"schumann" poems
.*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
poor buick good dog we’re almost done bad moon bellyful of big dumb blond last line i want uh a memory yes before yes atomic foreskins pink & fresh yes hunger for the womb **** **** **** *** junk food ****** with a walkman playing schumann to dilate woman oranges have more delicacy oranges orages oral fruit caught in the act the memory here it is a certain man crippled since birth caught in the act *** without hands his only defense: today today is only the beginning this is only the beginning a sick man’s argument okay last line
while in the street already leaves are falling
2k
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
Rhythms of Mother Earth
Those which to life give birth
The pulse of all her life
When disrupted cause strife
Why is it we feel better when we go outside?
What has Mother Earth that is not inside?
Everything is connected
And, in turn affected
By that which causes disruption
Mainly, human corruption
Drop a pebble in a lake
All things affected by that wake
Of those energy waves emitted
Like those from a tower transmitted
Where have the butterflies and bees gone?
Those that took fancy flight above our lawn
Why have their numbers decreased?
And why have more become deceased?
What is this pulse, what is this beat?
That which surrounds us and is beneath our feet?
Mother Earth's heartbeat, herRESONANCE...7.83Hz (hertz)
The same rhythm with which humanity flirts
Circadian rhythm, day and night
Daily cycle of dark and light
A world, from the eye unseen
Yet perceived by those who are keen
Aware of our world which is synergetic
With waves that are light, electric and magnetic
What happens in a world without bees?
Does the fruit still fall from the trees?
Do we want to live without the beauty of flowers?
All for the incessant need for transmitting towers?
What is the ultimate price that we may pay
If we do not hold our cell phones an inch away
As waves lethal as high concentrations of uranium
Are pumped continuously into our cranium
Wireless hot spots become pervasive
Much like a species that is invasive
Birds migratory instincts disrupted
By those towers that have corrupted
That natural balance we have with our mother
A balance that cannot be replaced with another
This resonance attributed to Schumann
Is a frequency that is also human
(C) 2013 Shawn White Eagle
Jan 6, 2013
Jan 6, 2013 at 7:56 PM UTC
Catherine's Tango
Quiet moonless night lit only by the libido of a white cigarette
Do not
Do not be a poet
propose to a woman
and die with children on your
Denim Soul'd Lap
I am giving up
I am
disfiguring my Rifle
I am
unwashed clothes
tucked into the corner of the bed
where You and She and He and You
sleep
make love
speech
listen to the radio
when it
gives premarital birth
to Jazz C-section
when the radio
sticks its finger down its
electrical throat
attached to the wall
and
Digests Classical Master Pieces of Symphonies
I am 1:42am
an orange pill
2 pennies
3 quarters
a dime
a nickel
molding yogurt
a face sprouting weeds
a body
blooming old age
Tip Toe
unlock my
golden halted door to a chamber of
Lamps that bend and sigh
only to leave you
quite sad
quite misplaced in the sand
asking for water
but all we have
is cold coffee
it has been sitting out for
2 waltz
all of the ceiling's light bulbs
are awake
chattering quietly
like 5am suburbia birds
Pigeons
Crows
The one eyed red robin coasting south for a warm nest
watch out
Lovers are here to stay
they carry
knives and ****** bouquets
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 2:54 AM UTC
A mirror will suffice, no doubt.
The high furrowed forehead,
The heavy-lidded Asian eyes,
The long-lobed Indian ears.
Brown skin beginning to spot,
Of an age to bore and be bored.
I turn away, knowing too well
My face, my expression
For all seasons, my half-smile.
Birds flit about the feeder,
The dog days wane, and I
Observe the jitters of leaves
And the pallor of the ice-blue beyond.
I read to find inspiration. I write
To restore candor to the mind.
There are raindrops on the window,
And a peregrine wind gusts on the grass.
I think of my old red flannel shirt,
The one I threw away in July.
I would like to pat the warm belly of a
Beagle or the hand of a handsome woman.
I look ahead to cheese and wine,
And a bit of Bach, perhaps,
Or Schumann on the bow of Yo-Yo Ma.
I see the mountains as I saw them
When my heart was young.
But were they not a deeper blue,
shimmering under the fluency of skies
Radiant with crystal light? Across the way
The yellow land lies out, and standing stones
Form distant islands in the field of time.
here is a stillness on this perfect world,
And I am content to settle in its hold.
I turn inward on a wall of books.
They are old friends, even those that
Have dislodged my dreams. One by one
They have shaped the thing I am.
These are the days that swarm
Into the shadows of legend. I ponder.
And when the image on the glass
Is refracted into the prisms of the past
I shall remember: my parents speaking
Quietly in a warm familiar room, and
I bend to redeem an errant, broken doll.
My little daughter, her eyes brimming
With love, beholds the ember of my soul.
