"pavarotti" poems
Led down from the tower
Head high and hands bound
Blindfold declined against the wall
Black square pinned to his heart
Eyes afire and shining proud
He sang...
He sang of Caruso, Townes Van Zandt
Pavarotti, Bocelli, Mercury,
Carreras, he sang of Antoine,
Of Sinatra, Lennon, Morrison, Redding
He sang and songbirds paused in flight
He sang like them all
He sang a song of himself
Of leaves of grass, of second comings
Of Byron, and Bharti, and Cummings
He sang of Neruda, and Plath, Tagore
Dickinson, Kamala Das and Naidu
Oh, he sang of them all
He sang of art and beauty
Of Mona Lisa and starry nights
Girls in green dresses and pearls
He sang of Van Gogh, of Picasso
Of Rembrandt, da Vinci
He sang of Michelangelo
He sang of sadness, pain
He sang of My Lai, Sand Creek
Of Guernica and Krystallnacht
He cried and sang of Wounded Knee
Of Katyn Forest, Sabra and Shatila
Oh, he wept as he sang
He sang of history and wonders
He sang of Olduvai and pyramids
Machu Picchu, Tikal, and Angkor Wat
He sang of a great wall, the Taj Mahal
Stonehenge, Easter Isle, Mesa Verde
His song took us to them all
He sang of courage
A song of Bunker Hill, Gettysburg
Of the Alamo, Normandy, Stalingrad
Of Lincoln, Guevara and Dr. King
He sang of Bolivar, Bhutto, Ghandi
He shamed us with their song
He sang his song...
As women sighed and peasants cried
He sang until the rifles fired, he died
Songbirds fell from the sky
Soldiers broke their guns on stones
And marched into the deep blue sea.
r ~ 4/12/14
Apr 12, 2014
Apr 12, 2014 at 7:05 PM UTC
scouting for talent in the streets
(for the next Michael Jackson or Pavarotti
or anyone who can make me money)
I spotted there in the streets of Melbourne
a bloodhound and a puppy, each with a violin
and each playing –
the puppy a natural, the bloodhound indistinct
I spread out on the floor
the talent contract for a team
and the bloodhound signed with a grin;
but just as the puppy lifted its paw
another dog came running, picked up the puppy
and ran off with the speed of lightning
**** What’s that about?”*
I asked the bloodhound
“Oh,” said the bloodhound sheepishly
*“That’s his mum, my wife – she doesn’t want
him to be a musician like me…
she’d rather he grows up to be a doctor!”*
Aug 11, 2013
Aug 11, 2013 at 6:42 AM UTC
If I had a peso for every time I was asked for one
I’d be a rich man.
If I had a peso for every pleading face I’ve seen
I’d have a generous hand.
I’d put a peso in every can or pan
or outstretched hand
or cup or bowl or hat of wool.
I’d give one to the boy with the accordion player
and to the girl selling butterflies on a stick.
I’d give one to the woman squatting on the sidewalk
and to the youth with his baton-twirling trick.
I’d give one to the doll maker and to the basket weaver
and to the blind singer and to the fire-breather.
I’d give one to the old man drumming out non-rhythms
and to his equal, fiddling non-melodies.
I’d give one to the flautist/drummer combo
and to the Pavarotti wannabes.
I’d give one to the woman with few teeth
and to the man with one shoe
To the families sleeping in doorways
I’d give to all those who can’t do.
To every last one and all, big and small
I’d give a peso, or more
Hell, why keep score?
Yes, if I had a peso for every time I was asked for one
I’d give it up,
not because I should,
but because I could.
Well, ha!, at least, I’d like to think I would.
Jul 6, 2010
Jul 6, 2010 at 7:49 AM UTC
From when I was a little child
I picked up on thought and sound
It isn't always visible but it is still around.
It's the talent and the beauty
The poetry of life
You find it in a sonnet
Or the colours of Monet
In Pavarotti's voice
The world just melts away.
Shakespeare's words? They drip like honey
And illuminate the stage
It sends shivers up the spine
What Wordsworth scribbled on a page.
Jules Verne could tell the future
Da Vinci saw what was to be
Their vision shaped the world we know
Now that is great to me.
Does it have a name?
What Rembrant found within his art?
That secret, silent something
That burns within the heart.
As a child Wolfgang Mozart
Drew everybody's gaze
He serenaded Europe
Wrote music to amaze.
Was Bogart such a legend?
Now, don't speak before you think
Not everyone can breathe life into
A person made of ink.
The passion is alive
It lives inside the soul.
When pen is put to paper
Or the bow goes to the string
When that magic is embodied
We hear the angels sing.
