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Stagger Lee Jun 2018
Tired of living in a false paradise of consumption,
suffering everyday our labored prostitution,
trade in your hours for a handful of scraps,
smile while your master puts the cigar out on your back,
this is the workers symphony,
aching joints, aching psyche,
smothered in whiskey to **** the pain,
our autonomous freedom we'll never regain,
slave till you die, laugh till it hurts, your meaning in life, to merely survive,
collect your checks week after week, creative minds stomped out, just smile and drink,
be a good slave except your fate,
it's just the way it is boy get back in your place,
we gravel in dispair, they spit in our face,
we waste our lives away,
on our hands and knees but we just smile and drink,
thinking about breaking these chains,
it's punishable by law,
authority laughs when you die slow for your keep,
with your eyes wide shut,
don't wake your slumber,  
it's all a bad dream,
just go back to sleep,
and forget life's blunder
a symphony orchestra.
there is a thunderstorm,
they are playing a Wagner overture
and the people leave their seats under the trees
and run inside to the pavilion
the women giggling, the men pretending calm,
wet cigarettes being thrown away,
Wagner plays on, and then they are all under the
pavilion. the birds even come in from the trees
and enter the pavilion and then it is the Hungarian
Rhapsody #2 by Lizst, and it still rains, but look,
one man sits alone in the rain
listening. the audience notices him. they turn
and look. the orchestra goes about its
business. the man sits in the night in the rain,
listening. there is something wrong with him,
isn't there?
he came to hear the
music.
Seth Honda May 2018
Pearly white keys,
Hammers,
And strings.
All laced together in a mahogany symphony.
A piano.

Melodies dance through the air,
Spinning circles round my head,
Making me dizzy with joy.

A tiger dances across the keys and into my ears,
Putting memories of a zoo in my head.
Remembering walking down the tiger habitat.
Hand in hand with my father,
Tugging at his shirt.
He wore green that day.

Images of a butterfly landing on my finger prance through the space between me and her and land on the tip of my nose.
It is pure happiness.

They say a butterfly will land only on someone pure with bliss,
It lands on me as I look over at her.
Her fingers gliding so effortlessly across the smooth ivory,
This song is music to my ears.

Her hair falling so effortlessly on her shoulders.
She looks at me and smiles,
Her eyes crinkle at the corners as music flows from her fingertips.
She is her own symphony.
Her laugh the drums,
Her voice the flute,
And her singing a chorus of violins.
She is a symphony to make Beethoven blush.

I gape in awe at her beauty,
At the beauty of the music,
The music filling the space between us.
She looks happy.

Her hands dancing over the piano, A smile lights up her face.
Highlighting her grin
And her chocolate brown eyes.
The dark brown curls flowing down from the top of her head.

Our arms touch.
I can feel her symphony in my bones,
One of sadness.
One of hope.

I feel her happiness resonate through my arms and send chills down my spine.
The sound of her fingers running across the piano keys are drowned out by the pounding of my heart.
Bump bump.
Bump bump.
I can feel it in my throat,
And I lean in.

The music stops.
Our lips touch.
I can feel her beauty resonate through my body.

Pearly white ivory teeth,
Perfectly parted lips,
And breath.
Laced together in un pelle symphonie.
May 2, 2018 || 5:46 PM
Red Bergan Mar 2014
Bluebirds dance gracefully,
Cardinals sing a symphony.
Announcing the return,
Of thee.

Righteous may be thy soul,
Kind may be thy heart.
What we ask of you,
Where art thou heart?

Harps ring beyond the flowers,
Of scarlet lovers.
Might the rose be thy veil?
Thy weddings renewal.

Bonded by Matrimony.
It shall be so.
Kevin Eli Mar 2015
When I walk out my door, I hear the birds sing in silent symphony.
At the bus stop, the sounds of low humming engines and rolling tires.
Outstretched clouds of pure white follow horizons.
The percussion of rain clinks on boulders, drumming quietly.
Bee's wings play muted notes on flowers, sweetly collecting.
There is so much more than radio static and dull ads full of ditties.
Nature's ensemble invented the beat, rhythm, and the harmony.
Logan Robertson Aug 2018
Twas the night before
Hawaii islands on the radar
A monster opened the door
It shoulders a storied scar

Of the last time, it hit its mark
Rearing its ugly head, ahead of pace
As the eye looms '82 in the dark
Wrinkles on this  eve sit sadly in boldface

Kauai sat once in unnatured infamy
It sunny shores hit once by the beast
Clouds of villains played in that symphony
With the next generation looking to feast

As the residence brace for the worst
Of the monster stepping on its paradise
With category four winds and cloudburst
The hope is that the monster plays nice

With the Aloha Spirit preserved with leis
In place of bold headlines of strung wrath
Hawaii can pray rays of light in the coming days
Willing the monster to take a different path

Logan Robertson

8/23/2018
This honor catches me by surprise, so much that I can't wait for the next dawn, sunrise, and all the days that follow. Thank you. Thank you for all the well wishes and support. It means looking at the sunrise, a new dawn, with newfound exuberance and eagerness.

To my friends and relatives on Oahu, I pray. Update-monster played nice. Outstanding was its piano play. Storm went from a 5,4,3,2,1 ... miss. With the Aloha Spirit preserved with leis
In place of bold headlines of strung wrath. Thank you.
Liliana Jaworska Oct 2014
The body was given to us as impression of the gift of love.
We were conceived in love and born in order to love.
The Creator has given us through the body to the world.
We are therefore divine spark.
Let us look at other man as at indescribable gift.
Adam and Eve in paradise followed in the wake of ****** without shame.
Through the body we can touch the soul.
This ****** was
acceptance of a man with his limitations,
tangible form of love,
devotion to each other without mystery,
boundless openness,
freedom from lust of flesh.
Bashfulness has its roots in this original innocence.
Discretion to the body is inscribed in man.
Let us follow with pure look at man.
Purity is trying to get access through the body to soul and inside.
The physicality brings us
childish joy,
communion of souls,
inner enrichment,
sharing a beautiful relationship,
exploration of mystery of love.
Pure look at man is unconventional symphony of his gift of life.
Such scrutinizing is necessary for genuine love.
Beloved should first  play simultaneously the same notes of feelings
before the symphony will flow with sexuality.
This presage will give your body speech.
Sexuality should not drown out the relationship with beloved,
it should build skyscrapers.
Sexuality is a gift, such as body and life.
Sexuality discovers endless wealth of lover.
****** expression of love is a confession of God's presence.
After all, God is love.
Only the perception of sexuality as gift saves from vulgarity.
Micheal Bevan Nov 2010
Don't watch me bleed,
Pick it up,
Pick it all up,
And place it in your cup,
From which you drink your sins nightly.
You're so unsightly,
Your mother should have aborted,
How she could have supported,
That monster you are,
Disgusts me,
You're such a star.

