"tchaikovsky" poems
Step by step,
With a gorgeous plié,
Kick some pep
Into a battement jeté.
A toy brought to life
During a winter dream,
Wining a mice fight,
Becoming king and queen.
Graceful and white,
Perfection is seized,
A swan's flight,
Applause from the pleased.
All these to treasure,
To hope for, but first
Have the right measures
And break the weight curse.
Do not eat much
And practice all day,
Have the right touch,
Get that perfect cambré.
Pointe for pain
And chukkers for luck,
Just hide those blood stains
And redefine pluck
When all the joints hurt
And toes can't be touched,
When all one has heard
Is Tchaikovsky's crutch...
So proceed and endure,
Feel pain and relief,
Prokofiev's pitch contour
To be ones only belief.
Let all this be forgotten
When the curtains rise
And show all this works gotten
Perfection for a prize.
Apr 30, 2017
Apr 30, 2017 at 5:55 PM UTC
THE LAST LOVE LETTER OF TCHAIKOVSKY*
My angel, life of my life
Fate would never allow me to meet thee
Only in thy letters to me
Do I feel the touch of love’s ecstasy.
Would but that upon thy sweet face
I would just once behold
All my sixth symphonies I would gladly exchange
In love’s name and in its wondrous beauty untold.
Here with all my rapturous kisses
I send thee the music of ‘Love’s Sorrow’
Every note swims in the sea of my restless heart
None would such grievous pain of mine ever know.
Let history judge
All that is between thee and me
Even the deluge that drowns the whole world
Would never obliterate every melody I dedicate to thee.
• Tchaikovsky’s benefactress was Madame Von Meck (Nadezhda) who exchanged 260 love- letters (1876—1887)with him and endowed him with a regular income on the understanding that they should never meet.
Her late husband was a millionaire whose fortune was derived from his railway business.
Finally, she broke up the relationship leaving the composer in complete devastation.
This is one of the most poignant love-stories of all time.
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 4:04 AM UTC
On the first day, he was pushed
robust in his stance, the other forced,
this boy down the spiral staircase
of the Catholic church, the school
had renovated, the Spring before
Isaac had begun his studies,
at the high school.
Ballet was his passion, Latin was the
language that so effortlessly, fluently
was spoken from his lips in class
as he smiled at his Professor, another
victory accomplished in academia
so proud were his parents, of their
blue eyed boy.
Jonah was the reject, the older brother
he had been kicked out of school,
not once, but twice, and was often
found with a joint, his unshaven face
wrapped around one of the girls,
from the all girls school that ran
alongside Isaacs all boys.
Issac was hurt, a further blow to his
stomach, rendered him broken
as a waterfall of tears ran down his
bruised and cut face, so ashamed
as other pupils laughed, staring, pointing
until the final bell rang as they fled from
the high ceilings and narrow corridors.
Wrapped in a ball, he waited for all
halls and students to clear, and as
he rolled over, picking himself up
he took to the washroom, knowing he
needed to be presentable for his mother
waiting for him at the school gate
brimming with pride, at her boys scholarship.
All his dreams, mystical and serene, Romeo and Juliet
fluid streams of poetry of Elliot, Poe, Hughes
and of course Wilde and those love letters of Beethoven
math, biology, all paled into insignificance
he was born a writer, a dancer, a drawer,
sketching and typing his heart to a page,
prose a future love would read.
Johan saw his mother's car pull up
as he raced and giggled with Saskia
leading her astray, he promised her all
the things those boys always did, and of course
not to break her sweet sixteen heart, unlike other boys
as his mother smoked another Camel, the two lovers
jumped into his truck, Johnny Cash blaring from speakers
laughing hysterically, the world at their feet.
By 4pm, Isaac was ready to leave school,
tentatively walking out the main door, down
concrete slabs as steps, no predators in sight
he couldn't hide the dark circles under his eyes
that formed as bruises, knowing he was fortunate
to have not been damaged further
by the haunting before last period.
Walking to the gates, he listened through
headphones; Tchaikovsky
his release
his home
his saving grace.
