"rachmaninov" poems
SNOW FALLS
she wakes
to a morning
with no reason for living
cries in the mirror
to be
forgiven
puts on her make-up
takes off her clothes
sits there & bleeds
until she can’t feel
the blood in her veins
runs cold
the razor blade
bleeds
bleeds
the cat
cries
to be fed
the batteries in her Walkman
go dead
the Rachmaninov stops
a letter
she will never read
drops on the Welcome mat
a mobile
rings & rings &
...stops
a member of
a minor political party
looking for her vote
rings the doorbell twice
slips on the ice & ruins his coat
curses
a man laughs
at another man’s joke
it’s a big laugh...he’s a big bloke
laughter
invades the square
there’s a chill in the air
a friend calls for her
(to go on a blind date)
...she doesn’t hear
snow...
...snow...
...snow falls
Aug 31, 2018
Aug 31, 2018 at 3:11 PM UTC
She was a friend of Amber Clark
You know, you've met her before
She's the girl who listens secretly
To Bach behind the door
The Closet Classic ******
Who wears shirts of the Ramones
But listens to Rachmaninov
whenever she's alone
Jennifer McSweeney
known by all upon the street
She had kind words for everyone
She liked everyone she'd meet
She ate meals at Giannis
Knew the Pawnbroker, Old Cy
She listened to the bluesman
Whenever she came by
Like all the folks upon the street
Jennifer was dark
Not gothic, but you could say grey
She was set to make her mark
She was going to be famous
Her face upon the Silver Screen
She was going to be a movie star
Like The Truck Stop Beauty Queen
Jennifer loved movies
Not the ones that can be found
At the local dvd store
She liked the movies without sound
Her little quirk was that she
Liked the movies from the start
They told tales in black and white
These were strong in Jenni's heart
Buster Keaton, Harold Lloyd
Fatty Arbuckle, and more
Zasu Pitts, Charlie Chase
They struck her to her core
L and H, The Keystone Kops
She loved to see them grapplin'
But none of these compared to her
deep love for Charlie Chaplin
The Cineplex would show a film
They would host a special week
When silent movies were the shows
When nobody did speak
Jennifer would take the time
To watch each film they showed
She was so happy when the week came round
She positively glowed
The kids she knew, all thought her odd
Because of what she liked
But, when the silent week was here
Jennifer was psyched
One year she went to the next town
To get a small tattoo
It was all done up in black and grey
It was what she had to do
Like other girls who have been inked
It was in the same place
But, it was little, very non descript
Of her favorite actors face
She told few friends about it
And though she never did get violent
If you laughed at her tattoo
Like Chaplin, she'd be silent
She kept it to herself most times
Her little bit of ink
As she aged she'd show it more
For the cost of just one drink
She would take them to her bedroom
And by the light of her small lamp
She would show her tattoo proudly
Chaplin....her little ***** stamp
It's the thing that she is known for
She's the girls with Charlie's face
Where others all have Chinese Words
She has Chaplin in this place
She is known for loving movies
In black and white, and though it's camp
She gives a whole new meaning to
Having a ***** stamp.
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 12:00 AM UTC
I’ve been walking down IKEA
however dull it sounds
I saw a girl
Round my age, maybe younger
With eyes as melancholic as mine
She was tapping Rachmaninov on a wooden table
with tears dripping down her hollowed face
And I shivered
Because I used to be her
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 10:53 AM UTC
A first date
Had he made the right decision?
Had she?
Two strangers
Tickets for the Philharmonic
Rachmaninov tonight, his second symphony
Oh it's to late now to speculate if she's educated
You're hear, it begins
Feb 25, 2013
Feb 25, 2013 at 8:16 PM UTC
Armchair and arms up.
Bottle on the side table.
Eyes open wide, unable
to sleep. Thoughts creep
into a shaking skull.
Hands shake and grip the bow.
He pulls his scream across a string,
because his throat won't voice his weariness.
The sound's more than just pain,
and it tells more of his aching bones
than it should.
He plays the tears he can't show,
and it's understood
as the instrument moans.
That's all he needs to show a world
that doesn't know what his pain sounds like.
He'd talk about it if he could.
Rachmaninov understood.
Oct 9, 2015
Oct 9, 2015 at 10:09 PM UTC
no. poetry can be swirling
across the keyboard like a Rachmaninov
order from chaos
no meaning or rhyme
no rhythm all the time
idolising Bukowski
ending abruptly
Nov 26, 2015
Nov 26, 2015 at 2:45 AM UTC
SNOW FALLS
She wakes to a morning
with no reason for living
cries in the mirror
to be forgiven.
Puts on her make-up
takes off her clothes
sits there & bleeds
until she can’t feel
the blood in her veins
...runs cold.
The razorblade
bleeds...bleeds.
The cat cries
to be fed.
The batteries in her Walkman
go dead.
The Rachmaninov stops.
A letter she will never read
drops on the Welcome mat.
A mobile rings & rings &...stops.
A member of a minor political party
looking for her vote
rings the doorbell twice
slips on the ice & ruins his coat.
Curses.
A man laughs at another man’s joke.
It’s a big laugh...he’s a big bloke.
Laughter invades the square.
There’s a chill in the air.
A friend calls for her
(to go on a blind date)
...she doesn’t hear.
Snow...
...snow...
...snow falls.