There is the rattle of a teacup, and
At the window and among the vines,
The whir of a hummingbird’s wings.
In the blue evening, in another room,
There is the faint laughter of ghosts,
And in a tarnished silver frame, the
likeness of a boy who bears my name.
Jul 25, 2021
Jul 25, 2021 at 5:27 AM UTC
i'm sorry, but it's true...
however rigid you might
find the need to confirm
a truth...
but even the great
piano composers
of the last century,
be that liszt, chopin,
satie, debussy, or schumann...
can't compete with
thomas newman's
score for american beauty,
i.e. any other name...
it's the pauses,
which act are stressors to
the whole composition...
we're surrounded by
so many sounds that are
trans-mammalian...
we've become
so accustomed to them,
that, as i once said:
the song of birds with due
end of spring: irritates me!
i'm sorry...
i'm sorry that poetry seems feeble
by way of imitating this
approach...
there are never to few
words to be said,
as said, regarding
someone's death:
i wish i said...
i wish i said
this...
i wish i said
this to him (her)...
poetry can fake this minimalism,
akin to the oriental haiku...
but that's beside the point...
don't fake it...
drown in your words as the last
breaths in the sea of narratives...
thomas newman transcended
the "masters" of piano...
i don't know how he managed
to overcome satie or debussy...
i'm scratching my head
thinking: huh?
he actually wrote a piano haiku!
perhaps that's a misnomer example,
but given the waterfall dynamic
to my writing, i have no interest
in using the correct word...
if the word i used was incorrect;
god, it takes so little...
to overpower so much,
say: overpowering the power
hierarchy that gave us pyramids...
why isn't there an aztec story
regarding those pyramids?
surely there must be something!
ah! after all... those pyramids weren't
tombs, dedicated toward a burial...
they were sites of capital punishment,
imposing sites,
enough... to warn
future transgressors of law...
these weren't tombs...
they were scaffolds of capital execution...
no wonder there was no jewish
stubbornness among the aztecs...
there was no divine intervention.
yeah yeah, i know, atheism is vogue...
but with atheism comes no art...
and why would art succumb
to a rational "argument" for its existence?
fair enough... no canvas, no paint,
no paint-strokes, no painting...
i hope you find a brick-wall more
entertaining.
Jun 22, 2017
Jun 22, 2017 at 7:15 PM UTC
Eres mi amor, Paula, mi amor, Paula, Clara quise decir.
Y cuánto tiempo, Paula, digo Clara,
sin ti y sin mí. Las diligencias
parten sin mí y sin ti.
O a ti te llevan hacia el norte, hacia el pobre Roberto.
A mí, hacia el sur, contigo hacia el sur, donde ya no estabas,
donde nunca estarías. Ahora he tomado el tren
para decirte adiós. Y sueño, sueño mío.
Cerré los ojos, deslumbrado por la memoria.
Apreté la cintura del paisaje, recorrí sus caderas,
miré sus ojos verdes, ceniza con sentido.
Tendía el cielo su metal hermético.
Y se superpusieron mediterráneos y cantábricos,
cipreses respirados desde un sótano,
casi a vista de muerto, y jazmineros.
Después, las cosas y sus nombres
perdieron sus contornos, su significación
y fueron nada más que ritmo, armonía viajera
liberada de los instrumentos que le dieron su carne.
No queda nadie ya que pueda perdonarte,
que pueda perdonarme, perdonarnos.
Nadie que pueda rescatar los besos que se pudren
sobre Roberto y su locura piadosa.
Ahora que voy a ti, a encontrarte en la aduana de la muerte
pienso, Clara, amor mío, que cuando nos besábamos
era a Roberto a quien besábamos, al engañado
hijo de nuestro amor. Él murió un día.
Su esposa, tú, amor mío, Clara, también has muerto ahora.
Yo tomé el tren para encontrarme en la frontera,
para decirte adiós desde el lado acá de la muerte, amor de mi vida.
Pero nunca llegaré a ti.
El viejo Brahms es viejo, y está gordo.
Me he quedado dormido y me he pasado de estación.
¿Comprendes, amor mío, que nunca llegaré a tu lado
por culpa de este sueño, que es mi bálsamo y mi enemigo?
Ya nunca llegaré a tu lado.
Puede ser, amor mío, que no te amara ya,
que no te hubiese amado nunca,
que sólo hubiese amado a mi propio amor,
el amor que te tuve, Clara, amor mío.
811
Eternal Schumann:
Your head was born
Between the shadow
Of your ghost
Daffodil and echo
Always running around
into the wrong guideline
Of your love for Brahms
I think of you in the madhouse
Skinned by demons
And raised by the angels
You remind me of the gloomy manifestation
Of pure love
And every note
From the concert in La
Gloriously dragging
All that energy and ceiling,
All that contained love
Haunting your holy peace
Snatching the muse
Of the sublime and vertical fabric
From the truth ground to sticks.