© Sia Jane
Jan 10, 2014
Jan 10, 2014 at 6:53 PM UTC
the songs of his strings
dances with body movements
beauty undisturbed
Oct 13, 2016
Oct 13, 2016 at 9:44 PM UTC
I was watching the
Nutcracker,
stage drinking blue
The violins
pizzicato,
pizzicato
the wood sprung floor
breathing with the knock
of ballet shoes
I was watching the
Nutcracker,
sitting in the
mezzanine,
Mezzanine
the red kiss of
cherry wood and
green,
I live in
the mezzanine
I was watching the
Nutcracker,
peering into the
pit,
a small gap in the
stage floor where
I could see your
wrist,
holding your bow,
swaying your
bow,
pushing back and forth making my
carpal tunnel
ache, oh your
bow
I was watching the
Nutcracker
and you were playing
the score
Tchaikovsky
Tchaikovsky
beneath the
stage floor
Jul 26, 2016
Jul 26, 2016 at 12:13 PM UTC
I am a sheet of music
I start quietly building on the quartet of Strings
the Violin starts a shimmering sound
backed up with the viola
the solemn sound of the cello
and the ground breaking bass
united in harmony
There is a rest a break in note
I am part of a Symphony an overture
out of the heart of the music
a quiet roll
the timpani building in sound
full orchestra building in amazing ******
Fireworks, Percussion, Brass, Woodwind, Strings
Combined together in unity
performing to the quality levels of sound
the amazing Tchaikovsky in 1812
Creativity and Imagination
shaking the core of the earth
Nov 27, 2014
Nov 27, 2014 at 1:01 PM UTC
The wind directs the snow
Horizontally down Spartan Ave.,
But for a moment,
A snow-funnel pirouettes
Like a music-box dancer.
I hum some Tchaikovsky
As it exits.
Act II follows,
I sweep the stage
For the soldiers marching across frozen fields.
The music stops.
I shut the door.
Enough Tchaikovsky for this winter.
Mar 15, 2017
Mar 15, 2017 at 12:56 PM UTC
Black & Yellow
– for Wiz Khalifa ✌
*“Stay high like I’m supposed to do, that crown
underneath them clouds, can’t get close to you.”*
On the first day, he was pushed.
Robust in stance, the other forced,
this boy down the marble stairs
of the Catholic church, the school
renovated the Summer before
Khalifa began his studies,
in junior high.
The ballet was his passion,
Latin was the language that so
fluently was spoken from
his lips. The Professor smiled,
another victory accomplished.
Khalifa’s mom was so proud of
her blue eyed boy.
Rapped in a ball, he waited
for all students & halls to clear.
Rolled over, picked himself up
took to the washroom, knowing
he needed to be presentable
for his mom stood at the school gate,
brimming with pride.
All of his dreams, mystical.
Don Quixote & The Nutcracker,
fluid streams of poetry;
Elliot, Poe, Wilde. The love
letters of Ludwig van Beethoven.
Born to dance all Principal roles,
a lovers’ prose.
By four, he was ready to
leave school. Tentatively walking,
no predators in sight, out
the main door. Leaving behind
a haunting first day. Listening to
Tchaikovsky; his release, his home,
his saving grace.
© Sia Jane
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 10:38 PM UTC
**** poor, dying for a dream,
or a drink, one more cigarette,
the landlord comes around, asking for rent
and the money is gone, it was never there,
so you smile and bat your eyes,
one more week, I promise
soon he'll be at your throat
with eviction notices that scream
louder than stereotypes of poverty
louder than your baby's growling stomach
louder than all of your meticulous schemes.
are you uncomfortable yet?
I've barely scratched the surface.
the stereotype that you fell into
doesn't suit you, single mother
wiping off tables and smiling your hardest
to make tips, bend a little further,
hike up your skirt, show some leg
some *** let them see your ****
generous patrons love that ****
you go home and scream into empty spaces
and curl into cold corners thinking of
Bukowski in cockroach rooms
eating candy bars to survive
and dream of an end to a means.
you play some Tchaikovsky
and hold your own flesh and blood
close enough that they can't leave you,
drink White Russians until your hands melt
and write **** that nobody wants to read
about your struggles, knowing that
you will be gifted with rejection letters
and apologies.
