"composer" poems
How wonderfully mysterious the life is
A beautiful architecture,a puzzle,a bliss
I am a composer trying to write his song
But half of me is missing,
Surrounded by the crowd i still feel alone
I feel incomplete,my melody is scarce
I am drowning into notes to which i divorce
My other half...
I wish i knew how she looks like,
I wish i knew where her presence resides
But my soul is still rummaging...
It remains just the desire that deep inside me hides
Aug 4, 2014
Aug 4, 2014 at 8:32 AM UTC
One in the know drops a line,
there was no A B C to spell,
yet it keeps spreading.
An animated lingua
wraps round the eyeline.
All those that get wind of it
arise and keep counting.
Without a beginning or an end,
For it has no 1 or 9,
not a mark nor a sign.
Speechless, breathless me,
turn to mine, the one,
superior turned-on mind.
And it appeared true,
true to that credible nature
that identifies indeed
the 'name' of the composer!
Meanwhile, a bird of time.
A giant spell takes no time,
eases off in a blink of eye.
I start to breathe,
begin to revive, again in my
native countryside:
some clay-bumps on the river.
I can cry, smile, now I
can shed tears.
Rhyme on the river.
What's in a river?
'Lores of time immemorial,
an open heart on the move!'
Is there anyone out there
'tapped into the running cycle of water,
following the rhyme on the river'?
One in the know drops a line,
there was no A B C to spell,
yet it keeps spreading.
An animated lingua
wraps round the eyeline.
All those that get wind of it
arise and keep counting.
Without a beginning or an end,
For it has no 1 or 9,
not a mark nor a sign.
Speechless, breathless me,
turn to mine, the one,
superior turned-on mind.
And it appeared true,
true to that credible nature
that identifies indeed
the 'name' of the composer!
Meanwhile, a bird of time.
A giant spell takes no time,
eases off in a blink of eye.
I start to breathe,
begin to revive, again in my
native countryside:
some clay-bumps on the river.
I can cry, smile, now I
can shed tears.
Rhyme on the river.
What's in a river?
'Lores of time immemorial,
an open heart on the move!'
Is there anyone out there
'tapped into the running cycle of water,
following the rhyme on the river'?
One in the know drops a line,
there was no A B C to spell,
yet it keeps spreading.
An animated lingua
wraps round the eyeline.
All those that get wind of it
arise and keep counting.
Without a beginning or an end,
For it has no 1 or 9,
not a mark nor a sign.
Speechless, breathless me,
turn to mine, the one,
superior turned-on mind.
And it appeared true,
true to that credible nature
that identifies indeed
the 'name' of the composer!
Meanwhile, a bird of time.
A giant spell takes no time,
eases off in a blink of eye.
I start to breathe,
begin to revive, again in my
native countryside:
some clay-bumps on the river.
I can cry, smile, now I
can shed tears.
Rhyme on the river.
What's in a river?
'Lores of time immemorial,
an open heart on the move!'
Is there anyone out there
'tapped into the running cycle of water,
following the rhyme on the river'?
Apr 6, 2017
Apr 6, 2017 at 9:40 PM UTC
Warning:
The seagull flying over the Appalachians
could not possibly be amused by the
puzzles of an illegitimate composer
and the skyscrapers climbed.
1.
The skyscrapers were played by tall
rocks a girl climbed when she couldn't
remember if the cape she wore was
made from steel or newspaper.
11.
The newspaper they all read together
that morning (girl, boy, king, etc)
promised nothing but a fifty percent
chance of dandelions terrorizing the bus stop.
2.
The bus stop had since become a
dealer corner and the sunset behind
the mountains was blocked by the
flipping hair of a lost boy.
7.
The boy bought a toy for cheap -- it had
a built-in laser, so she stole it to blast a
whole hole in that guilt-ridden quilt hung
over the four dollar love seat.
6.
The love seat, she bought the day he went
to maple -- the soap dispenser was broken,
but she couldn't find anything new (that she
knew) to wash her hands with.
5.
