"schubert" poems
I lay awake tonight,
sleep departs from my weary soul.
It might be the effect of the caffeine i took this afternoon..
Or the moon in it's full bloom.
But i think it's something more.
Something more alive.
A reason with no explanation.
I think...
I think it's her...
The way she walked elegantly towards me, holding the tray of my order.
*I saw flashes of the future;
a bride of mine,walking down an aisle*
the way her scent-a mixture of vanilla and rose-caught inside my lungs when she got so close..
it felt like every breath i have is branded and exclusively for her
the way she smiled and the way her voice sounded when she asked "do you need anything else?"
like the melody of a violin to the tune of Franz Schubert's Ave Maria
So gentle and calm and warm
And the way I was hypnotized or crazy enough to respond...
You .
I need you in my life .
Will you marry me .
Jun 18, 2015
Jun 18, 2015 at 9:23 PM UTC
I like hearing you talk about Mozart
Because it means you’re listening.
His piano keys are no different from mine.
I like hearing you talk about Mozart.
I used to play his pieces before I sleep.
His arpeggio is my lullaby;
His laughter, a sombre tune to which I tune
My keys.
There’s no denying that you like Mozart;
Never mind his spending habit.
I sometimes think you are Mozart.
I think Beethoven was fad gone true because
He was deaf to his laughter,
And Schubert was too old, too young to remember
How to step on the pedals
While he tried his many operas
On his baby grand piano.
I think of Mozart in my sleep, in my dreams,
On the toilet, while eating.
I think of Mozart and his young son
And the requiem he stood dying to finish.
Mozart became a
One night stand, and I am not proud of that.
I majored in advertising, God knows why, and maybe
Mozart had something to do with that.
I factored one and two equals the sign of what digit,
And maybe Mozart had something to do with that.
I wrote a story once,
About a starving artist;
Maybe he was the force behind that.
I filled my library with fiction,
And fiction became a running schedule for me.
Maybe Mozart had something to do with that.
I’ve grown roots and sprouted horns listening to Bach;
I don’t think Mozart knew that.
But it was the size of the shoe that never fit me in third grade,
And the roots run as deep as a well of Hope grown asunder.
I knew Mozart would not like that.
And it was holy.
We are holy.
He was holy.
Mozart was holy. Mozart was holy.
Mozart was holier than a cow gunned for meat turned to steak
And corned beef on my breakfast sandwich.
Mozart was holier than a dishwashing paste advertisement
That promises oil free, squeaky clean Experience.
Mozart was more than a religious façade played in the sala
Of some affluent geeky teenager’s house
Where no one bothers to eat the garnishing.
Mozart was holier than Bach, Chopin, Stravinsky, Wagner.
His flute promised a princess to remain priceless.
Mozart was holier than Salieri.
Mozart knew better than Salieri.
Mozart played better than Salieri,
And he got the better of Salieri when Antonio himself said,
**** that Austrian ****** who plays, lives and howls like a show monkey.
**** this court.
**** this Emperor who can hardly keep together his fingers to play.
**** Austria.
**** Vienna.
**** this era of opera played in German that hardly sells a ticket.
**** this requiem and this boy,
This mad man, pint sized and hardly put together like a china doll.
**** this piano, and to hell with his lovers.”
I saw Mozart once. He waved at me.
I turned and looked away because I was listening to you talk about Mozart.
And I like hearing you talk about Mozart
Than Mozart talking about
Himself.
