"concertmaster" poems
_As his feet moved even faster, and he twirled and whirled and cantered across the stage, it was as if he existed in an indeterminate space - blinded by the footlights, deafened by the orchestra, absorbed in his own rumbustious choreography. Beyond the pit, in the anonymous darkness, the audience rippled and flared appreciatively in response. So he danced on until, with a final rapturous gesture of his outstretched arms, he plunged to earth as dizzy as a snowflake. And waited.
The silence shifted. The soft rumble of engine noise played softly in the background, while the chain-link fence rattled in the squall which blew fresh off the harbour. He opened his eyes and watched the cars crawling across the overbridge above him; the empty basketball court littered with yesterday’s snack papers lay in shadow. In the middle distance, a familiar figure walked briskly towards him.
‘Matthew! Matthew! You come here this secon’ or I’ll whip your **** right off, already.’
‘Yes, Auntie.’
‘What you doin’ tryna waste good time?’
‘Nothin’, Auntie.’
‘Ain’t that the truth, boy.’
As he stooped to gather up his satchel, Matthew saw out of the corner of his eye the concertmaster lower his instrument, incline his head, and begin to tap his music stand with his bow. From the balconies the first of a thousand rose petals began to fall with the evening rain, the applause thundered while the lightning clapped, and there in the gods stood his mother waving and blowing kisses at him, as he followed his aunt down East Street towards home._
Sep 4, 2019
Sep 4, 2019 at 10:29 PM UTC
It's not just the piano notes
It's not's its sharps or should I say it's flats
It's not the music sheet
It's obviously not my E major voice
Neither is it how well our voices blend
When the concertmaster says start to
Lady Antebellum - Need You Now
It's not just the Violins
G3, D4, A4, and E5 soothing notes
That keep us playing even when the rest stop
It's not our audiation that keeps as late
Into the night writing,meditating,singing
Laughing at each others crazy lines.
Or your masculine tattooed arms, Strumming the guitar
Neither is it your ability to manipulate your voice to both
Tenor and a Countertenor,so that when the concertmaster says start
To Michael Bolton - When a Man Loves a Woman
It feels like heaven has just opened its doors.
It's not how high I can hit the yala leyo notes
Neither is it my ability manipulate my emotions
So that when the concertmaster says to me Start To
Loren Allred - Never Enough
I give the crowd both my voice and my emotion
It's the memories the two of us make
That lead up to this moment
When the concertmaster says Start
The memories trickle in
The laughs,the anxieties,the fun,the fights
Even the shared pizzas and movie nights
That are all joined with the one thing that we share
Our passion for music,it's culture and giving it life
It's beauty and how freeing and liberating it's words can be
Things we both want to say but really can't
So we use the most basic language we both get
Music
Jul 21, 2018
Jul 21, 2018 at 1:00 PM UTC
the din of one thousand plus
audience members is displaced
as the concertmaster clip-clops
from stage right to center
a fusion of brass and strings
begins its call-to-order by
the woman charged with
bringing chaos to hundreds
of orchestral voices -
a boisterous parade of
timpani vs. flute vs.
bassoon vs. viola
then - silence - then
a moment of expectation -
she enters smiling with
baton under her arm
applause from the low
seats of the orchestra to
the heights of the highest
balconies
she mounts the rostrum -
a penguinesque black-
striped uniform topped
by a bob of dark curls
a moment of silence from
the musicians - her hand
points the baton to the
sky - and strikes the air
with the sweep of authority -
a blend of sounds causing
heartbeats to still -
allegro ma non troppo
© Lewis Bosworth, 2018
Oct 23, 2018
Oct 23, 2018 at 2:51 AM UTC
How can I write a life
*while running scattered swatting gnats
Grasping after dessicated joys ?*
How then to draw my dream
*when focused on the **** and tats
Credence given unrelenting ploys ?*
I'm concertmaster after all
Forgetting this
Direction is downfall.
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 9:17 PM UTC
It has only been two weeks since we had met
in that grand house full of irksome snobs
you a concertmaster soprano, me a lonely poet
your eyes and lips requested me to watch you perform
so a week later I went to the concert hall
it was an rendition of Mozart's The Magic Flute
she was playing the part of sweet Pamina
her voice fluttered like butterfly wings
I have seen many versions of this opera
yet I have never seen one like hers ever
the first time seen in my life Ach,ich fuhl's
such a touching piece performed *******
my heart was pounding in my mouth
sweat formed upon my brow
I did not know if I was in heaven or hell
I stood up when she finished and shouted bravo
what a pair of knockers what a wonderful show
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 7:15 AM UTC
The orchestra awaits in the pit;
Waiting for their cue.
Waiting for the lights.
The hierarchy of the symphony ready’s their instruments.
The concertmaster prepares the string section.
The principle trombone and trumpet
Rallies the brass section.
The flute looks over the woodwinds.
All these parts and pieces brought together
To make beautiful music;
Music that pierces the soul,
Soothes the turbulent mind,
And brings sophistication
To the chaotic mind.
Yet there is a man
Who stands before the assembly.
He does not play strings.
He does not play brass.
He does not play woodwind.
He stands before the assembly with wand in hand
With his back facing an eager audience.
For he has the most important job of all.
The orchestra would remain an assembly
Of beautiful noise with no direction
Without that magic wand.
This man directs the noise
To blend and flow
To make sense to our ears.
He is the conductor,
And he plays the orchestra.
May 4, 2020
May 4, 2020 at 4:38 PM UTC
I’ve stayed
I didn’t want to but I didn’t leave
I trudge on as the years unfold
Why, you ask
Because you came
You left it all at painful cost and came
Even though
You brought me copper, never gold
Still, it was genuine, too pure to cast aside
In hopes of finding richer ore
So I’m still here
In places I don’t want to be
Doing things not what I want to do
For reasons I’m not privy to
I try
But find my arms too short
To reach the blossoms I should plck
To decorate the gift I cannot give
I dress in guilt
And hope nobody notices
That the empress is naked
And everyone can see but you
I’ve cried
Because the both of us are robbed
Of what might have been a symphony
Except there are no violins,
No cellos or violas
And the drums play only heavy metal
The concertmaster called in sick
And the woodwinds are all drunk
There’s only karaoke now
Yet here we are
In places we don’t like, doing things we do not like
Looking for some meaning hidden in the wind and sun
To be the reason that we stay.
ljm
Dec 9, 2018
Dec 9, 2018 at 11:53 PM UTC
Tightrope strung
too high
above a reckless
orchestra, can’t
find a downbeat:
conductor’s
lost her
ictus, and the
soprano’s slipped off
the descant
stumbling drunken
dotted rhythms
in stepwise
motion just
short of lilting
glissando.
Concertmaster’ll break
a string to
catch the pitch
carry a well-chewed
tune. Good boy.
Don’t
miss the entrance
or you’ll tumble,
ritornello
to double bars and
slide straight down a
spit-slick trombone
tuner. Wouldn’t
even mind if Ms.
Grey-Eyed
French Horn
would sneak a
wink, but
we’ll get no
Picardy third
tonight, just
minor keys
and fully-diminished
encores.
Jan 20, 2020
Jan 20, 2020 at 9:38 PM UTC