"haydn" poems
Gira
la negra,
gira
la luna,
gira
la negra luna,
sobre sí propia,
gira
la negra
luna
de ebonita,
gira la negra luna de ebonita
-sobre sí propia- y canta:
-¡Bah! ¡Canciones! Y músicas abstractas...!
Y, lo que canta, es la Música Viva!
Oye el Viaje de Invierno, de Franz Schubert,
y el Rey de los Alisos,
y El Doble y Ganímedes y Ante el mar,
y de Schumann, Amores de un poeta,
y de Dupare, Invitación al viaje
y La vida anterior...,
y de Chopín, Preludios y Nocturnos:
tú, soñador romántico; tú, doliente elegíaco.
Oye la voz serena,
la voz profunda oye
de Bach -añosa encina,
inmensurable selva, órgano él mismo y templo
de la harmonía-:
tú, sereno y profundo.
Y de Mozart el diáfano y sortílego,
y de Haydn y Franck, la cortesana
y la mística voz, inconfundibles,
tú, gustador de lo pulcro y etéreo.
Los Cánticos y Danzas de la Muerte,
y Sin sol, de Musorgski,
tú, angustiado, febril, hiperestésico;
y Borís Godunov, Borís Godunov, oye,
(bárbara gesta, miedo, sangre, lujuria y fausto)
tú, Sátrapa en los sueños...
Y, catador sutil de quintaesencias,
gusta la mediatinta debussyana,
pesquisidora de inusados timbres
y lontanos acordes, 1
en un dorado ambiente de calígine.
Y, borracho de lumbres y colores,
Óye, de Rímski, Antar y Xeherazada
y el Gallo de oro -vértigo y lascivia-:
mas, si de ritmos ebrio, tú, frenético
danzarín, danza todas las furias de Stravínski
-del sabio y del bufón mezcladas dósis-:
fino humor ricos timbres, forma clara 2
(sobria, o en concertado cataclismo).
Y oye, en la noche, y en Tristán e Iseo,
la voz vigía de Brangane, plena
de lo fatal, o el corno quejumbroso;
si no los Funerales de Sigfrido;
o el Tránsito al Valhalla, milagroso tumulto.
Y tú, plasmado en bronce, los vastos himnos oye,
óye las soberanas sinfonías
con que la voz del Sordo el orbe nutre!
Las acendradas síntesis:
sonatas y quátuors, insólito prodigio, filtros puros:
la Misa en re, misterio panteísta,
denso peán a la Naturaleza!
Y el trágico clangor de Coriolano...:
oye la voz del Indomado Prometeo,
oye la voz del Sordo, oye la voz del Sordo!
Gira la negra luna,
gira
sobre sí propia,
gira la negra luna de ebonita,
gira
la negra
luna
de ebonita
-sobre sí propia- y canta:
-Bah! Ficciones! Y músicas abstractas...!
Y, lo que canta, es la Música Misma!
1.6k
Snowfall gently covered Belleville
in a blanket of softest down –
iridescent in the gaslight coronas.
A carriage pulled up at City Park Hall where
the coachman took white-gloved hands
and eased the ladies gently down the steps.
Some paused to pat the horses
in thanksgiving for the lift.
Top - hatted men offered arms to their wives,
escorting them up the snowy stairs
and into the buzzing lobby.
Trays of wine circled the room -
their cargo reduced at every stop.
Each raconteur spoke of celebration for the
Philharmonic had turned a decade old that week.
Programs in hand, people claimed their seats
while musicians on stage
practiced random admixtures of
excerpts that would come to order soon.
Then by the light of gas chandeliers,
Julius Liese raised his arms and brought
Haydn’s symphonic London to Illinois -
a citizen orchestra led by the local lumber czar.
After the final echoes melted into applause
and coats were lifted over shoulders;
the time had come for the waiting carriages -
snow still swirling in the gaslight glow.
The clopping of hooves on cobblestone
drifted into the passengers’ ears
and co-mingled with the echoes of
strings, drums and wind blown music
still singing in their memories
and irradiating their souls,
January, 2007
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 3:40 AM UTC
in the twilight of dawn
I can already hear the shower.
quietly I wonder where the
time went.
I turn over and face the
peeling paint on the wall,
trying to grasp those
vestiges of a dream which
faded to air motes and half-light.
okay, I'll make breakfast today,
and I hope you like oranges.
no, I never bothered to memorize
which fruits you like
in the morning. I know
it's been years, but
I'm not superman and
you knew that when you said
I do.
don't tell me not to
grumble quietly to myself;
I need this bubble of
relative sanity
if I am to survive
5 am showers for
nobody.
you are fresh and clean,
an angel,
and your blowdried hair
frizzes out like a halo.
not a hint of gray.
must be a new color
you're using.
all right, fine,
I won't light a cigarette,
but I also won't
change my shirt.