Apr 20, 2012
Apr 20, 2012 at 6:46 PM UTC
.*i can think of one cool job... a nighttime DJ on a radio station... anything more cool than being a DJ between the hours 12am through to 5am? honestly... can't think of a cooler job... all the song requests are gone from the classical.fm show between 3pm and 5pm... now one is telling you what to do... **** me... as a kid... either a veterinarian, or an owner of a music shop... now? an insomniac DJ... they would never play Christopher Young's Something to Think About in the afternoon... sorry... i'm a Hellraiser cult-follower of the first two movies... and that song? why? i just can't be bothered with listening to that Braveheart over-scratched Song of / for a Princess... it's good... once in a while... but, come, on!*
just one of those nights...
having listened to the scoops
from the alternative...
worried your to hell
about not having *******
enough concerning
the previous day's load
which would make the pleasures
of **** *** look tame...
perched on a windowsill -
solving a sudoku -
and listening to
Frank Zappa's occam's razor...
and wishing:
making sure it was never
hot in the city
by Billy Idol,
or Kiss' crazy nights
to usher in the night,
and the watchman...
why?
it's not your standard
guitar solo...
it's a medley...
big difference...
guitar solos are bound to
a strict return to the rhythm
section...
they are caged beasts...
composed of a restricted
time constrain in a song...
but a guitar medley?
**** me...
it's what obliterates
a need for vocals...
the guitar medley is
the vocals substitute...
and that aspect of music?
mm... gummy bears...
jelly in the knees...
which is why i like
the fact that jazz is the antithesis
of classical music symphony...
sure... i get the Schubert / Schumann
piano duets...
nice...
but jazz?
the breakdown of the quintet?
**** let me count...
piano, drums...
bass... horn... sax...
yep, a quintet...
that moment in a jazz
song? where each instrument
player gets his solo?
genius!
the same with a guitar medley...
neither solo,
nor the rhythm section...
what a beautiful opening
to what i expect to be,
a beautiful night:
as the watchman once said.
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 6:34 PM UTC
Mother listens
while I play Schubert
on the piano,
said Yochana,
my fingers travel
the keyboard
from memory.
Not so fast, she says,
it slows at this passage.
I slow down,
and think of Benedict,
that time he kissed me
on the cheek
on the playing field,
and the time
he watched me play
the piano in the classroom,
his breath on my neck,
his hands on my waist.
Softer here,
my mother says;
I press the keys softer;
I sense her eyes on me
as she sits
in the armchair
as I play.
And the weekend
he stayed here
in our guestroom,
and I crept along
to the room
and climbed
into the bed with him.
My mother
never knew
nor suspected.
I come to the end
and lift my hands away
and cease to play.
Jul 31, 2018
Jul 31, 2018 at 2:41 AM UTC
Beethoven's Ninth;
Mozart's Thirty-Eighth;
What do they lack
Artistically speaking?
They lack the music of the buttocks,
The celestial odourous ****
Which charmeth all who hear it.
Although admittedly Schubert
Left an unfinished movement
On the floor near his piano
And the whiff was something horrid.
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 10:03 AM UTC
As she plays
the Schubert
piano piece
Yochana thinks
on Benedict
even as her mother
stands behind her
listening to her
every note
Benedict's image
fills her mind
the kiss still
feels damp
upon her lips
and cheek
and as she fingers
the Schubert
she senses her fingers
wanting to finger him
her mother says
you missed a note
you are not focusing
Yochana pauses
her fingers
over the keyboard
of black and white
senses her mother's breath
upon her neck
her mother's fingers
tapping her shoulder
and even as
she begins
to play again
it's Benedict whom
she thinks on
and his eyes she sees
in the reflection
of the piano wood
it must flow
her mother says
let Schubert speak
but Benedict's fingers
on her back
as he held her close
are all she feels
as she moves
to the music's pulse
on the piano stool
and as her mother's breath
floats upon her neck
it's his breath
she imagines
is there
and she and he
not there at the piano
but closer elsewhere.