The hands that handed her a hammer were covered
in promotions, so she stole the motorcycle when
they were watching the scarecrow going
through electric-shock, disco therapy.
8.
The therapy that she received from the
parrot-king and his troupe of square roots
was enough to make her not forget not regret
the boy with feathers in his ears.
10.
The ears she woke up with one morning
were different in shape than before
and the black fur she knew
was growing before her eyes.
3.
The eyes of the boy were wider than
the nightly news station promised, and
there wasn't really a difference
between caves and boxes in a town that small.
4.
The town she arrived in didn't have
a carpool lane or derby, so
she had to take her pet goldfish
to the river for his depressive state.
9.
The river wasn't as flooded after a couple
weeks of changing the tune on the jukebox
she found way before the departure
of her white gold pearls.
12.
The pearls she wore for her
coming-of-age were buried beneath
a dirt mound when she promised herself
to always insist on herself.
Apr 23, 2012
Apr 23, 2012 at 10:49 AM UTC
A most pious man
whose well-tempered music
brushed the cobwebs
from the throne of God
Evolution was made manifest
across deep time
these lyrical figures
achieve the same purpose
in the space between the morning star
and the dawn
A fallow field
is sewn with pearls
a moonlit beach
illuminated by shadow
every scrape of the fiddler's bow
merges mind with the present
harvests the meaning
in the moment
The composer
that good man
was
for a time
church organist at St. John's
its notable steeple leaning
all askew
as a rebuke against God
or perhaps the drunken architect
A finger of candlelight
plays across the manuscript
a fugue echoes
through the still church
And though no living person
on that still winter's night
shares the organist's solemn delight
the stirring mass of possibility
that is posterity
awaits
Oct 9, 2016
Oct 9, 2016 at 5:49 PM UTC
A pen is not a tool,
it is an instrument,
and it does not do for an instrument
to be cheap
or poorly made.
If I have a choice, it will be expensive
Ink, not gel.
God forbid a ballpoint Bic.
No.
It will be the kind of pen that makes you want to write,
even when you have no idea what it will be about;
Write,
not for the flow of thoughts to pen to paper,
but for pen to hand to brain,
the sensation of the tip smooth across white ****** paper
swimming up your arm.
Handwriting that is usual jerky
and of questionable legibility
morphing into a graceful scrawl
I would have the kind of pen that rips the words out of me,
if I had my choice.
The pen a bow, the paper a cello.
The notes pouring, spilling, becoming,
composer unsure of where they come from
but suspecting some deep, secret crevice inside them
only touchable by the finest instrument
that they can imagine.
A pen like the head of an infant
in your palm,
so soft and inexplicably right
that you want to hold forever,
because it feels like it belongs in your hand;
cradled plastic as pleasant as downy hair
And with such a pen I will write
and write,
at the start hardly aware
what these words will weave.
A portrait of an artist,
genius or insane?
And the ideas will unravel
until it becomes more than sensation,
the meaning bigger than paper and pen.
Finally, at last.
Jan 15, 2012
Jan 15, 2012 at 5:58 AM UTC
My mouth blooms like a cut.
I've been wronged all year, tedious
nights, nothing but rough elbows in them
and delicate boxes of Kleenex calling crybaby
crybaby , you fool!
Before today my body was useless.
Now it's tearing at its square corners.
It's tearing old Mary's garments off, knot by knot
and see -- Now it's shot full of these electric bolts.
Zing! A resurrection!
Once it was a boat, quite wooden
and with no business, no salt water under it
and in need of some paint. It was no more
than a group of boards. But you hoisted her, rigged her.
She's been elected.
My nerves are turned on. I hear them like
musical instruments. Where there was silence
the drums, the strings are incurably playing. You did this.
Pure genius at work. Darling, the composer has stepped
into fire.
5.3k
...
☔
"This is a big dream, it may eat you up."
I do not flinch in the face of chaos.
〰
(Forecasters)
I counted as seven gods
ascended the iodine skyline.
We all call them "misfortune in the flesh."
They waltz in pairs but the very last is a composer;
Seven deities promised the sun would catch scarlet fever.