I like the sweat stains.
they make my profession seem
like work and not
like poetry.
I retreat to
the backroom
where my typewriter sits
upon its unholy altar.
the radio beside it
stands presently silent
amidst the ashes
and crumpled pages.
I would sigh as
I sat down on my sagging chair,
but I am not
a sighing man.
instead, I groan slightly
as my joints protest
in their groggy morning voices
and rest my ***
upon the threadbare cusion
of my favorite
wooden chair.
I find a station on the radio;
something Haydn composed is
floating through,
and I talk to
my secretary.
her voice clicks and clacks
and rings when she breathes.
she's speaking in stanzas
and only I
can silence her.
but this ***** ain't done
confessing just yet.
Jun 24, 2010
Jun 24, 2010 at 10:51 PM UTC
I feel empty when you go.
Even cooking is lonely when you are not here. What’s the point?
How can I be an entire human being?
I blast music in my headphones-
When they scream-
I can still hear the silence
(I can’t drown it).
I miss you.
Please stay with me.
Please do not leave.
My anxiety hurts.
My hands are shaking as I write this, it’s almost unreadable, and the page is wet
And the words disappear a little.
I’m still cooking.
What do you do yourself when you’re done?
It hurts.
I want to cry.
I think I will.
-Jesse Haydn
Jan 4, 2021
Jan 4, 2021 at 9:37 AM UTC
I am sorry I cannot write about you as often as I think of you-
which is constantly.
When it’s quiet enough to think deeply
I wipe my tears and do the dishes.
When I write you down with ink on paper-
it’s just you and me in here, kid;
but you are not.
I gave us up; and for what? A good tragedy? Some material?
Self infliction? A high? Some drugs?
I don’t even care about that **** anymore-
just You. And the dishes getting done.
-Jesse Haydn
Jan 4, 2021
Jan 4, 2021 at 8:51 AM UTC
*Dedicated to William Shakespeare, Gene Roddenberry,
Lewis Carroll and Franz Joseph Haydn.*
The power scythe roared and quivered;
Had he chops, he would have licked them -
So rabid was he to taste the fray.
Verdure clad stalks by the thousands
Eschewed all feint of
Futile resistance -
Falling like spineless wimps
Before the carbon breathed Leviathon's
Cyclonic advance.
Pausing only to quaff
A long draft of energy potion,
Toro relentlessly carved a swath
Across the battle ground -
Vorpally snicker-snacking his way
Toward the mission's
inexorable termination.
A single command
Brought the roaring vortex to a halt.
Victorious, sans medals or ceremony,
Captain Toro was debriefed
And escorted back
To his lonely barracks
To sleep, perchance to dream
Of past and future triumphs
In the jungle wilds at the confluence
Of Prairie and Missouri Avenues.
August, 2007
May 21, 2016
May 21, 2016 at 11:42 PM UTC
You play a perfect harmony to the music of my soul
In 4/4 time the last measure is our goal
You conduct me along with the swift movements of your bow
Sweat collects on your prominent brow as you hit the note a little too low
Andante to vivace my heart rushes to tempo
We hold our fermata embracing the moment, slow
The notes sit on the page while my thoughts dance with the rhythm
They leap and they frolic to the sounds of the broken hymn
A little sharp, maybe flat
Our pulses quicken assai, as though Haydn intended that
Like the Baroque Era wrote for us and our meetings in private
Our handshakes that last long and our glances that are silent
But it won’t last and we will face the caesura of our love
It transpires as we ignore the baton waving above
Our duet will end as it started, quickly, like the flight of a dove
Le Carnaval Des Animaux replicates my scrambled mind
No matter how hard I search, the answers I cannot find
In hectic chaos I’m blind to the clearest option staring straight at me
A simple kiss will suffice in helping me see
For to be the maestro I must know every part
Feel each chord progression and triad deep down in my heart
A kiss will answer if these feelings are true
Or if because of my dreams I have sudden interest in you
Whether the moment is a roar of fortissimo glory
Or it is a disappointing sforzando into the diminuendo of our story
Do you feel a crescendo when our eyes meet for a second?
Like we’re calling each other closer and with each blink we’ve beckoned
One another to draw in the coda finale
Together we may join and our notes, they will rally
By the last bar they’re in unison and our cadence is clear
The next movement will begin, there is nothing to fear
Apr 24, 2018
Apr 24, 2018 at 11:34 PM UTC
No guy and girl would EVER
want to watch a movie that had
no soundtrack
or go to a concert just to see
the people play their instruments.
Yes, you may claim to have music
as your hobby but many others are
extremely passionate about it too.