Jun 28, 2015
Jun 28, 2015 at 2:45 AM UTC
Pale leaves fall silently in the dead of winter
I realise I have lived far too long
I was once a bold and outgoing singer
but no longer has life left me any single song-
in the night's thickest snow I wander
the heartless winds they blow loud and strong
tears of forlorn love on icy rocks they flounder
in this chilling hour I weep, to none do I belong
Nov 3, 2021
Nov 3, 2021 at 1:40 AM UTC
Do not treat me like a princess
Though I enjoy the pretty things in life
And the joys that money can buy
I know that there is always a price to be paid
Do not treat me like a princess
I may read and write poetry in the morning
With Schubert playing in the background
But let me have a moment with my Scream Queens
Do not treat me like a princess
You may love me and think I am perfect
With all the grace and beauty in the world
But to love is to understand that perfection is a façade
And the truest love of all
Is when you love me
Without my perfection
Dec 21, 2016
Dec 21, 2016 at 11:27 AM UTC
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
My love knows no Louis Vuitton or Cartier
she doesn't belong to the city
she lives in a farm with her parents and siblings
in the faraway country.
My love thinks not of manicures
her hands are busy in the soil
the flowers and plants relish their tender touch
from dawn to dusk she does toil
My love didn't go to uni
but she knows Keats, Byron and Shelley
even French, German and Russian poetry
lots of Sartre and Camus--she takes delight in philosophy.
My love is no Maria Callas nor Joan Sutherland
but beautifully she sings Schubert's lieder
opera and folk songs she takes delight in
like none other
My love never had music lessons
how she excels on the piano
she plays Mozart, Beethoven and Bach by ear
at the music-hall the villagers love her as she plays solo
I am the son of old John Mac Gregor
her next-door neighbour
I went to school never
too shy to date her
Dad and mum said
learn to write poetry
send her a sweet love poem
if she likes it, she will marry you---happily!
Oct 7, 2015
Oct 7, 2015 at 9:24 PM UTC
Benny's the new boy
in class
he sits at the back
with some kid
called Rennie
while the teacher
Miss G
yaks on
about Schubert
or some feller
putting on
some LP
as they sit
and put on
interested faces
the girl who
smiled at him
on the school bus
is there
looking over at him
beaming like
a new sun
her eyes bright
as fresh stars
he looks
at her briefly
then looks away
storing her eyes
for some
other day.
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 3:21 PM UTC
Miss Schinzer do not undress
they said but she did and so
they locked her in the side
room alone and she heard the
key turn in the lock and that
was that she heard them walk
away along the passage heard
the footsteps getting soft and
softer then silence the silence
of that abbey she went to some
years back as a child and the nun
with her beady eyes said here
one must absorb the silence here
silence is our food and drink and
she remembered the way the nun
empathised the word silence
the way her lips moulded the word
as if it were brand new and not to
be damaged or spoilt but that was
then as a child before the voices
began before the orders were laid
out for her to obey do not undress
Miss Schinzer they had said but her
voices inside said undress take off
garment by garment and as you do
so think of Christ and how he was
disrobed and hammered to the wood
and she did hearing as she undressed
the hammer on nails the jacket and
then the blouse and then the brassiere
and she felt the chill about her *******
how they stiffened she thought waiting
to remove more cloth waiting for the
voice to say undress more of the clothes
and she recalled how Mr Dimpledone had
said the same thing but she was a child
then a girl in the choir but she didn’t ask
why she just undressed and he just stared
at her and said what are you doing child?
but you said so she said no no he said gruffly
be silent unless you want to leave the choir
but she didn’t remember him saying that not
then but couldn’t be sure and the voices said
take off the lower garments and so she removed
her skirt the black one the one that made her
look like a nun she took it off and then removed
her slip and underwear and sat on the floor quite
bare remembering the hanging Christ the hands
curled like ***** nailed to the cross beam his
naked flesh the wounds the blood and she lay
down flat and put out her arms forming a cross
and her legs tight together one foot touching
the other and over in the corner knitting and
humming some Schubert her bossed eyed mother.
Mar 15, 2013
Mar 15, 2013 at 8:39 AM UTC
Jeanette flexed her fingers,
aware her mother
was sitting on the sofa,
her critical eyes and ears alert,
aware Benedict was also there,
beside her mother,
a guest, reluctantly
of her mother.
Play the Schubert
you have been practising,
her mother said.
Jeanette stretched her fingers,
feeling her mother's eyes
were on her, her ears alert
for notes missed,
too fast or slow.