Supernova,
You're brighter than any,
You're a quarter to my penny,
A dime to my dim,
Slim to my exact,
Addition to my subtract,
The loser to my win.

Supernova,
Monster mystery,
I reflect in your shadow,
In your shadow I am me,
Dark and discreet,
I knock at your door,
Invited in, I have a seat,
Wine please, more,
I am minor, major; I implore.

Supernova,
I lay death at your feet,
I lick the edges,
I taste defeat,
I've walked the ledges,
Life I've met, despair I'll meet,
Just you wait,
Supernova symphony,
I faint beautifully,
In wake of your sleep,
River wrists,
Dare slumber keep,
My heart at rest,
Supernova symmetry,
Torn apart at best.
I beg inside my soul to have you.
I don't love you.  
I want to feel passion, desire,  and the warmth of another body pressing against me
I could grab any man I wanted, but I want you.
I see your brown hair
let me run my fingers through, just once
Your eyes
soft earth
Your lips
pink lilacs
And all I want is your body
Which is very saddening.
To only want to use someone, then toss them aside like trash
How can you?
And still fall asleep at night without thinking about a face wet with tears
your fault
I simply want to do to you
What you have done
To All the women before me,

The same song as a trickery

I want you to fall in love with me
an instrument meets the music
I want you to hold me close and kiss me, as you share your fears and truths.
a melody plays softly
I want you to believe in love because of me
Think of me,  breathe me,  and miss me when we are not together
accelerato tempo

Until one day you meet me in a corner booth at our favorite restaurant, and I rip your heart to shreds

Look,  I never loved you. I lied.
I used you to get what I want.
You are a pathetic, self-serving dung heap that only thinks about himself. You wooed me, I pretended to like you, so I could dig under your thick facade of masculinity, and discover your sensitive side. I know what you are--man *****--and I enjoyed using you. You can lie to everyone, every woman from this point on, but ten years from now,  when you are married to wife number four and you are waiting for her to come home and she never does,  I want you to crawl into the bed you made and bawl like the whining,  sniveling baby you truly become at night when no one else is around you.  I hope 'lonely' presses you down so hard it hurts to breathe. And maybe then you might turn into a different man or at least your miniscule brain will have an inkling of true heartbreak. Doubtful though--I win.  You lose


Then I get up and walk away from you,  ignoring any pleas and ****** slurs.

*Caesura
"Underneath the monster lies a man, under the man lurks nothing at all. "--Katherine

Caesura is a musical term for a sudden stop in music-I discovered this new word and I started thinking of things that stop suddenly... which led me to this.  Hope you like it!!! Thank you to all who read what I write,  it lifts my spirit to know that I am seen and heard
Jonah Long Apr 2016
Organs play music
Your heart plays a symphony
Full of emotion
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
it's the 50th anniversary edition of william burrough's naked lunch, with the original cover, looking at all the annexes is like watching modern history with Russian annexing Crimea, anyway...