Sep 21, 2025
Sep 21, 2025 at 1:15 PM UTC
I MET HIM WHEN HE WAS ONLY EIGHTEEN MONTHS OLD,
WITH DARK HAIR AND EYES THAT LOOKED SO BOLD,
STAYING AT HIS GRANDPARENT'S HOUSE FOR AWHILE,
NOBODY KNEW THAT HE WOULD BE SO TACTILE;
HE GAVE ME HIS TOYS AND MYSTERIOUS LOOK,
HE'D TURN OUT GREAT NO MATTER HOW LONG IT TOOK;
MANY YEARS LATER WE SETTLED IN THE CONCERT HALL,
WE DIDN'T REALIZE THE EVENING WOULD BE SO MAGICAL,
HE STRODE ON TO THE STAGE WITH BLACK SPRINGY HAIR,
BOWED TO THE AUDIENCE AND SAT DOWN AT THE PIANO;
HE STARTED WITH RACHMANINOV CONCERT IN C MINOR,
AND THEN CONTINUED WITH CHOP'IN NOCTURNE OPUS 15,
GOD, IT WAS SO BEAUTIFUL, IT MADE YOU CRY - THE MELODY WOULD HANG,
I REMEMBERED THE SMALL BOY I MET CALLED YANG YANG.
Feb 14, 2016
Feb 14, 2016 at 12:03 AM UTC
Pianos and keys
ink
and the words start to play
She's down with the beat
Caffeinated dreams where Rachmaninov
seems really quick,
Sheet
music
from the music box maker
take a look inside the factories
pianos and
keys
ink by the litre
I meet her
at ten
pianos again
key's in the door
she
plays me some more
Bizet
she'll say something
I'll hear her,
comfortable and confidante
In the stuffed easy chair
content to be there
with her
the piano
keys
she's
comfortable too.
Jun 9, 2016
Jun 9, 2016 at 12:14 PM UTC
Today is July 4, 2020. There is not much to celebrate. **** Trump leaves us in a Polynicean gloom. Fireworks remind me of wars. I would rather, and therefore will, listen to Rachmaninov's PIANO CONCERTO NO. 2 tonight.
I will celebrate beauty rather than killing. And I will give thought to Antigone as well, for she willingly gave her life for doing what was right. I shall listen to Yuja **** arpeggiate notes. I will again become fixated both by her light-
ning dexterity and the glorious sounds to which she gives birth. Humankind has this dual potential: it can either **** or care. So why, I ask myself, does it always choose the former? On this national holiday especially, why do we now not celebrate Thomas Paine and Walt Whitman and Harriet Tubman and Eugene Debs and Martin Luther King Jr.? We do we not collectively ask forgiveness for all the covert, sinister, malevolent interventions into the affairs of other nations, resulting in unjust overthrows and war crimes aplenty? Fireworks? July 4th? We did defeat the evil of ****** and his unspeakable genocide. Let us be sure to give unending thanks to all those who lost their lives in this moral victory. But Viet Nam? The lives of 58,000 American soldiers lost for the lies of our leaders? And Kissinger and McNamara and the Bushes and Cheney and so many others in our government never held accountable for their war crimes? And yet tonight we have fireworks instead of Nuremberg-like trials. Antigone knew she would die if she buried her brother, Polynices, and yet she went ahead and buried him and died for doing it. And the 4,000,000 blacks who were slaves in 1861 and the 500 indigenous nations that covered for centuries from sea to shining sea what we now call America--did they have anything to celebrate on this day, on this date? Fireworks, that's all.
Copyright 2020 Tod Howard Hawks
Jul 4, 2020
Jul 4, 2020 at 10:10 PM UTC
The story is that Rachmaninov was depressed for three years from 1898 to 1901. Eventually he sought the help of Dr. Nikoli Dahl who saw Rachmaninov daily using hypnotherapy and psychotherapy. Rachmaninov responded favorably to these treatments. In 1902 he composed his Piano Concerto No, 2. There are, of course, many great and beautiful musical compositions, but Rachmaninov's Piano Concerto No. 2, along with Beethoven's 1st, 3rd, 5th, 7th, and 9th symphonies, together with Bach's Brandenburg Concertos and his Toccata and Fugue in G Minor stand at the pinnacle of the world's pyramid of great music. I have written poems since my early 20s. A poem is not a symphony, but it is a work of art. Do I ever feel the way Rachmaninov felt when he heard the deafening applause after No. 2 was performed for the first time? Sometimes.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Aug 1, 2020
Aug 1, 2020 at 4:31 AM UTC
I could play violin for you
or knock out a hymn or two
just give me a clue what you'd
like.
A gravy boat sailed at dawn
into the eye of a storm and
that was the day Jesus
was born,
coincidence?
She winks at me
thinks I'm Nijinsky
and plays the piano
like Rachmaninov.
Seamlessly dreaming
she brings me
coffee with cream in when
I only want milk.
Apr 15, 2017
Apr 15, 2017 at 6:26 PM UTC
I could play violin for you
or knock out a hymn or two
just give me a clue what you'd
like.
A gravy boat sailed at dawn
into the eye of a storm and
that was the day Jesus
was born,
coincidence?
She winks at me
thinks I'm Nijinsky
and plays the piano
like Rachmaninov.
Seamlessly dreaming
she brings me
coffee with cream in when
I only want milk.
Apr 15, 2017
Apr 15, 2017 at 6:26 PM UTC
Andrei,
I was a child
when I read
a piece of paper
& you died.
You were a telegram
falling from the air,
a moth, a stray dog,
a liner note passing
through my hands.
I pressed play
& Chopin unwound
like a serpent,
the mood shifting
like the rainbow
that feeds on oil's skin.
I went out
& found more.
Rachmaninov attacked,
a chess game
where the pieces moved
ten at a time.
& the Prokofiev,
followed me
around the house.
I was a child
when I saved you
with my ears.
Let me save you again.
Come, revenge
yourself a little while
in my old records.
Oct 8, 2019
Oct 8, 2019 at 4:13 PM UTC