She sat comfortably,
placed her fingers
over the keyboard,
brought her mind to bare
on the Schubert piece.
Benedict sat and gazed
at Jeanette's waist,
the structure
of her slim back,
how her dark hair flowed
over her shoulders.
He didn't know
Schubert from Mozart
or if it was fast or slow.
Jeanette began.
Her fingers moved
as the brain dictated.
Her ears acute
for tone and timbre.
She wondered if Benedict
was gazing at her.
She imagined his breath
on her neck as he had
that time she played him
the Beethoven piece
in the empty classroom,
his hands around her waist,
and still she kept
the piece going.
Slower here,
her mother said,
the tone's slightly off.
Benedict recalled the kiss
on her neck in class that time.
Lips on her soft skin,
but still she played
with eyes closed
as if she prayed.
Sep 20, 2018
Sep 20, 2018 at 4:29 PM UTC
A bright full moon invites,
midnight blue firmament is rich with starlight
while a gentle sea breeze blows on this starry night,
making stargazing such a delight...
Twas a house in a quaint village, with a dimly lit gazebo,
two shadows, two lovers' hearts are aglow .......
to Schubert's Serenade, they dance, embrace, like Romeo and Juliet
their bodies, clinging so close, now turn to moving silhouettes...
the night's romantic mood attunes with the weather...
in the garden's hidden corners,
further down, near the sea waters
nameless couples coo at each other...
,
hoping for that promise of union
waiting for its consummation...
On
this
fascinating
lovers'
night
a captivating
full
moon
invites...
alas.....
my
cold
empty
arms...
..............it
...... does
... not
... excite...
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sally
Copyright 2014
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 9:08 AM UTC
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
When emerging from a dialogue,
a communion.....with God, taking in
all the good and bad we've poured,
a reassuring calm rests upon us, through
a peaceful silence...a lilt flows in every
word and move...a smile graces all
<<<~>>>
In the midst of chi kung mornings
all energies combine...no one speaks,
a silence enfolds participants...a time
to receive energy, and share...a time
to be strengthened...to strengthen others
<<<~>>>
alone, by the deck of a ferryboat,
with no bouts of mal de mer...a vista
of the limitless horizon, and the flowing
sea, mutes the human voice...gives way
to quiet moments, to mull over things, and
discover one's self......senses are made
aware, by a mist of sea water,
and a swooshing wind that brings
a scent of salt
......a peaceful silence calms the soul
<<<~>>>
a moment comes,
when cacophony heightens.
drums, gongs, church bells and cell
phones ringing, dominate the airs.
in our own found silence, we listen
closely...'til a pleasant beat finally
waves...rhythm is found...and heard,
until music is born....like a dream.
tunes agree, there's nothing left to do
but sing "la-di-das and la-la-las..."
<<<~>>>
late nights, before and beyond midnight
when the night radio rhythmically plays
a crescendo and diminuendo of snores,
i seek for my muse that teases and hides,
there's fun....in the silence of creation...
<<<~>>>
inspiration, suddenly becomes incipient,
it resonates, at times, stubbornly torments,
no sound could ever distract the flow.
<<<~>>>
Schubert's Serenade, or Beethoven's Silence
can only enhance......not crumble, nor ruin
the attempt to create......especially when
silence is most eloquent.....i am rendered
..................impassioned
<<<~>>>
Sally
© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
September 3, 2018
Sep 3, 2018
Sep 3, 2018 at 9:07 AM UTC
I can tell-
I could just tell
You're hard to sum up, Difficult to describe
Not how-
Or who you are
But the Feeling that night
Like Spring after Rain or how April does Shine
Dew Without Dust
With the Air Thin and Fine
I can just tell
I could tell
Your Grandeur of Love
Reached Father then mine
Further than most and Farther than mine
Having no end
Oh Laborious, Infinite line
In one glimpse at night
I can just tell
I am able to tell
Our Dreams are alike
Not the Same, I dare say-
Congruent in Virtue
Yet Unequal in Size
Passion Far more
Your words Jump Alive
I can just tell
I can tell-
Aspirations Larger
With beliefs Similar to Mine
Our goals Compliment
Now, our Journeys align
If only we had spoke
We would Forever be Entwine
I can just tell
Feb 7, 2011
Feb 7, 2011 at 7:43 PM UTC
Sol espledente de primavera,
a cuyo beso, fresca y lozana,
la flor se yergue, la mariposa
viola el capullo, la yema estalla;
sol espledente de primavera:
¡yo te aborrezco! porque desgarras
las brumas leves, que me circundan
como rizado crespón de plata.