indeed the nature of addiction, i chose mine to
cure my insomnia - i *chose
mine -
the less nasty less mythical name for it is indeed
metabolism - any hard-craft alcoholic walks into
a bar - drunk ******* and egoistically gluttonous
idiots come out like giraffes - vomiting into
the gutters, more Marilyn Monroe moments
showing off knickers even without the metro gust -
you drink enough and watch people drinking
for the psychoactive ingredient for dis-inhibiting
effects (buttered up talk, smooth there, quasi
Don Juan wannabes) - as Burroughs said: PLAN
YOUR ADDICTION - become addicted if some other
weakness is beating you - amtitriptyline doesn't
work without alcohol to what's desired as the lullaby
effect prior to K.O. - don't measure up to a veteran,
he'll beat you with experience, given it works -
i can imagine why hallucinogenics aren't metabolically
affecting - too much implants concerning the
world beyond, and god, and the secret of the universe -
you can't get addicted to these things - because there's
the bad trip, and you're off the hook - no more spiritual
trips looking for answers - repetition of the everyday
kills it off like flicking off a light switch - but, years
after the Beat movement, the Beats really did underestimate
the addiction of marijuana - they thought it was
the ****** drunk... oddly enough marijuana is linked to
alcohol and ****** addiction, it too is metabolic -
i'm not a medical expert... but i have heard of stoners
and their munchies - anything relating to food,
to metabolism is included, marijuana is the middle-guy
between the standards and Disney -
you heard of being monged, right? marijuana is as addictive
as alcohol - originally a giggly drug, a conversation
starter - marijuana - ends up being
an Jason Segel and Ed Helms film Jeff, who lives at Home,
it's this uncontrollable effect that proper intentions of
marijuana have: supreme thoughtlessness - or
the present vogue concerning "mindfulness" -
Jeff basically overthought himself on the high - he didn't
detach himself from thinking, now he's paying the price -
he's making completely random associations -
and why do stoners always waste their time in front
of t.v. or television - marijuana is a purely auditory drug -
******* to the park, pretend to be a fake Buddha imitation
and create the void in yourself to make your mind
the M25 at 3 a.m. - but this innocence with the Beat
movement associating itself with marijuana is partly
why it was legalised - the government wants rejects and,
to be frank? retards - that's why they legalised it -
they knew with the munchies jokes that marijuana had
the same metabolic addiction components as alcohol and
***** - you're metabolic dude! once addiction sets in
you're no longer in control of brain-freeze - you didn't
think it up on the psychoactive Everest - when the nice
sensation was still there, marijuana realised you zombie much
later - all the in-jokes of stoner culture suddenly passed you,
simulation dementia ensued - i'm way past the psychoactive
asset of alcohol, no slurred speech, no nothing -
but i retain the psychoactive point of metabolising excess
alcohol: if i didn't, i would sleep! i wouldn't sleep!
don't get me wrong, i get the point that i can't really
experience the negatives of reaching the psychoactive purpose
of alcohol and ***** in a street or join the football hooligans -
and surgeons drink to calm the nerves and calm the hand -
but alcohol is more cool headed and less phantasmagorical
than ***** addiction, for one thing your palette improves -
you find the most boring tasks liberating -
but the nights are the real nights, esp. if slumped on the sofa
watching t.v., unless you don't have a backlog of un-watched
Versailles or Billions episodes, you really need to go for
a 4 mile walk and breath the air - then half-sleep for
about an 2 hours (because you have limited money and
sometimes you pass a day without Auburn Whitney) -
you become rigorous - the prime solipsism - no time for
girlfriends, doesn't matter, my genitals weren't mutilated
as a child, no one forced a ****-*******-marriage-ring
on my finger - i can actually enjoy addiction - i end up
eating one meal a day - of course my face looks candyfloss
puffed up - but my soul is partly helium pubescent -
alcohol addiction is not ***** addiction even both
are primes of metabolism takeovers - no hung-overs too,
no blackouts - no fake "i can't remember" stories
when something ****** up happened - and certainly no
innocent look at the fact that marijuana is also a metabolic
addiction - unless of course you limit psychic ingestion
(excluding music, music is great to arrive at thoughtlessness),
but as most stoners (the next alcoholics) prove,
garbage the mind with American Dad and then get hungry -
binge eat - the stomach can drag the brain right down
into the acid pit and fry it - zombies galore - you won't be
able to catch yourself stopping thinking, the stomach
will do that for you, and you'll enter the zombie apocalypse:
just like my neighbour - there's a rat-like ritual involved,
for example, most people get sleepy from marijuana -
so it's not an addiction standing at a bus stop
pretending to be waiting for a bus and smoking?
that's addiction - the metabolic Gargantua has already caught-up,
addiction is primarily a solitary affair - it just depends
what you do with it... i'd be ashamed with my alcoholism
if i didn't write poems - the counter-effect is that i feel
some sort of social-inclusion when the day finishes -
i feed the cats, write invoices for my father (40% of
18 - 35 year olds live with their parents, because all
the foreigners bought all the houses intended as: buy to let -
is my money going down my drain, or is this
a post-Freud Oedipus stigmata killing familial relations
altogether?), cook, clean the house once a week,
cut the cats' nail and brush them - and to counter
what i don't do? can you imagine listening to a symphony
with only violins playing? not so genius hearing that
sort of Hollywood story with only cameo characters speaking.
Daniel Quigley Nov 2017
By the sill sit still;
Listen to the wash on the roof;
Specks and sheets form a symphony
so complete to hush you quiet,
Even still.

An inundation.
This libation to parched earth has
been a meditation since birth;
to ponder under the pitter-patter
hiss and swish of exponential scales
At the wrongness of raindrops in a sunbeam.

Sit still, brood like the clouds that came
to darken a June day, so silent they gathered
over a land hard with memory,
With fear for passing years and
worries that grew like weeds in summer showers.

Brief as thought these drops like jewels
are set ablaze then strike the dirt; done.
They flash for an instant in time,
with no way back to an azure sky.

There is no telling the distance,
How high these clouds climb.
Just the sound of falling rain,
Listen.
TJ King Apr 2013
Waking up there
next to you
is like being born
to a Symphony
of warm water-bells~

Your smiling eyes are light houses
where the ghost-light keepers
ring out their fears with silver bells

a lovely Symphony of bells
calling my ghost ship
of white noise and lonely violins

to the easy morning light
you wear like a crown
of laughing daffodils.
b Nov 2013
Her eyes played me
Like soft chords on
An old violin,
And the sound produced
Would never sound as sweet,
As the song flowing from
Your piano key teeth.

There are harmonies in my heart,
And melodies in my veins.
If only you'd strum me
Three times more,
I'd blow into your trumpet lips,
And you'd buzz and you'd hum-
Dancing inside of my kiss.

I'll take this mallet,
And hammer away
At the contours of your spine
Like it were a xylophone,
Your body vibrates-
I flow to the sensual tone.

This is a symphony of few,
An orchestra of two,
And who needs instruments anyway-
When the music is made
by me and you?
jeffrey conyers Feb 2013
Listen to the music coming from the violin.
Listen to the music coming from the oboe.
Listen.
Listen very closely as the music flow.

Listen to the symphony of love.
As the musicians plays.
Who cannot enjoy the orchestra in full bloom?

As I dance with you around the room.

Never did I imagine us being this close.
We was totally opposite when we first met.
But you grew on me.
And I grew on you.

So, listen to the symphony plays our favorite song.
As I dance with you around the room.

We making harmony.
We making love with our minds.
As the symphony plays behind us.
As I dance with you around the room.

To the cha cha, I'm dancing.
To the fox trot, I'm dancing.
To whatever comes to mind.
We're doing it.

As we enjoy the moment after saying, I do.
CK Baker May 2017
like that pill bitter Sunday morning (after)
with a nauseating hack
the previously uneventful Tuesday
derailed
in surrealistic tale
with Auntie and Jack (and a quarter of fate)
in the 748
on a night flight
from Sherwood to Lore

reverberating waves
of imminent summer haze
river flats
and flower fields
fly weights
and silver bait
shredders and shysters
and open gates
(into those everlasting
and sweated journeys of hope)

bloods and strays
and florentine grays
(reminiscent of Rockwell fame)
running horses
and overgrown country lanes
morning grace
and gentle cheer
eyes clear
on the river pass
blunted paddles for those ancient
and not so willing suckers!


duke making his own way
(to the corner club)
Parsons and Poe
stream from the torn screen door
cricket cadence
and symphony of the Deere
calm and deliberate
in the soft
and silent fields

meadows open for grazing
(guineas scamper across the till)
pocket apples fill
the country ripe air
drunken bees
and chestnuts
and electric fingers
strike the surface pool
(a cedar strip wedged on the white wash dock)

baited bull heads set to cast
evenings with hearts
and Nolten Nash
may flowers bloom
across the grass
~ time unmatched ~
with blue jays
and river bends
and channel cats
...and that warm
and recurring
Coleman drift
Do you remember the melody
of a sweetly sang blue silk symphony?
of my sharp breaths and moaning singing?
of cracks in my ****** expressions?
the ones typically tempered to turn my passion into passivity?