It's a heartbreaking era
And the corpse of Schumann the terrible
Has been resting for a century
In dizzying memory
Of the human
Already impoverished
For the departure of God
And abandoned
To their fate
To the last cadence
That you did not write
In the first delirium
From schizophrenia
R.
Jun 9, 2021
Jun 9, 2021 at 2:46 PM UTC
Overhead, the moon has spilled her pearl necklace onto the sky
A night's snowfall frozen in time.
She smells of aged lily of the valley perfume
that she saves for special occasions.
Around her, the sky is whispering Schumann,
Mondnacht, I think.
His celestial voice sails between constellations like a cloud
And the stars give one last wink.
Feb 2, 2019
Feb 2, 2019 at 11:28 PM UTC
Benedict had
gone home.
Yochana's father
had driven back
to his village miles away.
Her mother sat
in the lounge
flicking through
musical manuscripts
on the piano.
Yochana came in
from seeing
her father's car
out of sight
with Benedict
at the back.
Your mind was not
on the Schumann
as you played,
her mother said
turning and gazing
at her daughter.
I was tired,
Yochana said
walking and sitting
on the sofa
where Benedict had sat
some moments ago
before his departure.
Did you not sleep?
Her mother asked
studying her daughter’s
expression eyeing
over her body.
Not well,
Yochana said
thinking of being
in Benedict's bed
(the guest house bed
where he was).
That boy
is a distraction to you
and I can see it
in your lacklustre playing,
her mother said
I saw the way
he looked at you.
Yochana looked
at her mother and said:
it wasn't him
that distracted me
it was the boring
Schumann piece.
Her mother raised
an eyebrow.
Schumann is
never boring
he is anything but,
her mother chided
pulling her lips
into a look of disdain.
He bores me,
Yochana said
looking at the place
on the sofa where
Benedict sat
the slight indentation.
I'm not sure it is good
for that boy to be here
if it affects
your piano practice,
her mother said
studying her daughter's face
and the eyes
looking far away.
I love him,
Yochana said
looking at her
mother's face
at the eyes
peering at her.
Love him?
What do you
know of love
you're still a child
and he is
nothing to you,
the mother said,
now enough of this
nonsense you are
to practise
the Mozart will
get you going.
Yochana looked
at the piano
and rose up
and walked towards it
and sat down
on the piano stool.
Now begin
at the beginning
of the 3rd piano sonata,
her mother said.
Yochana couldn't
get being
in Benedict’s bed
out of her mind
how they
had lain there
and kissed
and touched
and got overly hot.
She began to play
the Mozart piece.
Her mother sat
in an armchair
and looked and listened.
Yochana imagined
Benedict stood behind her
as she played
his hands around her waist
his breath on her neck.
Slower with the Mozart,
her mother said sharply
not too rushed.
Yochana felt him
kissing her neck
and all was hushed.
Sep 1, 2016
Sep 1, 2016 at 2:43 AM UTC
Yochana-
my bird thin,
dark haired,
Schubert loving,
once kissed
now shy, girl;
see how time
has sped
by us both.
How many stars
have burnt out
in that time and space?
I dreamed of you
at one time,
tucked you away
in my dreams box,
placed you
at the bottom
of my mind's depth.
A photo of the old school
reminded me of you,
the background,
the playing field,
the other kids older
like you and me,
just before
the Beatles' first LP.
Yochana-
with whom
did you share your life?
Who touched your body?
Shared your lips,
sat with you
at the Schubert recitals?
I remember you
in front in class,
your head to one side
as the teacher played
that Schubert piece,
your thin frame,
narrow waist,
you titless,
Reynard said,
of you, he spoke.
I saw how
your hands moved
to the music's flow,
the fragile fingers
mock playing
on the desktop.
Reynard considered
the colour
of your underwear,
I studied you,
your far away,
music tranced stare.
Yochana-
where are you now?
In whose bed
did you lay?
Whose arms
embraced you?
Who fingers searched
you out and on?
I recall
your bird-thin frame,
wiry arms,
the dark hair
the length
of your back;
how the Schumann piece
had you spaced out
in dream mode,
your eyes closed,
and I –
Benny,
watching you,
you,
unaware of me,
giving you
the desiring stare.
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 7:10 AM UTC
SEA IMAGES
This rusty little boat, anchored on the far-away shallow bank,
Neglected, but still bears marks of past bruises and secrets
Of passion, known only to some daring lovers
Long forgotten.
Today the sky is still red with summer desire,
The winds blow free and wild, careless, enticing.
Crimson flowers, half-hidden from human eyes,
Resplendent in glory, flushed with fire,
Drunk with yearning, dream of a world beyond time
Devoid of regrets, pains and sighs.