We danced to the music to summon fate and disorder,
building a coffin in the middle of hungry waters,
The sun is our noble sacrifice in ruby robes;
So lets just hope the sea was starving for fire.
(Brew)
Metal ghosts slip among the sky
and lock like iron gates to form an army of grey.
The weight of sober clouds are intoxicated with turmoil,
Unbalanced weight, scales faltering, "no sudden moves please"
Obsidian giants collect the welkin until it boils over
the edges, the pillars, the cage
Why does the dark taste sweeter?
(Beautiful downfall)
The raindrops are ashamed
of the bitter liars we're all becoming;
We've succumbed to narcolepsy by the hand of water;
within the jaws of hurricanes we were consumed,
teeth formed by the angry fingers of the wind
thunder rejoicing as the land buckles down,
rain feasting on the earth in ecstasy
hail and rain are merciless foes
lightning still swinging,
morbidly screeching
chaotic smile,
a sword,
a single,
a cut.
Yes,
I am the one
(☔)
who fed the sky
my name.
...
Mar 13, 2016
Mar 13, 2016 at 3:30 PM UTC
When I get to be a composer
I'm gonna write me some music about
Daybreak in Alabama
And I'm gonna put the purtiest songs in it
Rising out of the ground like a swamp mist
And falling out of heaven like soft dew.
I'm gonna put some tall tall trees in it
And the scent of pine needles
And the smell of red clay after rain
And long red necks
And poppy colored faces
And big brown arms
And the field daisy eyes
Of black and white black white black people
And I'm gonna put white hands
And black hands and brown and yellow hands
And red clay earth hands in it
Touching everybody with kind fingers
And touching each other natural as dew
In that dawn of music when I
Get to be a composer
And write about daybreak
In Alabama.
4.6k
THE LAST LOVE LETTER OF TCHAIKOVSKY*
My angel, life of my life
Fate would never allow me to meet thee
Only in thy letters to me
Do I feel the touch of love’s ecstasy.
Would but that upon thy sweet face
I would just once behold
All my sixth symphonies I would gladly exchange
In love’s name and in its wondrous beauty untold.
Here with all my rapturous kisses
I send thee the music of ‘Love’s Sorrow’
Every note swims in the sea of my restless heart
None would such grievous pain of mine ever know.
Let history judge
All that is between thee and me
Even the deluge that drowns the whole world
Would never obliterate every melody I dedicate to thee.
• Tchaikovsky’s benefactress was Madame Von Meck (Nadezhda) who exchanged 260 love- letters (1876—1887)with him and endowed him with a regular income on the understanding that they should never meet.
Her late husband was a millionaire whose fortune was derived from his railway business.
Finally, she broke up the relationship leaving the composer in complete devastation.
This is one of the most poignant love-stories of all time.
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 4:04 AM UTC
THE SAXOPHONE STORY
BY RAJ NANDY
The Saxophone is perhaps the most expressive
instrument next to the human voice.
Was made by Adolphe Sax, a Belgian, through
a deliberate choice!
He wanted to offset the tonal disparity, -
Between the string, wind, and brass instruments,
with musical clarity !
He felt that the strings ones were overpowered
by the wind instruments.
While the wind instruments got overblown by
the brass ones instead !
Now what would happen if the best qualities
of these three instruments types,
Could in a fusion blend and coalesces into a single
instrument type ?
So finally at the age of 20 years, in March Eighteen
Hundred and Thirty Four,
Adolphe Sax created a magical instrument for the
World to hear and adore!
It had the power of the brass, the flexibility of the
strings, and the woodwind’s variety and tone;
Which got christened after Adolphe Sax as the
SAXOPHONE !
Adolphe’s famous composer friend Hector Berlioz
in Paris City,
Gave this new instrument wide publicity!
In 1844 the Sax was presented in the Industrial
Exhibition at Paris;
And subsequently got patented on 20 March 1846.
It soon got adopted by the Bands of the French Army.
Making other instrument makers to become green
with envy!
The Sax was 80 years old when it became part of the
musical instruments of the Jazz Band.