Do you remember when the accompanying
string snapped?
I went quiet, cold
couldn't sing for my stranglehold on my
selfishness and...lust? Yes. Lust.
Do you remember the difference?
The dissonance?
I feel like a **** and it's
so far from ridiculous
I don't feel like i deserve your forgiveness
guess what i'm trying to say is
I'm sorry and
though i don't know if it will happen again
because i'm new at singing this song
I don't want it ti

I need to know
all i need to know
is the harmony of the first night of the blue silk symphony
still echoes strong
(in the background, in the background)
and i just can't hear it because
lack of forgiveness ...whether my own for myself, or yours for me right now
( is such a loud sound)
( loud sound)
Turn out the lights.
I want to dance in the darkness of my sin.
I want to let down my hair
feel its length run wild down my spine.
I want to feel my arms reaching out into the nothingness,
want to feel the touch of the shadows
as it burns my flesh.
Turn out the lights.
I want to dance in the darkness of my sin.
I want to hear the silence of my solitude, hear it screaming
at me from the pinpoint horizon
I can't actually see because I
turned out the lights so I could dance in the darkness of my sin.
I want to feel the void
at the very center of my being
shaped like the soul I sold to a devil disguised as angel
disguised as man disguised as devil.
I can't tell anymore. Even in this
darkness, it hurts to keep my eyes
open. Even in this darkness I can
see the outline of my nakedness shining
like a beacon out to sea.
But this is not the beacon calling
to lost ships like mothers call to children.
This is the beacon that blinds my eyes
and reminds me of my imperfections.
So again,
turn out the lights.
I want to dance in the darkness of my sin.
Please, just turn out the light
that burns within me. Cut out its source
and let me fade back into the darkness.
Turn out the lights.
I want to dance in the darkness of my sin.
Nigel Morgan Nov 2012
(poems from the Chinese translated by Arthur Waley)

Last night the clouds scattered away;
A thousand leagues, the same moonlight scene.
When dawn came, I dreamt I saw your face;
It must have been that you were thinking of me.
In my dream, I thought I held your hand
And asked you to tell me what your thoughts were.
And you said: ‘I miss you bitterly . . . “

As Helen drifted into sleep the source of that imagined voice in her last conscious moment was waking several hundred miles away. For so long now she was his first and only waking thought. He stretched his hand out to touch her side with his fingertips, not a touch more the lightest brush: he did not wish to wake her. But she was elsewhere. He was alone. His imagination had to bring her to him instead. Sometimes she was so vivid a thought, a presence more like, that he felt her body surround him, her hand stroke the back of his neck, her ******* fall and spread against his chest, her breath kiss his nose and cheek. He felt conscious he had yet to shave, conscious his rough face should not touch her delicate freckled complexion . . . but he was alone and his body ached for her.

It was always like this when they were apart, and particularly so when she was away from home and full to the brim with the variously rich activities and opportunities that made up her life. He knew she might think of him, but there was this feeling he was missing a part of her living he would never see or know. True, she would speak to him on the phone, but sadly he still longed to read her once bright descriptions that had in the past enabled him to enter her solo experiences in a way no image seemed to allow. But he had resolved to put such possible gifts to one side. So instead he would invent such descriptions himself: a good, if time-consuming compromise. He would give himself an hour at his desk; an hour, had he been with her, they might have spent in each other’s arms welcoming the day with such a love-making he could hardly bare to think about: it was always, always more wonderful than he could possibly have imagined.

He had been at a concert the previous evening. He’d taken the train to a nearby town and chosen to hear just one work in the second part. Before the interval there had been a strange confection of Bernstein, Vaughan-Williams and Saint-Saens. He had preferred to listen to *The Symphonie Fantastique
by Hector Berlioz. There was something a little special about attending a concert to hear a single work. You could properly prepare yourself for the experience and take away a clear memory of the music. He had read the score on the train journey, a journey across a once industrial and mining heartland that had become an abandoned wasteland: a river and canal running in tandem, a vast but empty marshalling yard, acres of water-filled gravel pits, factory and mill buildings standing empty and in decay. On this early evening of a thoroughly wet and cold June day he would lift his gaze to the window to observe this sad landscape shrouded in a grey mist tinted with mottled green.

Andrew often considered Berlioz a kind of fellow-traveller on his life’s journey of music. Berlioz too had been a guitarist in his teenage years and had been largely self-taught as a composer. He had been an innovator in his use of the orchestra and developed a body of work that closely mirrored the literature and political mores of his time.  The Symphonie Fantastique was the ultimate love letter: to the adorable Harriet Smithson, the Irish actress. Berlioz had seen her play Ophelia in Shakespeare’s Hamlet (see above) and immediately imagined her as his muse and life’s partner. He wrote hundreds of letters to her before eventually meeting her to declare his love and admiration in person. A friend took her to hear the Symphonie after it had got about that this radical work was dedicated to her. She was appalled! But, when Berlioz wrote Lélio or The Return to Life, a kind of sequel to his Symphonie, she relented and agreed to meet him. They married in 1833 but parted after a tempestuous seven years. It had surprised Andrew to discover Lélio, about which, until quite recently, he had known nothing. The Berlioz scholar David Cairns had written fully and quite lovingly about the composition, but reading the synopsis in Wikipedia he began to understand it might be a trifle embarrassing to present in a concert.