This day seems so long, while the heat waves tear
At the insatiate hearts of all, both young and old,
Who share the common anguish, the same bond of longing
For what could never be, that unfathomable-
Beyond words, experience, touch, feeling-
that magnificent unknown
Born of first love.
Is that what is inadequately
Spoken of by the poets as ecstasy?
Like the themes of an eternal symphony, the sea
Holds the keys to the heart’s depth,
Its longing, loneliness, sorrow and pain
While the last song of this summer has come to an end, sadly,
There will always be a boat somewhere with its story-
Watched by the waves, the sky, the crimson flowers
And love unfulfilled, soaked in silent misery.
After listening to Schumann and Chopin’s piano concertos-
night of 14th August 1999, Sydney
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 7:45 PM UTC
THROUGH MY EYES:
BRAHMS’ S UNTITLED POEM (1857) *
Women I love with my heart and soul
But I am not made for matrimony
A domestic life and its trappings
Would destroy my creativity.
Clara I would protect and worship
With my life—she is perfection-
Love I would blemish and defile
If I were to mention—‘Give me your affection’.
Ah, my beloved Robert is gone
In his tomb my heart is interned
My mentor, my friend, my inspiration
Alas, how little I gave my master in return.
My music is Robert and Clara
Our souls are by destiny wrought
History shall remember
But would understand us not.
* Robert Schumann (1810—1856)
* Johannes Brahms (1833-1897)
* Clara Schumann (1819—1896)
Dec 11, 2015
Dec 11, 2015 at 2:20 AM UTC
after the großartig composers...
there can only be
the great pianists...
you can do all you want
appreciating someone like
joe satriani:
but a guitar can never
become a piano:
none of that hushes suspense
of a piano soloist...
even a violin requires back-up
(akin to schindler's list
main theme)...
but... piano...
schumann,
satie,
debussy,
chopin,
liszt...
schubert...
campanella's
reinterpretation of wagner...
a piano can stand
alone,
and doesn't even,
remotely,
require the harangue
of an orchestra
(listen 'ere,
you uneducated swine -
sort of scenario)...
no opera...
but piano:
like... listening to the uniformity
of rain drops
falling onto a tin roof...
mind you:
i have to return
to the slaughterhouse music
of modernity
with its heavy influence
on stressing rhythm, drum...
as much as i do enjoy
the aloofness,
the ivory tower music...
i have to come down
to the horse-hooves
and buckles
of THUMP... THUMP...
as much as i appreciate it...
i can't be sat
next to these porcelain
aenemics for long...
from on high,
to from down below...
i need the current music
of the slaughterhouse.
- but only a piano can pierce
the silence...
and relieve something
akin to the royal albert
concern hall...
with an unanimous
revelation of...
that trembling
before the satiated
sound of: a sigh;
as if to confirm:
yes... you are alive.
Mar 3, 2019
Mar 3, 2019 at 7:17 PM UTC
Yochana played
the Schumann piece.
Her fingers
nimble and soft
ran over the keyboard
to a preplanned purpose.
Her mother and Benedict
sat on the sofa listening;
her father was out
in the garden weeding,
classical music bored him.
Yochana played
from memory,
the Schumann
was a piece of cake
(an expression
she'd got from Benedict).
Her mind was elsewhere,
on last night
in Benedict's bed
(or the guest room bed
where he was),
on how she had crept
across the passageway
to his room
and entered his bed.
A little slower there,
her mother said,
this is Schumann's
sensitive work,
needs more gentleness.
Benedict looked on
at Yochana,
trying to ignore
her mother,
listened to the music,
eyed her waist,
narrow,
the hips,
the way she moved
her body as she played,
her bottom easing
side to side
in her playing.
Yochana slowed
down a fraction,
her fingers
(if fingers
have memory)
thought of the motion
of opening Benedict's
nightwear buttons,
the touching
of his piece.
This is a difficult part,
her mother said,
take it carefully,
Yochana,
do not rush.
Yochana slowed,
heard her mother's
voice behind her,
imagined Benedict
sitting there
watching her
in his silence,
his mind on
other matters
than the Schumann,
after all,
she mused
soft smiling,
we are only human.
Aug 2, 2016
Aug 2, 2016 at 2:48 AM UTC
the dread i feel
from valiant effort
to a broken railroad.
an endless love
sent down the stream.
it sails.
i watch from the peer
but pretend not to see.
i feel schumann in
the mirror.
we let the same notes
push us off the cliff.
Jan 26, 2018
Jan 26, 2018 at 6:50 AM UTC
Passion-- a lesser word would blemish
The glory of an autumnal afternoon
The melancholy of Schumann drifted through the music room
It made the heart weep and swoon
And life's poignancy never seemed more real
Than every celestial note from the master's quintet
That which is beyond the limits of words
Is the soul of music: this , this was a moment in time I would not forget.
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 8:58 AM UTC