A small bore mouth piece was created to suite the
varying tonal qualities required by Jazz.
Initially, 14 different sizes of Sax was created by
Adolphe.
Today only five types are in use for us to hear and
see;
The Soprano, Alto, Tenor, Bass and the Baritone
Saxophone.
They now form a part of our Jazz music's backbone!
- By Raj Nandy
FOOT NOTES :
Adolphe Sax (1814-1894) , son of famous musical instrument maker
Charles Joseph Sax of Belgium. Woodwind Instruments = Flute, Clarinet, Bassoon etc. Brass Instruments = Trumpet, Tuba, Cornet etc. String Instruments = Violin, Guitar, Harp, Banjo etc. The Saxophone today has become the very backbone of Jazz Music!
** ALL COPY RIGHTS ARE RESERVED BY: - RAJ NANDY **
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 11:06 AM UTC
this peculiar notion transmigrates into a startling potion,
one that creates, not slakes human thirst,
a consequential first position for those who are in possess
of a direct line to gods who hide in the pitch black,
perforce one must make discrete deferential inquiries
avec une politesse indirecte
just in case we are wrong
(honest aside:
as composition proceeds, ear buds fill me with
Music of Transmigration, notably Op. 11, of S. Barber making
contradicting souls passing through me tenable and malleable)
naturellment,
loud radio silence, was I naive to expect otherwise?
perhaps god is not the subject of this poem
but perhaps the author(!) who's
just keeping his "hand" in the poem game,
spoofing human memes,
with a spot of fun even in
New Z--l-and-other domiciles
after all who has more
nominalistic titles,
is cursed and blessed,
by almost everyone
at least once a day, and in
a thousand different names
with an impishly
cruel sense of what this human gig
it created.
is about
tonight
I am a composer,
tomorrow’s decomposer,
or just a funny named follower
ah,
the answer is in the
data
Apr 9, 2018
Apr 9, 2018 at 4:55 PM UTC
Shadow of the past,
echo of the future;
dedicated Musician,
a Phonomancer;
and inspired Philosopher,
a Philosomancer.
A Mystic and a Metalhead,
a lifetime Scholar and a self-Teacher;
a determined and self-guided mythic Artist,
a psychologist and an Observer;
I am a Lover, a Father, and a Son,
a homeowner and a Dishwasher,
a Friend and a bit of a stoner,
a social drinker and a fan of quality Spirits;
I am a self-contained Universe
contained within another Universe;
so fractal-esque.
There is much to this being I call "me"
and so little of it is visible
from the surface of my awareness;
so much of it falls within-
within the limitless void;
to be revealed only in Time,
and, to be unraveled by Time.
Discerning, yet reckless,
a wise man and a fool;
I find myself within,
and within myself,
a beautifully chaotic dance
of chaotically diverse energies.
Within:
the Spirit of a Renaissance Man;
Music, Geometry, Cosmology,
Mathematics, Statistics, Physics,
Mythology, Musicology, Psychology,
Masculine, Feminine, Canine, Feline,
Light, Dark, Day, Night, Sun, Moon,
Anthropology, Cooking, Dreams,
*** Love, Lust, and Suffering,
Spirituality, Science, Language,
Contrast, Respect, Individualist,
Intuition, Feeling, Understanding,
Action, Non-Action, Elation,
a bit of a Goth and a Hippie,
a Rocker and a Composer,
Haphazard Attention to Detail,
Conscious, Shadow, Subconscious,
Id, Ego, Super-Ego,
Animal, Human Being.
Alive.
Mortal.
Mortal,
and grateful for it.
An aspiring,
amateur Shaman
who "shows promise";
dabbling in Feng Shui,
the Occult,
T'ai Chi,
the Tao, Zen,
Music,
Art,
and Life;
a dilettante Poet;
I am an ephemeral expression,
a temporary microcosm,
of both the Human Spirit
and the very Universe
in which we occur,
if for but a brief,
beautiful,
fleeting,
moment.