The programme of Lélio describes the artist wakening from these dreams, musing on Shakespeare, his sad life, and not having a woman. He decides that if he can't put this unrequited love out of his head, he will immerse himself in music. He then leads an orchestra to a successful performance of one of his new compositions and the story ends peacefully.

Lélio consists of six musical pieces presented by an actor who stands on stage in front of a curtain concealing the orchestra. The actor's dramatic monologues explain the meaning of the music in the life of the artist. The work begins and ends with the idée fixe theme, linking Lélio to Symphonie fantastique.


Thoughts of the lovely Harriet brought him to thoughts of his own muse, far away. He had written so many letters to his muse, and now he wrote her little stories instead, often imagining moments in their still separate lives. He had written music for her and about her – a Quintet for piano and winds (after Mozart) based on a poem he’d written about a languorous summer afternoon beside a river in the Yorkshire Dales; a book of songs called Pleasing Myself (his first venture into setting his own words). Strangely enough he had read through those very songs just the other day. How they captured the onset of both his regard and his passion for her! He had written poetic words in her voice, and for her clear voice to sing:

As the light dies
I pace the field edge
to the square pond
enclosed, hedged and treed.
The water,
once revealed,
lies cold
in the still air.

At its bank,
solitary,
I let my thoughts of you
float on the surface.
And like two boats
moored abreast
at the season’s end,
our reflections merge
in one dark form.


His words he felt were true to the model of the Chinese poetry he had loved as a teenager, verse that had helped him fashion his fledgling thoughts in music.

And so it was that while she dined brightly with her team in a Devon country pub, he sat alone in a town hall in West Yorkshire listening to Berlioz’ autobiographical and unrequited work.

A young musician of extraordinary sensibility and abundant imagination, in the depths of despair because of hopeless love, has poisoned himself with *****. The drug is too feeble to **** him but plunges him into a heavy sleep accompanied by weird visions. His sensations, emotions, and memories, as they pass through his affected mind, are transformed into musical images and ideas. The beloved one herself becomes to him a melody, a recurrent theme [idée fixe] which haunts him continually.

Yes, he could identify with some of that. Reading Berlioz’ own programme note in the orchestral score he remembered the disabling effect of his first love, a slight girl with long hair tied with a simple white scarf. Then he thought of what he knew would be his last love, his only and forever love when he had talked to her, interrupting her concentration, in a college workshop. She had politely dealt with his innocent questions and then, looking at the clock told him she ‘had to get on’. It was only later – as he sat outside in the university gardens - that he realized the affect that brief encounter might have on him. It was as though in those brief minutes he knew nothing of her, but also everything he ever needed to know. Strange how the images of that meeting, the sound of her voice haunted him, would appear unbidden - until two months later a chance meeting in a corridor had jolted him into her presence again  . . . and for always he hoped.

After the music had finished he had remained in the auditorium as the rather slight audience took their leave. The resonance of the music seemed to be a still presence and he had there and then scanned back and forward through the music’s memory. The piece had cheered him, given him a little hope against the prevailing difficulties and problems of his own musical creativity, the long, often empty hours at his desk. He was in a quiet despair about his current work, about his current life if he was honest. He wondered at the way Berlioz’ musical material seemed of such a piece with its orchestration. The conception of the music itself was full of rough edges; it had none of that exemplary finish of a Beethoven symphony so finely chiseled to perfection.  Berlioz’ Symphonie contained inspired and trite elements side by side, bar beside bar. It missed that wholeness Beethoven achieved with his carefully honed and positioned harmonic structures, his relentless editing and rewriting. With Berlioz you reckoned he trusted himself to let what was in his imagination flow onto the page unhindered by technical issues. Andrew had experienced that occasionally, and looking at his past pieces, was often amazed that such music could be, and was, his alone.

Returning to his studio there was a brief text from his muse. He was tempted to phone her. But it was late and he thought she might already be asleep. He sat for a while and imagined her at dinner with the team, more relaxed now than previously. Tired from a long day of looking and talking and thinking and planning and imagining (herself in the near future), she had worn her almost vintage dress and the bright, bright smile with her diligent self-possessed manner. And taking it (the smile) into her hotel bedroom, closing the door on her public self, she had folded it carefully on the chair with her clothes - to be bright and bright for her colleagues at breakfast next day and beyond. She undressed and sitting on the bed in her pajamas imagined for a brief moment being folded in his arms, being gently kissed goodnight. Too tired to read, she brought herself to bed with a mental list of all the things she must and would do in the morning time and when she got home – and slept.

*They came and told me a messenger from Shang-chou
Had brought a letter, - a simple scroll from you!
Up from my pillow I suddenly sprang out of bed,
And threw on my clothes, all topsy-turvey.
I undid the knot and saw the letter within:
A single sheet with thirteen lines of writing.
At the top it told the sorrows of an exile’s heart;
At the bottom it described the pains of separation.
The sorrows and pains took up so much space
There was no room to talk about the weather!
The poems that begin and end Being Awake are translations by Arthur Waley  from One Hundred and Seventy Poems from the Chinese published in 1918.
Francie Lynch May 2015
There are sounds
I truly hate:
One hand clapping,
Derisive laughing,
Babies crying,
The rasp of dying.
For us, these sounds
Raise sympathy,
For the hard of hearing,
A symphony.
Katherine Laslie May 2017
Your light of hope
Seems so dim anymore
My hope in this life;
My dreams are there
But they seem further away from me
I dream of a day
Where I can provide
Yearn for a life where
I am always on the climb
Instead of being trapped upon the
Earth

Distant dreams
Are tragedies
But your words
Had offered peace to me
The way you were always so confident in me and always told me to be anything my heart could ever dream
Your voice...
    Your words....
         Were like a symphony
The way you loved me
        
         Unconditionally

...She passed away in the beauty of spring
And how I long to hear her voice
To let it comfort me
Can she see how far I've come?
I keep pressing towards my dreams
But gravity is too strong
Let your eternal love offer me strength
Although worlds apart,
I pray it will reach me
To hear you whisper my name
    To hear your voice...
          To hear your Symphony...