Jul 6, 2010
Jul 6, 2010 at 7:47 PM UTC
Open your legs and show your class.
Haha.
Sing like Elvis,
Freddie, Pavarotti
Or Shirley Bassey.
Belt out Lennon-McCartney tunes
With Beach Boys Harmonies
And Eric’s Slow Hand Guitar.
Be as Magical as Messi,
Supremely Shakespeare with your plays and poems,
Better still. Hopkins and Keats.
Show the genius of Brian Wilson
And Oscar Wilde.
Not forgetting the Table Tennis Kings
Waldner and Ma Long.
Oh Yes
Be Champion
Be Real Madrid
Or Barca if you prefer.
1970 Brazil
Federer, Navratilova
Or Lewis Hamilton.
Be simply the best,
Like Ali,
Or better still,
Be better than yourself
Day after day.
Just keep improving,
That’s the way.
Let this poem be tagged
“Motivational”
To get you off your backside.
There’s nothing like Achieving
To fill us full of Pride.
Paul Butters
© PB 11\5\2020. Hopkins, Keats and Ali added 14\5.
May 11, 2020
May 11, 2020 at 6:40 AM UTC
have you ever grappled with despair
not in imagery, symbolism or portrayal.
I mean, have you ever felt the elevator drop
the watery weakness that extenuates breath
a depth of fatigue that makes lying on the floor a burden
an aching pounding in your chest,
the broken-glass dryness in your throat
the gritty ache in your eyes
that makes you want to close them forever?
Struggle no more, leaden limbs,
free the weary weight.
Eyes that struggle, release the light.
The body begs to no more fight.
In a blur of sluggish thought,
I whisper sleep's sweet name.
The will has dropped.
The yearning stopped.
I’ll rest on that distant shore.
.
.
Songs for this:
Nessun Dorma by Sarah Brightman
Caruso (Live at "Pavarotti International" Charity Gala Concert, Modena 1992) by Luciano Pavarotti, Aldo Sisilli
Pie Jesu by Andrew Lloyd Webber, Sarah Brightman & Paul Miles-Kingston
0730.0722
Jul 22, 2024
Jul 22, 2024 at 7:01 AM UTC
Would a voice in heaven
sound beautiful
and inviting
or serious,
constant
and still
maybe sounds of a harp
possibly playing atop
pristine
waters
or Pavarotti singing
up in the mountains
or would it be a moan,
with intention
and focus
maybe just a recording
over loud and annoying
speakers
with instructions
and a schedule
maybe if I am lucky
I would hear
My father’s voice
telling me how great it is
but sounding nostalgic
and homesick
a plea for his soft leather chair
wearing his hounds tooth hat
smoking his hand crafted pipe
if death could speak
what issues would it bring up
rehashing troubled times
would this voice
guarantee pearly gates
willing
It beckons me,
conflicted with temptation
when your soul knows
that this is
a voice not
from any place
but from
the best place
where Jesus takes us
to reach
for something
knowing doubts exist
that you would rise
to be with us again
July, 2013 (RIP Dad) In memory of C. Dan Piccolomini
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 6:05 PM UTC
He walks with pavarotti in his vains and calls his daughter rock and roll.
His charm is the face of the restaurant.
In the kitchen two man are sweating above pastas and antipasti to feed their children tajine at home.
On the terrace there are girls trying not to drop any glasses because of the guy on table 204.
There's a guy behind the bar that was bad in his country, and now feels what is normal.
They speak of the boss as if he's always watching, though he's rarely ever there.
There are 10 different nationalities in there but when the chorus of a certain song plays they all sing that one word.
Bellisimo.
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 6:08 PM UTC
When I wake
Breath
Stare out into the dark
I wonder
I wonder what I'll see who I'll meet and what lasting mark will I make today On this earth
Will I paint like Picasso
Will I draw like Leonardo
Will I sing a song like Pavarotti
Then I sigh
What is my life print
What is my way
Will I be remembered
Or fade away
Am I a stone for the viewing
Is this my future
A dancing stone
Full of posies
Waiting for the wedding day child
From a family lost
A faded etch
Seeks my await
I fear for my life print
I fear for that day
Then I wonder
That day is not now
My life is not yet complete
My ink is not yet empty
Nor the paper dry
Or the stone yet cut
For I breath in the earth
I look up to the sky
And I sing to the heavens
I'm me
I'm alive
Jun 8, 2014
Jun 8, 2014 at 1:09 AM UTC
How come you
dance so___ good
Don't do a Tina Turner
Table dance on me
Whats love got to do
with fads
Never know what you
had_____
Fads Like P-op-Sugar
Lads Like Laptop- sister
Austrian lads
Alice-y Mads
A spoon full
of sugar
helps her
meds go
down
Jewels 4 Julie in the
most delightful
way
Dogs named
Andrews those
honey cashews
She pops
crackle Rice
crispies
For her Nephews
Over-sugared curfew
Julia Roberts her
business flew
Perk up (Pretty Women)
Not!! first class?