Jan 25, 2014
Jan 25, 2014 at 12:13 AM UTC
Yahya Kemal Beyatli translations
Yahya Kemal Beyatli (1884-1958) was a Turkish poet, editor, columnist and historian, as well as a politician and diplomat. Born born Ahmet Âgâh, he wrote under the pen names Agâh Kemal, Esrar, Mehmet Agâh, and Süleyman Sadi. He served as Turkey’s ambassador to Poland, Portugal and Pakistan.
Sessiz Gemi (“Silent Ship”)
by Yahya Kemal Beyatli
loose translation by Nurgül Yayman and Michael R. Burch
for the refugees
The time to weigh anchor has come;
a ship departing harbor slips quietly out into the unknown,
cruising noiselessly, its occupants already ghosts.
No flourished handkerchiefs acknowledge their departure;
the landlocked mourners stand nurturing their grief,
scanning the bleak horizon, their eyes blurring...
Poor souls! Desperate hearts! But this is hardly the last ship departing!
There is always more pain to unload in this sorrowful life!
The hesitations of lovers and their belovèds are futile,
for they cannot know where the vanished are bound.
Many hopes must be quenched by the distant waves,
since years must pass, and no one returns from this journey.
Full Moon
by Yahya Kemal Beyatli
loose translation by Nurgül Yayman and Michael R. Burch
You are so lovely
the full moon just might
delight
in your rising,
as curious
and bright,
to vanquish night.
But what can a mortal man do,
dear,
but hope?
I’ll ponder your mysteries
and (hmmmm) try to
cope.
We both know
you have every right to say no.
The Music of the Snow
by Yahya Kemal Beyatli
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
This melody of a night lasting longer than a thousand years!
This music of the snow supposed to last for thousand years!
Sorrowful as the prayers of a secluded monastery,
It rises from a choir of a hundred voices!
As the organ’s harmonies resound profoundly,
I share the sufferings of Slavic grief.
Then my mind drifts far from this city, this era,
To the old records of Tanburi Cemil Bey.
Now I’m suddenly overjoyed as once again I hear,
With the ears of my heart, the purest sounds of Istanbul!
Thoughts of the snow and darkness depart me;
I keep them at bay all night with my dreams!
Translator’s notes: “Slavic grief” because Beyatli wrote this poem while in Warsaw, serving as Turkey’s ambassador to Poland, in 1927. Tanburi Cemil Bey was a Turkish composer. Keywords/Tags: Beyatli, Agah, Kemal, Esrar, Turkish, translation, Turkey, silent, ship, anchor, harbor, ghosts, grief, Istanbul, moon, music, snow
Oct 30, 2020
Oct 30, 2020 at 4:28 AM UTC
Rodin was mocked
Darwin was underestimated
Beethoven was considered hopeless as a composer
But they passed through every hurdle
through their hard work and struggle
They suffered in their doom
because they knew
that one day they will bloom
Feb 14, 2014
Feb 14, 2014 at 11:39 AM UTC
.university was such a bad idea... i'm starting to think... isn't university the place where only women and rapists are admission worthy?! forget the men... you're on your own!
gorgeous lisp...
Fionna
from Fraserburgh...
worked in
a nightclub to
pay for a mandolin,
and play her maggie may...
outside her window...
her sweetness imbue of
honey and the letter G
stumbling into a "stutter"....
and?
one detail...
she loved
queen's innuendo...
the ooh ooh bit
and the otherwise
Spanish rodrigo
in-between composer...
i left Edinburgh...
because my heart was
not into it...
my eyes were...
but in my heart...
i was not standing on
an island, but an iceberg...
too many English
private school educatde kids...
too much interconnected
meritocracy bargains...
said via grandfather earned
ditto position through
the connectivity of his, father's
father...
no...
i won't have that
******** hanging before
me like a carrot, while
i play the donkey...
sorry... no...
shouldn't have lied
about your mother being your sister,
and your grandmother being
your mother...
then?!
Leningrad would
have made sense!
thankfully?
it still doesn't!
and doubly thankful for it
that i am, in saying:
it, never, will!