I want to relive your love
    Forevermore
I want to make you proud
    Of this "little girl"

Tell me
   Can you see me where you are?
      Worlds apart, but you don't lose heart
           Listen
       And you will hear
    A symphony
It is the gift you'd given to me
Dark Paradox Jan 2011
Awakened by your gentle touch,
Your fingers playing over my body.
We have played this symphony before
Each note plucked from your memory.

The high notes are brought by the caress of my *******
You carefully bring the melody;
Flutes play as my ******* are kissed.
It’s getting harder and harder to breathe.

Sleep still feigned I enjoy your symphony as your
Hands conduct the musical torture.
Trying so hard to stay still as I can
When you head south of the border.

I sigh as you follow with hot searing kisses
Trying so hard to awaken me.
I peak at you and a giggle escapes.
Well, my little hoax is all but over.

Down to the ******* you go,
Determined to have your way.
You dip your fingers into the pool of desire
And I float willingly away.

You play my body like an instrument of desire
A maestro of passion you are.
The years you spent learning to play me well spent
I sing the hallelujah song like a choir.

A diva I am and always will be,
You give me a standing ovation.
My maestro gives a contented sigh,
And rolls over and goes back to sleep.
1/6/2011
Kairi Apr 2021
She is like a Beethoven's symphony.
More you try to hold on to , more free you will feel ...
Sally A Bayan Jul 2014
Friday Night Symphony


The light shower has stopped tip-tapping
Upon the blue-colored roof of the veranda...
Suddenly, a cloak of darkness prevails...
The moist coolness of the air gives
A refreshing feel this particular evening.
Two frogs are throwing croaks at each other...
One would quickly reply to the other's croaking
Within seconds... it seems
They are engaged in a conversation,
While above us, the roof creaks as
The green-eyed stray cat slowly walks...
By its measured footfalls, it is obvious
It is lurking in the dark,
Carefully waiting for the right moment
To grab its prey,
The one with the careless, scratching
footfalls...

The crickets are having a grand time
Singing their monotonous song...
Across the street stands a big mango tree, where
A gecko is nestled on one of its branches,
Making its night calls repeatedly...
Could this be their mating season? For
This particular night, it calls fervently, scaring
The night vendors selling "balut,"
Or freshly boiled duck eggs,
The home-bound residents hesitate,
More frightened  now,
As they pass through the vacant lot...

All these are happening, while distant stars
Spread glitter over a vast sky
As blue as indigo,
And an ivory crescent moon
Hangs suspended...

My delightful mug of coffee is steaming
While I am stargazing,
To a unique symphony i am listening,
This Friday night of a week ending...
      
        

Sally

Copyright 2014
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
***Our old folks claim "Balut," or boiled duck eggs, provide more nutrients, strength for those  who work the graveyard shilft, and those who easily get sick. In my country, it is sold by vendors starting at late afternoons extending to late evenings.***
winter Dec 2021
symphony child
it's time
to arise from the basement
from your little couch cusion
wear the dress that you keep
folded in the bathroom
along with the rest of your clothes

put on your pretty symphony face
and sit in the front seat
with bravery
stare straight ahead
when you're on the road
and look them in the eye
only when you're told to

melody baby it's okay
to take your eyes off the pain of the stage
because when the lights go down
it is only you in the back of the house
and it is only you
who can hear the voices
of the folk
in that great, rolling, symphony ceiling
only you can see their eyes
peaking from the catwalk
it is okay,
to let the sounds lift you up there with them
lift you up to death
a beautiful calm
that begins to
distort
the concert is starting to feel quite long

treble youth
for now this will be your life
you shouldn't have to
be aware of how temporary it all will be
you shouldn't have to
look forward to it

but while it lasts
feel free to explore
even if that may only be your own mind
grow where you're planted
even when the *** is quite small
as a seat at the back of the symphony
as the cushion seat
of a couch in the basement

symphony child
music functions
through movement
as time will move
through you
Geno Cattouse Sep 2013
Smothered in honeysuckle dripping forgiveness
                  Soft southern symphony rooted deep in mixed tempo.  
                              crying and moaning a slow march,a quick step.

Rooted in foreign lingo.
Deep,soft symphony.
Moaning soft forgiveness
                                                     ­                March a slow step
                                                            ­         Crying in dripping tempo.
                                                          ­           Soft southern symphony.

Blues like acacia branches .Rooted in soft honeysuckle .
Blues like acacia branches.Moaning soft forgiveness.
Blues like acacia branches.Mixed southern tempo.
Blues like acacia branches.Rooted in foreign lingo.

Acacia branches.Mixed symphony.
Acacia branches. Crying and moaning.
Acacia branches Soft forgiveness.

Branches.Dripping.
Branches.Moaning.
Branches.Cryin­g.

Blues.Slow
Blues.Rooted
Blues.Crying
Blues.rooted
Blues.deep.­
Blues.Soft
Blues.Smothered

Like Acacia Branches.
Psychotic Poet Jan 2015
O' stranger of night, you intrigue me.
          Night by night, I listen to your symphony.

Fingers on the string, you play on and on,
         until the twilight break of the dawn.

Your passion for music never quenches,
          it is deeper than the deepest trenches.

Monsoon, winter, autumn or summer,
          you hum like a sweet bird hummer.

I listen to thee, day and night,
          if you stop, I pine for your voice's light.

Its not love, its not lust,
          its a passion for thee, understanding this is a must.

Words flow like a stream when I think of you,
          to me, your music of strings is as silent as a coo.