Money VIP Pass
Cafe hot and
boiling
His temper bad
habits spoiling
You cannot buy
a girl
off with
((Pricetags))
The ending
with no
friends so sad
Beginning
Sugar is your
poison that depends
No, I love you
Valentine cards
No hello and regards
Go Cincinnati
Rock and Roll
Hall of Fane_____*
Fads **** and Jane
spots her men
Her engraved
hands classical
Vivaldi opera
Pops with Pavarotti
To the love wall
Sweet Sardi
Please no
Godfather Gotti
The Godmother
tutti fruity
Or Sardinia
Miami Beach
Pop bikini's
Come together
words Beatles
I want to hold your
____?
Talking heads
Caramelly popcorn
Christmas ghost past
Talking to herself
Will this love
ever last
Like a hard toffee
She could soften
any hallway
Harvard Men
Freshman
Chewing fad
of spearmint
Gum
No etiquette
Men of bourbon
Spicy sweets
Ladies festive
turbans
Hotel tons of sweets
At the Marriott
Sweet Brandy doll
Marionette
Raw or
Angel equal
brown sugar
The finest of crepe
Suzette like a sequel
May 17, 2018
May 17, 2018 at 3:09 PM UTC
The sunlight filtered
through feathers splayed
hits different when
the wing is stayed
Jul 27, 2020
Jul 27, 2020 at 2:33 AM UTC
*They carried him in to Vivaldi´s spring
as we sat there so quiet and sombre,
suffering pain that this service would bring
on this freezing cold day in November.
We spoke of his life, sang psalm twenty three
and offered up prayers whilst down on our knees,
fought back the tears that were wanting to flow
in this old grey church with soft candle glow.
Puccini played as they carried him out
to the grave that was dug on that morning,
Pavarotti sang, we followed the route
the effect of our loss was now dawning.
Lowered him into his bed of cold earth,
his darkness eternal, same as our love*.
Nov 16, 2016
Nov 16, 2016 at 4:37 PM UTC
watching a TV broadcast
with Luciano Pavarotti
singing an aria
about a unique woman
dedicating it to Lady Diana
who is sitting in the first row
a lovely and appropriate compliment
she died in the Paris car crash
not long thereafter
Sep 24, 2022
Sep 24, 2022 at 4:41 PM UTC
Is it music to my ears?
Definitely not as it appears.
Your voice is sitting on the border
The right notes are in the wrong order.
I would love to say your voice could pop a balloon
that would be if you were singing the right tune.
Now I am no expert nor a good disc jockey
but then you are not a singer a Pavarotti.
Your voice croaks when you sing along
everything seems to be coming out wrong.
No do not start singing yet, if you please
I have to stuff my ears with bits of cheese.
I know it would be better if you had a voice
But then wouldn't we all if we had a choice.
Lots of splutterings, clearing the throat
What came out was a perfect, beautiful note.
The voice of an Angel, well blow me down
Now he was wearing an upside down frown.
Sing of sing for me, let it be revealed
Turned out it was a crow singing in the field.
Music to my ears.
Jun 25, 2014
Jun 25, 2014 at 8:53 AM UTC
Maybe that was the first mistake I made
there at the very beginning.
I wanted all of it, everything I could glean
from whatever life had to offer.
Not only did I want the beauty of Hesse,
Dante, and all the glories of Old Florence,
I wanted someone like me to share it with.
I wanted to wake up in a room in Tangier
to the Muezzin calling the faithful to prayer
and have some unbelievable soul in bed with me
wipe the sleep from her eyes and kiss me.
They say that I'm a drunk and a dreamer
and they may in fact be right about that,
but they'll never know the absolute glory
that comes from pouring your bleeding guts
out onto paper at two in the morning with
Pavarotti blaring as loud as you can make him.
I'm almost thirty and I've almost given up,
almost accepted that the finer things in life
will only ever be a dream, a fleeting glimpse
into an improbable future that may cost too much.
And then I meet people like her, Artists and Lovers
that cut me in ways I didn't think I could be anymore.
I'll be doing alot of drugs with them, maybe have some
truly Protestant shaming *** with them, trying to
reach out across that ****** abyss and touch their soul.