A mí me gustan las tardes grises,
las melancolías, las heladas,
en que las rosas tiemblan de frío,
en que los cierzos gimiendo pasan,
en que las aves, entre las hojas,
el pico esconden bajo del ala.
A mí me gustan esas penumbras
indefinibles de la enramada,
a cuyo amparo corren las fuentes,
surgen los gnomos, las hojas charlan...
Sol espledente de primavera,
cede tu gloria, declina, pasa:
deja las brumas que me rodean
como rizado crespón de plata.
Bellas mujeres de ardientes ojos,
de vivos labios, de tez rosada,
¡os aborrezco! Vuestros encantos
ni me seducen ni me arrebatan.
A mí me gustan las niñas tristes,
a mí me gustan las niñas pálidas,
las de apacibles ojos obscuros
donde perenne misterio irradia;
las de miradas que me acarician
bajo el alero de las pestañas...
Más que las rosas, amo los lirios
y las gardenias inmaculadas;
más que claveles de sangre y fuego,
la sensitiva mi vista encanta...
Bellas mujeres de ardientes ojos,
de vivos labios, de tez rosada:
pasad en ronda vertiginosa;
vuestros encantos no me arrebatan...
Himnos vibrantes de las victorias,
notas triunfales, bélicas marchas,
¡os aborrezco! porque, al oíros,
trémulas huyen mis musas blancas.
A mí me gustan las notas leves...
las notas leves... las notas lánguidas,
las que parecen suspiros hondos...
suspiros hondos de almas que pasan...
Chopin: delirio por tus nocturnos;
Beethoven: sueño con tus sonatas:
Weber: adoro tu Pensamiento
Schubert: me arroba tu Serenata.
¡Oh! Cuántas veces, bajo el imperio
de vuestra música apasionada,
Ella me dice: ¿Me quieres mucho?
y yo respondo: ¡Con toda el alma!
Himnos vibrantes de las victorias,
notas triunfales, bélicas marchas:
¡chit! porque huyen al escucharos,
trémulas todas, mis musas blancas...
Sol espledente de primavera,
lindas mujeres de faz rosada,
himnos triunfales...; ¡dejadme a solas
con mis ensueños y mis nostalgias!
Pálidas brumas que me rodean
como rizado crespón de plata,
vagas penumbras, niñas enfermas
de ojos obscuros y tez de nácar,
notas dolientes: ¡venid, que os amo!
¡Venid, que os amo! ¡Tended las alas!
975
Nimble fingered she scaled high mountains
teary eyed swam in delicate balances of mozart
saint saens, beethoven, schubert, unmindful
that i watched in awe and grace at her aquiline features
melting in those crescendos of throbbing chords
and intricate switches between registers of scales.
i struggled to keep the pace, tame the tempo,
feel the texture and tone, sing in my heart
that which felt pure crystalline diamonds
sparkling at an evenings lesson. I went faithfully
every two days just to watch and wonder
at the magic she spun with her fingers.
No orchestra ever came close to this feeling
no symphony ever beat its pulse in my passion
as this piano tutor did.
Did she play alone for me,
for somebody else
or held a conversation with the masters
while I watched as a witness?
The only time she ever played chopin,
and the minute waltz
the tears rolled down freely
from both our cheeks.