The music you make is like a prayer to me,
          being blind doesn't deter the spirit of your symphony.
                                                                        
                                                                               -PSYCHOTIC POET
Brenden Kalnins Oct 2013
There is such a dark Symphony, raging like a storm in my head.
The sounds of crushed hopes and dying dreams are a constant chord being struck.
Hope rings like a bell in the darkness, crushed by a Crescendo of betrayal.
The heart lets out a Dissonant toll, longing for the Duet now lost.
The Symphony has played so long, the heart begins to beat out a Staccato.
The Composer wishes to revive the strong Rhythm, but the Notes are lost to another.
topacio Nov 2015
my fingers have become bored with
the quicksand of routine
they prefer to dance erotically over my typewriter
frolicking like naked ballerinas
over an ancient stage
spilling their secret thoughts
onto blank page,
after their day job
threaded together
over my lap,
or bending over to
reveal the contents
of my burlap sack

they have taken instead
to jumping over cracks
in the nothing of night
stifling the sound of silence
with assortments of clicks and clacks
punching in the perfect pitch of keys
to leave Beethoven blind
from this symphony of notes combined

and just like that at last
they have unfolded some rhyme
unachievable with ink and pencil,
without the stencil of time
dictating to work inside the lines
i heard a symphony and violins began to play then  came  trumpets and the brass who joined along the waythen came in the strings and lovely harp playing beautifully with notes so very sharpeveryone one in tune so full and all completei sat there and listened to this music suite.when the music finished my heart began to poundand i could still here the symphony and its lovely sound.
james nordlund Oct 2018
Since our political system has been laid bare, after RumputiN was installed
in the Blackhouse, it's beautiful complex of lack of complexity, in a word,
conspiracy of conspiracies, has moved me and "...we(e),..." to have as a few
of my favorite things be far more reaching questions, out of necessity. Like,
without acknowledging, and demanding others do the same, that it's been
purposely engineered to be a criminal injustice system instead, how can one
even have a real conversation that would lead to potential for real change
of it taking place in reality, if you don't know who you were, where you've
been, how on God's green Earth can you expect to know who..., where you are
and what's going on, necessary to start thinking about changing anything,
even yourself, as well as directing who you will be and where you will
be going, etc.?  Swine slaughtering lower-middle-class to poor men en masse,
mostly of color, instead of just doing the usual liquidation of their ases
and assets, are just serial murderers masquerading as cops, and what goes
around comes around, no?  If you're not taking bullets you're making them.  
Also, people are fed up with felonious RumputiN and his rootin' tootin'
organized crime family spree from the Blackhouse, which should be prosecuted
using the RICO Statute instead of just being elaborately covered up by Mueller
for he's not using it and he's handing out immunities like soldiers candy to
Iraqi kids, duh.  I would add some salient pointless points, beyond the 'empty
boat' of Zen, and 'useless tree' of the Tao, we can understand the burden
placed on our shoulders by our ancestry not exercising their responsibilities
as they should have, and thereby it's Siamese twin sisters, their freedoms,
Withered like unused muscles as well, as a panultimate challenge, saving
humanity, literally. Also, understanding Jung's "80 % of all actions, thoughts,
feelings we have, that we acknowledge, or don't, perceive or don't, are
compensatory towards our pasts", necessitates an integral understanding of
Satre's existentialism' meaning of angst, as experience integral to life, not
opposed to it, but, rather, central to it, and a nexus of it.  This is more
than an embracing of gestalt's, Perls', moment, now. Moving away from sophist
perspective, we also experience the meaning of life is struggle, which comes
through all our meaningful work, succinctly. Further, what is life beyond that
foci is also, the where, when, who, how, and sometimes why too (but never Y2K)
of life; beyond our masks and ego fulfilling stories, schtick, lines, etc..
Do we struggle, not just as lifelong students, with the impossible, not just
the improbable.  Yet, it's actually more layered than that in a much larger
dimensional paradigm than 4 dimensions.  Yes, the effects of our causes in any
action usually have effects that undo our causes as we act them out, intend,
present them, etc..  Yet, those more superficial, linear, first conclusion
layers are not less effective, per se, as the complexity of Karma, Dharma are
beyond our normal comprehension. What is the root of thought, feeling, the root
of feeling, being, the root of being, the extent to which we struggle with what
it is, no?  For, as the following twig of poetree gleans: Soul//
As my breath
is the one, prana,/
And the life's pulse, pala,/
Reaching angelic source, sura,/

So is this mind, manas, a
/  Flowering unfoldment,
/ Unendingly touching
/ The eye
that would it see,/  
Unbeckoning unto thee./
As well, this Bodhi, a temple,/

Of the four and fifth, nur,/  
So entered by atma, a ray of thy sun,/  
Thus being
winged, and
/  As such with wind,/
Flying only in dharma's dance,/
Is returning
to, Brahma, you./  For, there yet, by thy grace, go I./  
We are not who we think
we are, we are, rather, the extent to which we struggle to evolve to be some-
things, spirit, soul, Bodhi, etc., on the path of study that could and should
be one, you, me, forever asked and never answered.  Yet, even if we lived as
prayer, our light only adding to the well of light, our every step in grace,
leaving no footprints that followed none, echoing in all ways, always,
sometimes, like pulling teeth, "...we(e),...", must stalk our words from our
insides 'til we wrangle them, like cats, to the tip of our tongues, no?  For,
"Words weren't meant for cowards..." and we must "be brave...", Happy Rhodes.
We can't allow ourselves the luxury of taking our supposedly 'golden silence'
all the way to the bank, as your average bear does.  These are the end times,
we successfully struggle, to abolish global defacto-slavery by the non-renew-
able energies' corporate structure's machine and it's convolution, against
the global oligarchy's premeditated mass-****** of 7.5 billion people, or
humanity's extinct.  Gandhi, "(supposed) science is the root of all opression"
and, "...we(e),..." must be the change we want in the world".  Is not life
relation, are we not responsible for one another, are not all threads in
the fabric of life needed, as is the evoliutionary ones' mendings, for we
can't allow it to be torn asunder?  If not here, then where, if not now, when,
not you, who? Viva la evolucion.  Indivisible, illimitable you, GOTV.
Please copy, share as you will. this GOTV twig of poetree   :)   reality
Marge Redelicia Jan 2014
I kiss the fresh breeze as
The rainforest canopy embraces me.
I still my spirit
And tune my heart
To the natural symphony:

Wind whistling
Brook bubbling
River rushing
Branches creaking
Leaves rustling
Twigs snapping
Owls hooting
Birds singing
Monkeys chattering
Bats screeching
Frogs croaking
Fish blubbing
Deer belling
Snakes hissing
Boars grunting
Crocs roaring
Bees buzzing
Crickets chirping
Beetles humming