**** poor, it is a way to live
but if you prefer sanity, not one
that I would suggest.
it will devour you
destroy you, upend your hopes
and shatter your dreams.
god will not help you,
nor the state or the politicians,
but if you make it out alive
you could be stronger than
diamonds, harder even than
your own resolve.
Nov 29, 2012
Nov 29, 2012 at 1:35 PM UTC
not here, here, here
inside, outside, her head
bath tub, bubbles shaped
like balloons, rising
in the air,
cut open, she
precludes the secret nature
of her love,
he loved, her
every ballet she danced
pink fur, a butterfly moving,
on tips of toes,
tripping the light, en pointe
painted pale lips,
winged eyeliner, corset
silk, golden embellished,
Lacroix,
feathered tutu, romantic
Tchaikovsky's compositions,
faery tale ballets,
Swan Lake, Paris Opéra
Odette, a sorcerer's curse
falling to her fate, black
later, taxi rides home, kissing
moonlight, bedroom laughter,
KNOCK
not here, here, here
the bathroom door,
she kisses away,
her melancholy madness,
his voice; Laurier...
her soul, punctured
by her lover...
not here, here, here
© Sia Jane
Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 5:30 PM UTC
Five-thirty AM.
Hustle 'n bustle
b e g i n s....
........footfalls
running u p
and d o w n
the stairway
......stomping
.......catching
..........fidgety
elevator........
...........voices
...r o a r i n g
s h o u t i n g
...c u r s i n g
.....f a l l i n g
......wavering
....an endless
........series of
..........sounds
..........scaring
......escalating
scaring even
more.......then
slowing down
hushing..........
fading.............
....filling hours
....til footsteps
...............start
........returning.
Night comes,
greeted, with
Tchaikovsky's
c o n c e r t o ,
bright lamps,
muted sounds
.......of spoons
forks....knives
against plates
...tingling dies
giving way to
tea cups, wine
...........glasses.
........and when
dinner's done.
:::::::::::::::::::::::
when all are in,
when all have
settled down.
::::::::::::::::::::::::
n o i s e s........
....are no more,
~~~~~~~~~~
swallowed, by
the spreading
........Dark.......
:::::::::::::::::::::::
Late nights.....
.....p e a c e.....
a soft silence
wall lamps are
mellow-lighted,
...some voices
loud.....others
vaguely heard,
some....fading
into..the..night.
:::::::::::::::::::::::
:::::::::::::::::::::::
Shortly...........
the rush shall
re commence.
Those heavy,
loud footfalls
will a g a i n
.......t e r r i f y
the old ones,
with t h e i r
......fear of.....
:t h u n d e r:
Up.......down,
down.......up,
........nonstop
shaking........
floors...........
........ceilings
down..........
..........below.
::::::::::::::::::::::
::::::::::::::::::::::
The HALLWAY
....is a straight
Path, a world,
With its own
Moments.....of
b l u e..s k i e s
.l i g h t n i n g.
..........and........
...r o a r i n g...
:t h u n d e r s:
::::::::::::::::::::::::
Sally
Copyright 2014
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Dec 27, 2014
Dec 27, 2014 at 8:17 AM UTC
Ex's
I am a part of all of them
even the ones I hate.
Maybe especially the ones I hate.
They are transferred paint
after the fender ******
at the unfortunate intersection
of fate and bad timing.
Not enough damage to make a difference.
Not even enough impression that
you care to be bothered changing your schedule
to repair it.
But every time you leave the house,
and on every lap around the chariot,
you see a trespassing color screaming
of either their bad decision.........or yours.
Sometimes it seems there are more accidents
than pleasant Sunday drives.
I suppose most encounters must be accidents
until we find the uncluttered road to our destiny.
L.E. was life shift
and napkins.
I didn't even know I needed napkins
when I had paper towels in the house.
I Jones for napkins these days.
D.B. was college
and fashion.
Shiny shoes moved her to the soul of my feet.