'thank you, sir, for listening'
she said smiling
' you alone made an audience
of a hundred and fifty'
Author Notes
She was beautiful.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 10 days ago
- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11580746-The-piano-tutor......-by-Marshall-Gass#sthash.yW3jTCNC.dpuf
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 4:17 PM UTC
To break is an abstraction.
To break what?
A noun?
Tangible?
Phoebe fell down four flights, fracturing her femur.
A verb?
Felt sharply in a sudden absence?
Singing Schubert and feeling a spasm of sorrow, his voice shattered.
Direct object?
A being, a destination.
I am. I am (what?) I am (broken).
Don't tell me I haven't failed
in the same sentence you tell me I'm not enough.
And watch me leaf-like tremble, fumble hands, cover mouth
A paper mask over shaking gasps that wrack me naked.
Don't tell me I'm not broken.
When I am (broken).
Feb 15, 2012
Feb 15, 2012 at 3:28 PM UTC
I'm dying
but death I deny-
I'm still living
though hope is not in the offing
yet with every dawn
there's sweet unfolding meaning
as I've loved living
there's not a stint of sadness
in my soon-to-be departing
I've been listening
to Schubert's Das Tod Und Das Madchen#
death is a friend--a thought so comforting
my poetry is my life entire- -singing
to me is each line drawn from
my body-system which is failing
you my friends who brought me poetry books for reading
late into the night I kept awake
I'd been through Keats, Shelley, Byron, Wordsworth and Browning
yet more, the other poets remaining--
the true poet never gives in to weeping
his poems triumph over everything
you, my dear friends, now I'm biding
you good cheer, do promise you would go away smiling
knowing I've loved every moment of living.
May 1, 2016
May 1, 2016 at 10:54 PM UTC
That Russian
novel read
in Paris
afterwards
with Schubert
being played
on the white
radio
in the cheap
hotel room
Sonya stripped
down to those
skimpy pink
underwear
invites me
to remove
a present
for you to
unwrap and
see what's there
she whispers
I unwrap
her slowly
the ripe fruit
the soft fig
my two lips
watering
come pluck fruit
she whispers
plough my deep
soft valley
sensuous
apricots
Schubert plays
in the air
Paris sounds
filter in
from the wide
open window
as I plough
and pluck fruit
and kiss her
sweet soft fig
come on man
she mutters
in my ear
with hot breath
dig dig dig.
Aug 9, 2016
Aug 9, 2016 at 3:38 AM UTC
/|\ /|\
/|\ /|\ /|\
/|\ /|\ /|\ /|\ /|\
"""""
Whether composed,
ailing...or up and about,
i'm always roaming
in this untouched forest,
where trees are tall with
inspirations...abundantly
blooming with lovely
words and phrases...and,
i always find you there.
i see you peeking, at the start
or, in the middle,
at the end...even between
the lines of a poem.
you're bound to mind
by indestructible ropes
made from vines and roots
of a durable tree...you seem
to be, unthinkably permanent,
not even Chopin's etudes,
or Schubert's serenade
could unbind you.
you emerge from buckets i fill
with water, or from the ***
where i make meat sauce...you
rise amongst tangled leaves of
the asparagus fern, or the crisp
and fragrant oregano plants.
there, you dwell pensively
within my forest of thoughts
because............because,
you are the poem,
the longest, i ever wrote.
~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~
~~~~~
sally b
©Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
August 22, 2021
Aug 22, 2021
Aug 22, 2021 at 3:34 AM UTC
It wasn't until Rowland
poked my elbow
in music class and said
hey Benny
look at the titless
one at the front
with the blonde ******
I looked to where
his finger pointed
that I noticed Yochana
for the first time
sitting at the front of class
with a blonde girl
who was shorter
but that hardly
made her a ******
-Rowland and his humour-
I studied her as Miss G
talked about Schubert
and his music
and his life
I noted the thinness
of her body
- Yochana's not
Miss G's-
the black hair
smooth and shiny
and I never thought
about her titlessness
at time but something
about her caught my eye
later after the kissing
on the cheek thing
and the day after
I kissed her hand
I waited for her
at the end of biology class
when she came out
with her friend
the blonde haired Angela
-Rowland went onto
the tuck shop
and then to
morning recess-
when she saw me there
and I smiled
she shooed her friend off
and waited by the wall
she said
are you waiting for me?
shouldn't I?
why would you?
why not?
do you always answer
questions with a question?
do you?
she smiled
and looked me
in my hazel eyes
what did you want?
she asked
to talk with you
I said
is that all?
anything else
on offer?
what other else?
