"pachelbel" poems
Then there are these moments
When your constant addition and subtractions,
Not finalized,
But put aside,
For the smallest of tokens become the
Largesse of life.
I am writing a long poem that is yet unfinished,
Of Richard II, Bach, and the death of a king,
King Ego, the battle infernal of vanity, insecurity,
And the constancy, the sense that one is never good enough.
Then sacked, for a loss, behind the goal line,
By the few, the kind, the genteel.
From nowhere, sought not, comes quiet thanks,
Appreciation that makes my angst seem
Petty and childish, smaller than small.
One draws a deep breath,
In no rush to exhale.
Then as luck would have it,
Pachelbel's Canon In D Major arrives,
An uninvited, most lovely, most timely guest,
and I am on the floor
Weeping unashamedly that the kindness of the
Few, the kind, the genteel lift me up and tissue my tears.
Unclear and unknown what I have done to deserve
Such affection, for all I have proffered are a few words,
An insight or two garnered from reading between the lines.
I understand less, emote more, and head spun,
I, poet, defenseless, for I am inadequate to the task.
I feel your hands upon my elbows,
Your arms around my shoulders,
I, am poet risen,
Words not insufficient, for
Words deemed unnecessary.
For I am poet risen,
Up, up, up by the
Uncompromising embrace of the
Few, the kind, the genteel.
Sep 22, 2013
Sep 22, 2013 at 4:48 PM UTC
Please, please, first listen to this, if you are unfamiliar with this musical piece
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kllZlF6mB2s
~~~~~~~~~~~
you thought you didn't know it,
but you did
somewhere a wedding, a movie
and you thought how beautiful
I hear it
each note distinct, unique and a
passageway to the next and the next
a transcendence
a generation
an uplifting
an arousal
a smoothing
a calming
a weeping
smithy of words,
I have read,
I have writ
words that gut punch me,
round my mouth into oh's,
cause me weeping endless
but this music
arrests and rests me,
miracle each time
I walk on its waters
how utter fools we be
to have "lost" this
for over three hundred years!
I rediscover it each time
somewhere a wedding a movie
and you thought how beautiful
for me, a funeral,
play it for me at
my funeral,
hold it in a
wedding chapel,
so with it,
upon hearing its invocation,
I may thee wed
thereafter, when you stumble on it
our vows be timely renewed,
and
though apart,
together,
we will weep, once more,
transcendent, once again,
ascendant, then and now
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 5:26 PM UTC
just because I’m being cute doesn’t mean
you’ll forgive me.
just because I want to talk about what happened doesn’t mean
you want to share your feelings
just because I’m listening to Pachelbel doesn’t mean
I’ll get out of bed.
just because I’m staring at my ukulele doesn’t mean
I’ll write a song.
just because I tell everyone else not to fret the small stuff doesn’t mean
that I won’t.
just because you call me doesn’t mean
I’ll answer.
just because I’m with my friends doesn’t mean
I’m not lonely.
just because I said I ate today doesn’t mean
I actually did.
just because I want to see you now doesn’t mean
I’ll want to see you tomorrow.
just because I’m really honest doesn’t mean
I’m not a good liar.
just because I’m smiling doesn’t mean
I’m not crying on the inside.
Sep 16, 2012
Sep 16, 2012 at 12:40 AM UTC
a small craft,
barely deserving of such a compliment as
c r a f t e d,
a few boards, just enough caulking,
made quick, with no regard for artistry,
but sturdy none the less,
purposed for naught,
other than to get from there to
here
even, then, all the more,
as if time chose to reverse itself,
solidified it, this ships soul strength
rather than wore~warped
its character essential
unclear who was the wood
and who, the caulking glue,
but they held together in bonding so powerful
when strangers asked
what its purpose be,
this modest boat,
the locals
to a one,
always answered,
answered always consistent:
ancient and ungainly, not shapely,
purposed as if to be, simply
a reminder
that nothing
could ere
be graced more,
complimented, honored as,
*seaworthy,
than this human loving crafting,*
long-lasting,
maybe ever-lasting,
a tiny notional idea,
that two could get
you from here to
there
it is in the more stronger strength,
of one thing
created from a loving,
two combinatory realization,
ruled and ruling,
this
craft
came to be
ruler of the sea of humanity
8/15/17 12:36am
born, falling, borne into sleep, to
the music of Johann Pachelbel
combined with a gentling snoring
Aug 5, 2017
Aug 5, 2017 at 1:25 PM UTC
alliteration
delving delusory,
a literati shun
thy commissions,
galore,
the line goes around the
corner
Entrusted.
write us a prayer -
as if I were thus worthy
t'is a delusion
which is worse than
Illusion
my fingers command me -
not I, them
I scribe inky,
they write what they deem
the most unfitting fulfilling
thy requests
more crosses to bear,
this Jew has walked the
Via Dolorosa
then, and again,
now
oh yes delve delve
with archaic *****
turn over earth unsubstantiated
long time un~disturbed
**"bring us your truths
in whatever form
they spill from you"**
Thus, they command me, Lord
**"Go back to living,
like it used to be.