Now Kiwi polish
smells like foreplay to me.
N.R. was forbidden
and my piano teacher.
I hated practice, she loved to kiss
The oral exam was one of my best finals.
I like tests more than most people today.
J.T. was a cougar
and Tchaikovsky connoisseur.
Maturity was uncovered, along with adult lessons
about carpet knap and fireplaces.
I am Pavlov's dog in the strings of Symphony #6.
L.J. was adventure
and abandon.
She is a grassy carpet over a live train tunnel
in a memory I should regret, but don't.
She is the crossbeam in my permanent smile.
I am an estrogen inspired creation
finding purpose in soft fleshy motivation.
I am who I am
because of their compunctions and compulsions.
They scraped off on me
in the kamikaze journey to fight loneliness.
But in the dive I learned -
grace is humbling when you don't deserve it,
toilet paper has a perfect delivery direction,
I get the right side of the bed,
you shouldn't say anything
you don't want to hear again,
it's my job to take out the trash,
shutting your mouth sooner than you think
is almost always the better choice,
you can never have enough closet space,
and some experiences are so good
that you should never try to repeat them again.
She may be gone forever.
And we may not be able to have
a decent conversation for the rest of our lives.
But God knows
I'll always have napkins.
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 1:55 PM UTC
We are all dealing with it together
sitting on these chairs side by side.
Therapeutic Counselling; it's that general motion
that lonesome melancholy
Grieving people flocking together
likened to the Vietnamese phrase
'Same same, but different'
And every now and then,
Someone, quiet and
unassuming will
whisper words
That strikes
a chord
In your
heart
We're no longer playing those
single notes on repeat
Blame, pain, hurt and defeat
It resonates so deeply
A whole symphony erupts
In your lost thoughts
Dvořák final moments,
Notes cascading down your face.
Eyes wild, eager and hungry for more
tears, mingled with a melody of vulnerability of the human race
Beethoven Fidelio- an operatic shuddering possession. Body breaking, mind
astrewn. Rhythm of rapidly
crushing sanity
Tchaikovsky's Sixth
white keys masquerading as happiness overlaying the sound of
sombre black keys striking suffering
and grief and everything else in-between in the greying colours of your mind.
Music of your
stricken heart lost in
the underground,
In these chairs next to you
Woman who also grieves
With a warm embrace around your body
Our wet shoulders
Absorbing the sounds of your dying souls
Until we're playing a single courageous lullaby once more
Heal heal heal
And heal we shall
Apr 3, 2017
Apr 3, 2017 at 5:06 PM UTC
intermission with the UMSL Orchestra
The backstage hall was wall-to-wall smiles.
Just moments before,
Barbara Harbach had charged the stage
after we premiered her joyous Jubilee Symphony
screaming at them all the way,
"That was spectacular"!
The Arianna Quartet's Kurt and Joanna
stormed down the steps
spewing out pieces of their minds
in no uncertain terms
"excellent" - "great job" - "beautiful".
I preferred to hang out on the edge
wrapped in the silken echoes
of Tchaikovsky's Andante cantabile
(so eloquently sung by our youthful strings).
Intermission was up and it was
back to work time.
In the abyss of despair
over his dying ears,
Beethoven flooded the world
with the blazing sunglow
of his prophetic second symphony
and it was now up to us
to pass on the word.
Just call me,
"Grateful (underscore) 1".
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 11:46 AM UTC
Wordsworth bubbled in my cellophanate bath water
yesterday, at the candled hour.
whilst horse tails whinnied from Joshua Bell—
Tchaikovsky in brood, 1878.
Oh, but if I had thought to Bogart the whole affair, well,
I'd be a modern Michelangelo, a downright da Vinci—
a Dostoyevsky before the dawn—
propped between the cold **** and the hot,
wet behind the ears.
Then I turn the note-the page-the scene:
Don't try this at home, they echo in the shackles of
celebrity. A drowning horse has sounded better
than their confession of our normality.
