green.
Work with me and I'll
summon up everyone's
artificial ancient animals.
Sleek thin machines
whizz with mechanism
pumping out more and more
machines to make machines
to make metals
for more machines.
Shine chrome greased
and spinning while
white coated retrievers
pace exactly random,
occasionally checking
their clip boards.
Machines whizz on,
we could tune a cello
with their perfect hum.
We could tune a tuning fork
with their perfect hum.
Machines for materials
for machines that melt
and remold old machines
to new. Born machines.
Wet black discs
slide clean downward
only to spiral
upward again.
Clarinet to oboe,
slurred crescendo
back down in again.
Then forward:
Back,
Up,
Left,
and left music
back down in again.
"Where's our end?"
and back down in again.
"I see the top!"
and back down in again.
"Talk to me, please!"
and back down in again.
"Throw me a float!"
and back down in again.
And sink, and sink
back down in again
back down in again
back down in again
Aug 30, 2015
Aug 30, 2015 at 9:32 PM UTC
Elaine sat in class.
She'd seen John
on the bus, but he
had not looked over
at her, but gazed out
the window, sitting
beside the boy Trevor.
She looked back and
he was sitting at back
of class with a boy
called Rowland, he
looking at some book
the boy was showing him.
Once the pupils were
all there Miss G took
the register calling out
the names. Elaine wished
John was beside her at her
desk; wished he was talking
to her not the Rowland boy.
She sat uneasy, her body
plumpish, her glasses smeary
needing cleaning. Miss G
talked about music; about
Mozart; about his piano
works and put on a LP and
the pupils sat arms folded
or hands over faces listening
-or not- to the unfolding
Mozart music piece. Her sister
talked of boys over breakfast;
what so and so had done and
where and their mother had said
NOT AT THE BREAKFAST TABLE
loudly but did boys really sniff
after girls as her sister had said?
Elaine never heard John sniff her.
He had kissed her that day, but
not sniffed-thank God- and she looked
at Miss G as the music played away.
Jun 25, 2015
Jun 25, 2015 at 2:59 AM UTC