But I'll never wake up in Tangier with them.
I'll fall asleep listening to Netflix and wondering
who gave her the scars I can feel pumping through her heart.
It'll probably fade away relatively quickly too,
that one real moment when the walls fell.
No matter, I always knew deep in my heart of hearts
that people like me don't get happy endings or to
live our dreams out unless we die for them.
We go our own way, suffering to be who we are,
creating beauty in ****** rooms with screaming
children that reek of cat **** and regrets.
But if it ever gets too much to bear, there's
always truly running, truly giving up on
having it all, walking the **** away
and being insane and drunk in Tangier alone.
Jun 23, 2017
Jun 23, 2017 at 10:00 PM UTC
it's called Pakistani
bum-fluff, you, ******* ******
d'uh! or double d'uh: aha quizzical;
sure, private message me,
or even comment,
i know what Silverchair is about,
i know what 1995 is without Nirvana...
i'm just saying: please comment: i'm lonely:
i have an itchy nose... ha ha.
some claim it's beard envy...
my cat is really a truant Pavarotti...
200 variations of the meow -
i can't be bothered, i have to
equip myself with goodnight;
three books and three films...
one book and three films:
du en du!
if ever two scots arguing
over a copper coin made copper wiring,
then at least we were assured Plasticine
and Palestine;
yeah, opposite direction: vice versus,
or: once upon a time a wandering Jew
in Europe, bag-full of literature,
then god knows what he-he-cause...
and i swear that's a cheap format of
expressing laughter.
Sep 8, 2016
Sep 8, 2016 at 12:03 AM UTC
once upon a time, my english teacher (a pict), blamed english soap opera (namely eastenders), for his students treating books like bricks, or at least door stoppers.
yep, and the most entertaining drama
i've seen unfold, was between my
neighbour's dog, and my pavarotti's
worth of a cat: every time it rains
and his meowing, i'm an inch's worth
close to phoning amnesty international
on grounds of: human abuse...
hate this ginger **** this castrated frankenstein
monstrosity meowing all the time...
it almost feels like i guillotined his
******** + testicles off, even though
i'm the ******* of pedigree annoyance
tactics...
but, really? it must be the jazz pedigree
in me, transitioning from classical music
that really, gets me,
i hate bands that disrespect bass guitarists...
i'm either sly, or pedantic, or simply
nerdy...
i don't like bands that forget bass guitars,
i like to think of them as a buffer criterium
segregating rhythm guitar and the drums,
bass guitars allow a harmony,
listen to enough jazz, and you'll know -
i like, and i also don't like bands like
metallica... i must be deaf...
i must have had a mumbai elephant stamp
on my trombone's worth of owing an ear,
but i can't hear drums...
so i must be deaf...
i know the bass is there,
but it's subtle... too subtle for my liking,
it might be a guilt-ridden thing,
having lost cliff burton...
but i have to be a bit deaf guarding a reminder...
i have no respect for bands that
hide the bass, and bask in rhythm guitars
and drums...
sorry, but bass guitar is a crucial
mediatory medium of what comes after:
either solo guitar or the already apparent
"stage fright" of vocal exfoliation...
and that's truly the case, the most "soap opera"
i've seen these days, was staged
by my ginger-ninja and my neighbour's *****
when people become too docile to become
interesting or entertaining,
you revise yourself using animals
as a blank slate...
and i must be deaf,
i can't hear any bass guitar on the majority
of metallica's songs...
devil's dance is besides the point,
being stated;
just call me deaf and we'll be ripping
a dollar bill to the hush of: evens.
Aug 30, 2017
Aug 30, 2017 at 7:36 PM UTC
Soy canela y soy sazón
mas no soy Dalila amor,
no me tengas miedo Sanson,
usa tu pluma como bruta fuerza
que ahí esta tu destreza,
destroza mis miedos en prosa,
hazme roció en tu boca.
No me invites y cierres la puerta,
que tempranito hay que mojar la tierra,
con la luna amaneciendo arraigamos los deseos,
fertilicemos las pasiones
devorando los granos de la cosecha,
en una pasión desmedida,
con furia se deslizan entre tintas de mil colores que relatan nuestros versos en uno que otro beso,
versando sobre el amor, al sol veremos saliendo,
amamantándonos los miedos
en la cuna de lo prohibido,
que suele ser el mismo elixir de la vida.
No tengas miedo niño travieso,
que en mis brazos hay fuego,
en mis caderas hay un túnel
con agua fresca que absuelve
cada pecado que cometas.
No tengas miedo niño travieso,
escucharemos a Piero,
un poco de Pavarotti
y con las Granadas de Placido Domingo culminaremos la noche,
con toda la espuma que provocó en tu cuerpo.