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 10:15 PM UTC
"unconditional love dinner-dance"
so names the advert for an evening of a
big shot, posh charitable event,
which the glossy Gatsby East Egg magazine implies,
if you fail to attend said soirée, you nobody, will have no way to claim truly understanding the composition of an
unconditional love dinner dance
laugh internally, swirling,
riffing on eat love pray,
this ditty is what I instantaneously say...
*what do these swells,
with their self-appointed importance,
know to probe/defame my claim,
to this poem's title?
these are the factors,
the stepping stones from
my minute to the minute next
love
am I not oathed, bound
unconditionally
by my very own name,
which life bestowed upon me at birth,
to compose of this love
in every etching lineage, signed verse kissed upon our faces,
then, as well, oh so well, so swell,
to kiss our babies
whose smooth skin has no familiarity with
time and all my love
all my love,
uncritically makes no distinction
dinner
she loves me through the silence
of my oohing and ahhing,
these sounds,
escaping willingly,
unconditionally,
as delight unconstrained at the delicate deliciousness her love
has implanted in the dishes she preps,
with which she
preserves us
dance
she love to dine upon
her laughter at
my akimbo'd imitation of
'so idiot, you think you can dance'
hip hop
begging me between crinkling boisterous hardy laughter,
please, not to hurt myself
she, a Martha Graham educated,
Argentine Tango ballet mistress,
a life long dancer whose genes forbid her
to pass by the sound of music
without breaking out, breaking into dance,
in perfect synchronicity
to whatever the composer calls upon her,
to present the music, to inform us,
in body graphic form,
unconditionally
what they intended us to
see within and between each note
I need no tuxedo,
no fancy dress,
no permissions to comprehend
the meaning, the actuality,
the unconditionally of
unconditional love dinner dance*
I dine and dance with love daily,
and yes, to be very sure,
unconditionally
for is there any other kind?
Jul 31, 2016
Jul 31, 2016 at 12:10 PM UTC
Blue-grayish waves lap summer's sun-drenched beaches,
eternal, soothing rhythm, an enduring melody, into the soul it reaches.
Neighboring celestial bodies, conductors of the tides, creating eon's symphony,
embracing, pacifying music: a choral harmony.
Placid, glistening lake with fall moon's luminescent splendor,
silvery, reflective mirror, still and serene, lying quietly in slumber.
Bright, streaming rays, upon the surface, become as two entwined eternally,
brilliantly flowing: a beacon of tranquility.
White, pristine snow upon the meadow on a winter's early morning,
softly sown, caressing Mother Earth, pure and alluring.
Sol's rays shimmering on crystal flakes, a mosaic luminosity,
sparkling diamond facets: a blanket of serenity.
Dew-covered fields patched with spring's wild flowers,
dazzling array, vibrant and alive, displaying rainbow's colors.
A zephyr stirs bouquets of aromatic splendor, emerging reality,
a living portrait masterpiece--a canvas of vitality.
Nature, an ageless composer, conceiving kaleidoscope showcases,
perennial seasons casting actors on scores of different stages.
Wise is it, from time to time, to pause in awe and humble reverence,
and view a master artist's majestic, grand performance.
Mar 14, 2010
Mar 14, 2010 at 5:32 PM UTC
You are a poet lacking poetry
A composer who never penned a symphony
A clown plagued by misery
A broadcast not shown on T.V
A duck pond missing mallard mates
A panda without panda traits
A perfectionist who makes mistakes
A pacifist who fights and hates
_
Jan 31, 2012
Jan 31, 2012 at 5:50 AM UTC
To sleep, my mind impounded,
My heartbeats, bass, lowly-sounded,
Each beat, a note upon mine ticking meter.
An unfamiliar feminine voice, not hers, poses,
Questioning noises, issued from a blackened figure.
This human-shaped metronome,
A singular inquisitor,
In rhythm, but not in rhyme,
Gravely announces repeatedly,
T'is your time, t'is your time,
Each pronouncement,
Spoken n'spiked distinctly:
*"Your prose now ended,
last-gentled sweetly."*
Wondering still, is it just sleep or truly death,
This forlorn eve, to go, to meet and greet,
Without having said my finale prayer.