No more tortured soul
to slow you down"**
Thus, they command me, Lord
sleep restful,
feet bathed,
Pavorotti & Pachelbel
comforted,
let it go,
live the fleeting,
well,
drink the wine,
wafer, taste,
Jew,
but stay away from the confessional
don't
delve into your own
thesaurus
when opened,
one can vision
right through us
don't
delve in to the recesses
thankfully receding, eroding,
except for the enlightening flashbacks
that stone cold come with no
forewarning
don't
let the sin memories
of ancient words,
black gold bubble up
with the first striking of the blade
Delve
(excavate your soul deep)
Not
I did not come this poem to write
I did not come to repeat
Solomon's poem,
nothing new under the sun
don't,
daunting
wish to delve into my delusions,
my original sin
the deceit
the conceit
I am unique
I am original
but let us weave as I best could
diagrammed prayers
as the sun rises over my eastern river
for it the seventh day,
the sabbath day,
which the commandments
commend as the day to remember and
*to keep it holy.
Six days you shall labor,
and do all your work,
but the seventh day is a Sabbath
to the LORD your God.
On it you shall not do any work,
you, or your son, or your daughter,
your male servant, or your female servant,
or your livestock,
or the*
sojourner
*who is within your gates.
For in six days the LORD
made heaven and earth, the sea,
and all that is in them,
and rested on the seventh day.
Therefore the LORD
blessed the Sabbath day
and made it holy.*
no delving today
I will observe thy reader's,
all of them my teacher's,
commandments
rest easy,
spill no truths this day
but on the new born morrow
I shall fresh
delve and sin again
and write them
joyful hymns
to sing
on the profane workweek,
for my torture,
my spilled and soiled truths
shall be
re-presented
to joyous comfort
and then,
I shall sojourn among them
Mar 22, 2014
Mar 22, 2014 at 7:26 AM UTC
When I read, I speak,
And when I speak, I read
Words rolling off my eyes,
Filling my tongue full of free--
Style rhyming and rhythm.
The canons of thought rolling out with a boom.
Pachelbel changing your direction of flow
Through some Perverse, Obscure, Rehearsal
Suddenly Reversed.
Back where you started,
Starting over again,
With a pen in your hand
The words crowding your head.
Gotta jump and tumble
To the jiggle and flow
Of the individualistic,
Unrealistic,
Even cannibalistic
Creations that grow.
From your stylus,
Rife.
Words.
They're the stuff of life.
Feb 22, 2011
Feb 22, 2011 at 7:47 PM UTC
Below is the first of two poems inspired by this piece of music, this one from a few years ago, in the midst of my divorce. The second, the better of the two, is:
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/pachelbels-canon/
The music:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kllZlF6mB2s&feature;=youtube_gdata_player
~~~~
Bereft of words,
one more time,
concussed by the hammering of
cacophonous silences
disabling my thought processes
In vanity,
for when denied,
Le Poet-Poseur angrily asks:
Did not Mary
have her cherries
by command?^
But when the trees bow to me,
the collective of leaves mockingly
whisper sweet nadas, baby.
each leaf wraps my tongue,
in a sushi compote of sand,
"hush-a-bye, baby boy poet"
June chilled.
But not chilling
Today, on a overcast Saturday,
forces have mogged^^ me on,
transmogrified into a
Seventh Day Non-Inventist,
the creativity disrupters
Sadly,
Amazon doesn't sell,
original poems for redistribution
Pilings of papers,
variant demanders re my
labors past and future,
**** work-product of
teams of lawyers & harlots
Four years on, demanding now,
300 files subpoenaed,
need I say, they want me to re-tour my life my cuntry,
once more
Dummies!
these esquires ****** for hire,
my greatest invention,
my poetry,
they'll n'ere posses
cause I give it away,
domain denied
In need of a ****** shot,
drink repeatedly from the
Kanon by Pachelbel,
cannons of human-law
surmounted by the one divine
This note,
the work product of
Pachelbel & Lipstadt,
harmony restoration,
a shared refuge,
a shared refute
Welcome friend to
a place that cannot be
bought, seized, sold
Pleasure thyself with each
note, scale repeated
Though the reign of the heavens
doth suffer violence, and
violent men do take it by force,^^^
peace and pardon,
earnest reward of
poets who lived gently,
giving gentle, freely away
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 7:32 AM UTC
When you say I'm not a proper man, what am I then?
I read and write, I like poetry and I like romance
I might not like fighting or drinking like most men
but I'm not ashamed to admit that I have feelings and I'm not scared to express them
I like to watch ballet and listen to Opera
I like a bit of Mozart and some Beethoven
one of my favorites is Pachelbel's Canon in D
I think it's right when a man gets down on his knee
I believe in love, princes and princesses
I watch films like The Notebook and The Lake House
I like walks on the beach and watching the sun set
and I get scared when I come in contact with a threat
I like antiques and museums
I like art and shopping
So I might not be the same as other men
but if I'm not a proper man what am I then
I like football, I like fast cars
I want to take a trip to the planet Mars
I don't like cleaning, I've never had my nails done
I like women and I've always wondered what it'd be like to shoot a gun
So if I'm not a proper man, what am I then?
Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 1:54 PM UTC
when Pachelbel makes me want to fly
and I never finished packing, but did burn
all my writing for heat last night
to make it through
just me, my guitar
and youth
if truth was what we seek then
I'd lie to you in breach with
words that make you smile
and ease a need for trials
like a preacher spouting
Van Gogh in syllables
I leave you
impressions
smilingly
sunny
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 6:33 PM UTC
Only through
death
will your silenced words speak as
loud as you wished they would.
That's the only time people will
listen.
The message you’ve been
aching to get out
all your life
will only be recognized after you’re
gone.
It’s the
only way.
So maybe
that’s why people die young.
Although their voices are
already silenced, but in a
different way,
they realize that the
only way others will listen is through
permanence.
But isn’t it funny;
You won’t be there to witness your
recognition, your
fame.
Just like
Sylvia Plath,
Edgar Allen Poe,
Emily Dickinson,
Vincent van Gogh, and
Pachelbel’s Canon.
Look at all of this
recognition, this
fame they got.
All AFTER the tragedy of their
deaths.
Nobody cared to
pay attention at first.
But now that they’re
gone,
it’s all
so much more valuable.
Oh, the irony.
But I think it would be
worth it, at least for
me.
It would be
bittersweet, and it would be
tragic.
All of those people that
hated me, they would
finally feel remorse.
HE would realize what he
could’ve had.
Finally, people would
appreciate me.
Finally, I would be
loved.
Missed.
Noticed.
It’s all so
selfish, but
I’m allowed my
guilty pleasures...
right?
All I want is to be
loved.
No matter the cost.
Nov 4, 2011
Nov 4, 2011 at 12:48 AM UTC
I am one with sensibilities of an adagio. There are few things
I cannot describe with words. A beautiful adagio, I think, is one
of them. Its beauty is ineffable. All are musical poems, but one
is tinged with sorrow. I am thinking of Barber's ADAGIO FOR
STRINGS. PACHELBEL'S CANON, on the other hand,
is gentle and evocative, as is Albioni's adagio. You're sitting on
the sofa holding your sweetheart in your arms listening to
Bach's AIR ON THE G STRING as you give her a sweet kiss
on her neck. You dim the lights. Vivaldi's GUITAR CONCERTO
begins to play followed by Marcello's ADAGIO IN D MINOR
and then you give her another kiss, this one on her lips. It's
getting late, but there's still time to absorb the exquisite PAS DE
DEUX by Tchaikovsky from the NUTCRACKER. Now she
kisses you, not once, but many times. You slip in Beethoven's
MOONLIGHT SONATA, Debussy's CLAIR DE LUNE, Satie's
elegant TROIS GYMNOPEDIES, and Chopin's PRELUDE,
OP. 28, even though they are not adagios, but because they are
etheral. And before you and she go to bed to make love, you listen
to Rodrigo's CONCIERTO DE ARANJUEZ FOR GUITAR AND ORCHESTRA. No better foreplay exists.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Apr 13, 2021
Apr 13, 2021 at 12:14 PM UTC
I recall the faux weddings
That youth had adorn.
We were something like five or six,
Playing in her attic.
They had setup
A whole play marriage altar
Out on the back lawn.
My "bride-to-be"
Was dressed in her attire properly,
White veil & everything.
We had often played at house,
But never at matrimony.
It was always explicitly implied,
In such games,
That we were already married.
I did, she did -
You may kiss;
Sweet pronouncement!
Just as with half of all marriages,
We eventually grew apart.
Maybe it was the economy,
Maybe it was our goals;
Maybe it was because we were children,
Maybe because it was just for fun.
I still remember picking for eggs
At her home on Easter.
May 26, 2025
May 26, 2025 at 11:27 AM UTC
Intuition deciphers the kiss,
And a misplaced hand on my thigh
Conjures the nights I missed,
It's been two-hundred centuries,
And still, intuition deciphers the kiss
I know his kind,
He's the sort of boy
Who reddens white roses,
All the while, fifty-miles away (by train)
His "true love" supposes,
I recall the taste of summer,
And he tells me it's winter,
Through Pachelbel's Canon, I am stoned-eyed
And he tells me I haven't realised
'Cos I have not been Spiritualized,
I know his kind,
He's the sort of boy
Who bores with unfathomable proses,
All the while, with him I stay,
As my "true love" supposes
The space between him and I,
Dwarfs the Grand Canyon,
It warps and shrinks then unfolds
Wider than ever before,
For every three steps I take,
It becomes apparent
That nothing has changed
Jun 1, 2015
Jun 1, 2015 at 9:20 PM UTC
The fingers run over black and whites,
while strings are drawn by bow in tights.
The ducts overflow as my heart swims
unto pleasurable heights that never dims.
The sound the Canon of Pachelbel brought,
a memory outside of time in heavenly thought.
A rhythm crafted by angels where harmony lies,
seared into my soul’s entity in euphoric paradise.
The harmonious instruments in waving chorus,
summoning the days when my heart is joyous.
The feel of her hand brushing my once little head,
the love that she cast upon me in words unsaid.
Apr 11, 2018
Apr 11, 2018 at 10:22 AM UTC