I don't know yet
but I'm sure
I can think
of something
I said
I'm sure you can
she said
is that it?
are you in a rush?
my friend's waiting for me
she replied
can't your girlfriend
wait a bit longer?
she'd not my girlfriend
she's a friend
who is a girl
she said defensively
I dreamed of you
last night
I said
did you?
no you wouldn't let me
let you what?
Miss G passed us by
and walked down
the corridor
giving us
a backward stare
kiss you
I said
shame
Yochana said
yes it was
I said
we stood in the corridor
a few seconds in silence
kids passing by
you kissed my hand
the other day
isn't that enough?
she said
no
a glimpse of heaven
isn't enough
until you get there
I said
she looked past me
then at the kids
passing by
not here
maybe lunch time
some place quiet
we can maybe kiss
she said
then touching
my hand briefly
she walked off
down the corridor
and I watched her going
with a kind of yearning
my inner soul
and my body
burning.
May 8, 2015
May 8, 2015 at 2:19 AM UTC
*i'm writing on a white page, i'm punching defeat, so why would an idiot invite himself to be defeated with me in order to censor me and not allow me to write of my defeat? who would write over defeat a victory? a polish woman attempting being multi-cultural over a polish-man with overt political correctness invoked like a virus to no one's use - globalisation paved the way for ethnic self-loathing, never protected by bilingual transactions of the same body kept asking the same mirror: mirror mirror on the wall... are those big black athletes of the n.f.l. / n.b.a. etc. the same idiots that were caught by the slave traders?! **** me, that's about as much ***** as is worth killing off victorian sensibilities.*
your mr.
*** street name
your name ,the town
you get to name the county
then get to post code extra
and all you get is a taste in music
(https://goo.gl/U5hJJ8)
while the pagans say:
i rather end my life abbreviated with pleasures
that extended with christian miseries
for a sainthood.
never underestimate the irish violins in pop
just because they were never the welcome
medleys in schubert; just because the irish took
to **** down the pole's throat, ha, as said
ha i said ha and took the irish to the welcomed leash.
wrong crew... i think you were asking about
your colonial fathers... instead you were asking
about your brothers being oppressed by
the two empires... but then again you
were pseudo-irish... integrated into english
society well enough to earn a matrimony with
oxford ***** hardly a belfast in you
to say anything except attempting a fake californian
fruit cake colony on foreign soil as a claim of your own,
something or other / fruit salad, freedom to breathe
became your oppression of dogmatic vocabulary
as anything said had to conform to grammar
without any grammar actually learned.
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 9:57 PM UTC
She comes in
Yochana
with her friend
Angela
a squat girl
with blonde hair
and sit down
in two seats
at the front
of the class
I watch her
from the back
with Reynard
my best friend
the teacher
old Miss G
is writing
on the board
with white chalk
before she
sits down she
looks at me
(Yochana
not Miss G)
there's a hint
of a smile
then she turns
and I see
just the back
of her head
(straight black hair
reaching down
past shoulders)
sometimes when
when she turns
left or right
I catch her
pale profile
and secretly
take a kiss
from my lips
put it down
on my palm
and blow it
towards her
pallid cheek
no one sees
the palm blown
small kisses
then Miss G
plays piano
some Schubert
piano work
and I watch
Yochana's
thin fingers
move along
the desk top
her response
to Schubert
not to me
I sit there
wishing hard
those fingers
were playing
upon me.
Mar 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015 at 3:24 AM UTC