And then there is me
Dancing

To the beat and melody
Of the simple
Yet glorious masterpiece.
(How could something so wild
Tame me?)
Listen very closely as
Man and nature
Enjoy each other's
company and
Love one another
In unity.
I thank Wikipedia for educating me about the sounds that animals make yay
harlon rivers Nov 2017

in the quiet of stillness
I can hear a snowflake
gently land
upon my cheek
a flurry of gossamer
frozen lace lilts ~
peacefully
transforming
the ennui
of chilling silence
into a wilderness symphony



thank you to all
for stopping by to read
"The sound of a snowflake"

written by:  h.a. rivers ... 11/13/2017
Àŧùl Dec 2016
Hindi (in Roman script)
Kyon maine tumse pyaar kiya,
Ye to mujhe pata nahin...
Maine tum mein kya dekha tha,
Ye bhi mujhe pata nahin...
Kyon maine tumse pyaar kiya,
Ye to mujhe pata nahin...

English
Why I loved you I don't know that...
What I liked in you I don't know that...
What I had seen in you I don't know that...
I don't know that, I don't know that...
Why I loved you I don't know that...
I liked in you I don't know what...
HP Poem #1309
©Atul Kaushal
I love you like the sun loves the day

I love you the way morning meets my windows
and then my face

The way the stars stay faithful to the night sky

How the spring greets the summer and bleeds to fall

Like the breeze that passes through trees
Caressing gently the autumn leaves

Springs polite decline to winters invite
A harmonic fight

I love you like the way the darkness is pierced by the light

Every time you smile my heart takes flight

Love like a movie
Black and white

Bursts of colour
Soundtrack to my life

I love you every time my heart beats

Constantly, consistently, fiercely, calmly, bravely, quietly… with every adjective and all their synonyms

With every vessel and part of me

I love you every time my heart beats.
Love like a symphony
I hear it every time you breathe
You’re the conductor
Pulling on my heartstrings

The sound of your heartbeat
My loves lifeline
Till the end of time

Because I love you.
I love you every time my heart beats.

© Raffi
K Balachandran Jan 2015
Swirling morning mist, draws abstract patterns of love
moving sprightly,  between golden rays of sun,
prattling  breeze and other manifestations winter presents,
green grass on the meadow looks like a dew studded carpet
pussyfooting rabbits, lick dew drops in a hurry and run back
to the warmth of their burrows, to sleep for some more time.

Sun, the nourisher eternal of the world , don't hide anymore
come out, peep above the crowd of sleepy grey old clouds,
looking grumpy, ill mannered and winter arrogant to the core,
don't like their attitude a bit, come out blow your trumpet of warmth
make the drooping wet birds, dry, fly up to the sky with a happy cry
sing songs of joy, warm the hearts,drive the winter gloom out.
ഒരു മഞ്ഞുകാല പ്രഭാത സംഗീതക്കലവി
Jack Oct 2014
~

Violins sing of purest flame,
alluring harmonies warm the air
Heart beat crescendos keep time
as ember’d flutes whisper beauty
and misty cellos lull wondrous dreams
on the aria of our love

Treble clef desires
curve softly upon your tender heart
while clarinets breathe amorous
melodies of soothing affection,
enchanting serenades
caress our every silent sigh

Forever playing an eternal
symphony of fire,
burning euphonious,
heated temptations
in ever lasting
*orchestral bliss
Inspired by a conversation with an angel who has completely touched my heart
Milushka Oct 2010
~I too have a dream

Oh, what a beautiful morning,
I wonder
what's going to happen
to spoil it,
what's going to befall me.

There are so many possibilities
of things going wrong,
not going my way,
I don't even want to imagine.

Why cannot I just sit quietly
enjoying the sunshiny day?

The phone may ring
bringing bad news,
I may lose my beloved
to the the world.

An unexpected invoice
I forgot to pay
might appear in my mail box,
the weather may change
and out of the blue day
a thunderstorm and rain.

Will I pay dearly
for seeing everything
only in shades of grey?

Then the tones
of "The New World Symphony"
with motifs of Bohemian village dances,
the hustle and bustle
of American cities,
native Indian drums drumming
bring the image
of peace;
of pursuit of happiness
on both of my continents.

Impossible dream, you say?

Author Notes
~Largo from the 'New World' Symphony (1893)
by the Czech composer Antonin Dvorak;
and is probably the most famous piece
of the composition played at all American state funerals.
~This is not my Poem; this belongs to me Lamushkia; (Milushka) who is no longer with us.
Check out her other poems in her collection here.
She deserves to be remembered.
~Anna

~          ~          ~          ~          ~          ~

Prior Reviews:

B Woods Righter   Jul 28
I just read 'Woman of the Wood' on Frank's page and then stumbled on this, what a beautiful poetess. I listened to the New World Symphony just the other day, its one of my favorites and this poem speaks to it so well. The shift that Milushka takes when she hears the music is so dramatic and relateable. That last stanza incredibly captures the beauty of Dvorak's work in so few words. With music like that and poems like this, I believe no dream is impossible, thank you so much for sharing this Anna :)
~          ~          ~          ~          ~          ~
D   Sep 26
I can truly appreciate this, Anna...I love Dvorak and this symphony is my funeral dirge.
AlanK Mar 2016
Notes float like snowflakes
Carried by the gentle breeze
Landing randomly on her forehead
Her breast and shoulders,
Melting before they can be heard
Or transcribed to paper.
A melody etched in a dream
Fading with the first thought,
But the tune lingers in memory
Nonetheless.
It’s a duet we compose
In passionate embraces
Improvised and syncopated
Lifting spirits and lightening the heart.
This composition has only just begun
Exposing the first movement
We dance to unheard chords,
Smiling and humming as the phrases
Fill the air.
It’s an opus built on hope
In the mystery of night
And structured on sighs.
We are ignorant of the movements
Yet to write,
But we surrender to the inspiration
As the music ebbs and flows
Then in gradual crescendo
We wait, we ponder, we fear
The music yet to come,
In the symphony yet to be written
Our unfinished symphony dances on.

— The End —