Unprepared, thus with unaccustomed flair,
"Unfair" doth me protest, a newly-minted naysayer,
My book incomplete, black-brother frere!
If death indeed you be, my fellow cloaked-rider,
Then make me a one-last-time composer.
Let me whisper once more inside her,
A last poem of the greatest brevity,
But of the greatest import, laden heavy!
Good bye, my love, goodbye....
This closing writ, my finest ever...
Oct 6, 2013
Oct 6, 2013 at 5:21 AM UTC
If a song can have power over you
Enough to control the rhythm of your heart
What may one say of the composer?
Who when immersed in the art
Commands the spirits to closure
Is he real enough to feel
The power when awake?
Is he deceptive enough to conceal
The grip of a bygone state?
Revel in the magic till it lasts
Even if for a while at any rate!
Jan 21, 2015
Jan 21, 2015 at 10:44 AM UTC
Ever wondered about my style?
What I admire and what I deem vile?
Well, gather around, I'll let you see
Who I am, through what else, but poetry?
My favorite flower is a cherry blossom.
As for food, bread is awesome.
I spend much of my time on Twitter.
I like birds, the ones that flutter.
My favorite author is Ms. Anne Rice.
Her book, "Memnoch" is very nice.
My favorite poet is Aleister Crowley.
As for artist, that would be Dali.
I like Reggae straight from Trenchtown.
Most of all, I like System of a Down.
Philip Wesley is my favorite composer.
If I may be so bold, Chopin, move over.
My favorite film is Sweeney Todd.
By my top director, who is slightly odd.
Johnny Depp is my favorite actor and hunk.
I'm not a fan of touchdowns and dunks.
A big interest is Nutrition and Health.
I'm against Corporations and Banks, with all their wealth.
I like Documentaries and things that make me think.
Carrot juice is one of my favorite things to drink.
My favorite painting hangs on my wall.
The artist or name, I have not a clue at all.
I like eating cherries and playing pretend.
I like talking to those I consider a friend.
I like dancing at raves, even on the stage.
I like my job, though it's minimum wage.
I'm good without gods, I bow to none.
No political party, with that, I'm done.
That about sums me up, I hope you see
My likes and interests described to a tee,
In the fashion of the rhyme scheme A and B.
Did I mention the fact that I write poetry?
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 3:34 PM UTC
I am a poet; you’re just a “proser”
Your words lack rhythm like a deadbeat composer
You’ve got no measure and you can’t keep time
You’d sound a whole lot better as an irate mime
Wait a little longer don’t speak before you spell
Every time you do that you sound like barn animals from hell
Work a little harder; make your words sound elegant
Not like an *** – err – I mean democrat
Feb 27, 2012
Feb 27, 2012 at 2:25 PM UTC
A rock around her neck
for a star sign birth:
another necklace bought by
another sandal-sock boyfriend.
Time for a new piece
of jewellery, don't you think?
One that’s classy, studded, anything but pink.
It might hang loosely lapping up
the line of air,
that will linger past you when walking to
train station, work station, another day
of painted creation.
Keep the brushes close
and the oils closer,
canvas in the post, ready for closure.
You’re the score and the baton, the lines of manuscript,
my composer.
Apr 2, 2013
Apr 2, 2013 at 3:03 PM UTC
It's not like a song you've ever heard
Or a song you'll ever want to hear
But it caught my ear when I first heard it sing
It sang in my head
The voices whispered it quietly
Curiosity urged me
Listen closer
A slow crescendo wrapped me
I was intoxicated by the gore that filled me
Before I could make it stop
The song had etched it's bars
It's time signature
It's key
Deep in my veins
Deep in my bones
It's taken over my brain
My body has become the instrument
That plays this addicting song
A woodwind perhaps
A string maybe
But all I know is this one song
Dead hands play symphonies
For dying hands to be
Please don't follow me
Don't listen to my song
You will become addicted
You will learn how to play
Please don't become the composer
Of your own suicide song
Jun 29, 2014
Jun 29, 2014 at 1:39 AM UTC