LeydisProse
1/16/2018
https://m.facebook.com/LeydisProse/
Jan 17, 2018
Jan 17, 2018 at 9:17 AM UTC
it's kinda funny, but all i keep thinking about is the clipped tooth and the 3 pancakes awaiting me gnashing the smoothness into poached pear baby goo; i will not allow language to subordinate me... i, will, subordinate language! language will be my clothes, and not, my, tailor!
i abhor people owned by language,
it's a bit like debate
between portishead vs. poliça...
love a bitch-fight...
scratching, itching,
hair-tugging,
my type of replacement when it
comes to being entertained by
cockerels or bulls (terriers) -
got i love petting those beastly boy
pig snouts!
the problem with me?
i love drinking more than
conversations with people -
synonymous with:
animals make more sense to me
that humans...
oops;
i gather.
i have a 10kg / 20+ pound maine
**** that i bite for fun...
bite a maine ****
get an apache headgear...
****** kicks like a kangaroo
when i tickler his hind paws...
sings the **** out
of a reincarnation of Pavarotti...
either that or it's ***** 'arry,
or simply rudy (ginger) -
i love cats for their
autism...
it will never end up
being a death-stare match:
there's always "something" to
be preoccupied with cats...
usually? nothing,
the anti-thesis of
narcissus was a cat.
people never have stories
about dogs,
other than: lick my ***** take a nap...
i hate the cat i own...
man originated
with a heart,
while woman originated with a mind...
notably the grand-schemer
locusta -
hell knows no fury for a woman scorned,
as,
heaven knows no peace
for a man: pardoned.
since we're on equal terms,
we can only politicise language,
rather than the, infantile,
politicising of language...
i always wonder how
an exhausted meow exhausts the mind
of a cat, with no cognitive notion
of a a meow...
how does a cat meow...
when there's no thought of meow...
in the same exhaustion...
how does man speak of god,
when he think nothing of god?
if god is a beyond word,
yet trapped in (moral) action,
can we discuss the case by merely
using onomatopoeia?
i.e. onomatopoeia,
an etymological return to the prime
of syllables?
prior to letters having names
akin to A - alpha -
or O - omicron?
cut short pretty jesus?
oh, what, a, shame!
p.s. sure, he can be the alpha and the omega,
but i'm the omicron in between.
Nov 21, 2017
Nov 21, 2017 at 9:17 PM UTC
There is no singing bird
No note from Pavarotti
That could affect my heart
The way your voice runs through me
No brilliance in heaven's skies
Could make me forget
The tenderness of your kiss
For you my love
Your are my breath
And the ground on which I stand
My sunrise
My sunset
My birth and
My death...
Mar 15, 2015
Mar 15, 2015 at 1:19 AM UTC
Roy Orbison was no Luciano Pavarotti, but then Luciano Pavarotti was no Roy Orbison. Born in Nowhere, Texas, Orbison had an inauspicious musical beginning. He was shy growing up, but got a guitar at an early age. He drifted around tiny towns as he tentatively began his career and over the following years signed with several different recording companies. He remained extremely self-conscious as he slowly gained some success and wore dark-tinted glasses to allay some degree of his unease on stage. But in the late 1950s and early 60s, Orbison made it big, so big, in fact, that his songs went to the top of the charts in the U.S. as well as Europe and Australia. But by the mid-60s with the musical invasion from the United Kingdom--ironic though it was, he became close friends with the Beatles who admired his talent and songs--and the dramatic culture-change in America, Orbison's career and his popularity waned terribly. It was not until the 80s that Orbison experienced a grand resurgence of popularity, which pleased him so. But he did not have long to enjoy it. He died of a heart attack in 1988 at the age of 52. He was buried in an unmarked grave.
Copyright 2020 Tod Howard Hawks
Sep 5, 2020
Sep 5, 2020 at 6:31 PM UTC
saving beautiful ryan living in orwell state CCTV 02.09.18
disgusting absolutely
belongs in the gutter
needs to be in confinement solitary
in mouth melted butter.
not your first porky
probably won't be your last
below the belt is very naughty
what production company will want to cast.
poor ryan is in trauma
this whole experience is grotty
certainly no nessun dorma
no ear beauty like pavarotti.
change to ryans persona
this experience needs to compensate
CBB fans be the owner
ryan winning must infiltrate.
said my peace
will poetry readers congratulate
could this end the orwell lease
ryans blessed to be living in a surveillance state.
Sep 2, 2018
Sep 2, 2018 at 5:57 AM UTC