Without music, what would have
happened to Bach, Beethoven, Haydn,
Scarlatti, Clementi, Vivaldi, and others?
Saying "it's just music" is like saying
"it's just life."
Life is beautiful, passionate, tragic, comedic, playful, intense and even stressful sometimes.
Think about it.
Life and music go hand in hand.
Instead of saying "it's just music"
I urge you to say
"let there be music!"
Mar 22, 2014
Mar 22, 2014 at 1:37 AM UTC
I exist
a vector
impossible opposites
left and right
height and depth
darkness and brightness
unitary and shattered
shadow and body
unconverging.
An entire universe
on a speck of dust
lingering on a ray of sunshine,
gently falls
and finds its rest among the many
(the conformed
tangled aggregate)
finally settling into oblivescence
out of mind
and just yesterday,
was briefly remarkable.
Inexorably swayed
as he murmured a breath
of oblivion-
I am now
aimless
forgotten
on the other side
of space and time.
-Jesse Haydn
Jan 4, 2021
Jan 4, 2021 at 1:47 PM UTC
I wake up everyday and take pills and pills and pills
the insanity will go- I was promised
I don't think she has
I am tired today. I am tired everyday
The sense of awakening is lost
I can feel it in my aching bones
Pentetrating darkness
I am a stranger in my body
I cannot remember who I was
I can no longer smile
I don't go outside
I am always alone
I drink my coffee and meanwhile I can't help but keep
killing myself over and over and over
I love the feeling of fatality that fills my lungs
I am lost everywhere I go and I am shrinking quickly
I am missing out on everywhere and I am declining fast
Every day is one day closer to the darkness
(Shall I go to bed?)
And there are times when I can't look away from it
I don't feel anything anymore
How long can I dangle down here on a string?
Saying goodbye to broken promises
The madness is dying
But it is all wrapped up in me
Even the snowfall meant nothing this year
All alone and pondering
About whether ghosts are real
-Jesse Haydn
Jan 4, 2021
Jan 4, 2021 at 11:56 AM UTC
The weather shines.
The second day is the first
I opened my eyes out of time.
Get out of sleep.
There is always a vibration in
silence. The plants know
this well.
The old is new; the secret known.
Its is spagyric, transmogrified-
The collective individual worlds within
ourselves; I am one of you-
a nexus, a spirit, a universe now
together within our own models.
This is the depth.
Access immediately what
we did not know; we know
the time is calescent. Time
and time has come.
This is a small and urgent call.
It is eternal.
The music units are the segments
of my ears.
The time for waking up has come.
-Jesse Haydn
Jan 4, 2021
Jan 4, 2021 at 1:29 PM UTC
Sondra goes to a bar, and at some point during the evening requests that a sonata be played, the bartender looking surprised says “I don’t have anything like that”, Sondra reaches into her coat pocket and hands the bartender a cd saying “track 4 please”, the bartender lets the current song finish and then plays the cd, it’s Haydn, and the people in the bar start to look shocked, a person goes up to her and says “you know there are places where they play this sort of thing, like restaurants”, Sondra replies “yes I know but I like coming to bars and listening to that music”, another person says “I like it too, it’s soothing somehow and different than what we always hear.”
© Matthew Goff
Apr 7, 2017
Apr 7, 2017 at 12:07 PM UTC
“ABRACADABRA. By abracadabra we signify an infinite number of things.‘Tis the answer to What? and How? and Why? And Whence? and Whither?—a word whereby The Truth (with the comfort it brings) Is open to all who ***** in night, Crying for Wisdom’s holy light. Whether the word is a verb or a noun Is knowledge beyond my reach.”
The time for waking up has come;
every second of the day is the first
time I have opened my eyes and
arise from a deep sleep.
There is always a vibration that exists
in the stillness. The plants know it well.
The ancient and known is new;
it is spagyric and transmogrified.
We are, collectively, individual worlds
inside our own selves.
I am one and We are One-
one Nexus, one Soul, one Universe
existing now, together
inside of our own separate forms.
It is the precipice.
The moment is arriving for
what we know not; We know
the time is calescent-
the time is now and the time is coming.
The calling is urgent
and it is eternal.
The triangle rings music in my ears.
The time for waking up has come.
–Jesse Haydn
Jan 4, 2021
Jan 4, 2021 at 1:33 PM UTC
i used to have the feeling
that everything was trying to tell me
something; but everything does
if the timing is right
the right words won’t come
(i almost lost it)
the answer:
it is about you
it is both deep and
above you
in the smoke
the blooms
the tessellations
of the trees
(the sway)
once i saw the face of god
i could never look away
-Jesse Haydn
Jan 4, 2021
Jan 4, 2021 at 1:26 PM UTC