Feb 11, 2018
Feb 11, 2018 at 5:03 PM UTC
I.
pink satin masks
blood and broken toes.
i keep effortless poise
while knees and lungs shake.
i dance in tattered tutus,
in old toe shoes,
for a pocketful of coins;
i dance until i am blind with joy,
until my lungs are full of trumpet shouts,
until i am exhausted and weightless,
until my audience is standing,
breath gone, knowing what it is to be--
II.
in the storm of applause
one gnarled hand launches a torch.
"you danced with me," i cry--
her lips seal shut.
wild, cold eyes watch
flames singe my feathers,
fuse flesh to bone,
floorboards collapse.
she stays until she hears
my heart stop.
at dusk,
the stage is ash.
III.
at dawn,
a chorus of mouths emerge from the ground,
my audience, full-throated, white-knuckled,
tchaikovsky hollowing cheeks,
nasoprotivnyia daruia;
knuckles white--
flat-footed, slack-jawed,
the arsonist stands--
and i ascend from the dirt
on pillars of diamond forged from ash,
while my bare feet spill blood and i say
look at the source of my strength--
while new wings spread,
blood-red and gilded and brilliant in the sun--
while fire sprouts like flowers from my palms,
while spiders wrap my toes in silk
and i dance on thick-tongued harmonies
that tremble the earth with new roots
and i bourrée across the green trunks
and i become the sun
Aug 2, 2015
Aug 2, 2015 at 3:33 AM UTC
crumpets and tea,
taken with grinning powdered wigs
go scrumptiously well with a Mozart piece played in the tired drawing room;
Tchaikovsky's Fifth
would have the subject alone
in the vestibule,
ear against the ballroom double doors of ornate mahogany,
muffled and muted and just being;
Philip Glass
Is
The oppressed past lit --
A futuristic glance
over one's shoulder
Regifting an overrated present
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 9:38 PM UTC
Those cosmopolitan provincials sorts
the chavs, yobs, yobbesses and oiks with semolina for brains
them retro-grade grade-less sub-humans bottom feeders
who think Cardiff is in East Angular and Magaluf is Eden
and Higher Education begins in Borstal or a stint at HM Prisons
found by happenstance a tin of Caviar
something they'd never seen before
with the curiosity of practiced thieves
they proceeded to examine its worth
'its a tin of hair gel says one'
'No, no, no says another, I think its something you eat'
'it says Caviar Royal Beluga, observes another'
'throw it away, anything with a name like that is rubbish'
'Beluga...some foreign muck, it look dark and oily'
'yea mate, look like **** throw it away'
One of the dis-advantaged rabble with one O'level in Carpentry
took a closer look
'look he says, there's sticker on the bottom that reads
Caviar Royal Beluga – 1kg £3,780.00'
Hahahaha they all roared in ceaseless mirth, hahaha
'some joker is having a laugh, pull the other leg, fancy...
a tin of black gunge in some slimy stuff cost three grand,
must think people are born yesterday, Beluga..fuckoffluga'
And with that, they tossed the tin away and walked off
laughing like *********
Ignorance is a disease, ignorance is bliss
will vandals extol the sheer magnificence of a Constable
or see anything other than a chair in a Chippendale ribbonback chair,
will Barbarians shed a tear on hearing the sensuous notes of Chopin or shiver at the graceful notes of Debussy or melt in sheer
adoration as Tchaikovsky's romance soars in magical resonance.
Will cosmopolitan heathens gape in mesmerizing wonder on
seeing Michelangelo's Sistine Chapel and praise God for being alive
So who has great expectations of our dear cosmopolitan provincials sorts
those chavs, yobs, yobbesses and oiks with semolina for brains
for in disparaging excellence
and rubbishing the noble and the exceptional
they make us appreciate more that we are blessed
and privileged
and do not have
semolina for brains
hey!
who would like some caviar
Jun 30, 2019
Jun 30, 2019 at 6:40 AM UTC
well, the Oedipal resurrection is a real
chestnut, what a spectrum!
at one end Edward Gein (the acid)
via 7 of pH scaling
and at the other Kaiser Wilhelm (the alkali),
and all those madmen in between,
what traffic! well, someone has to be sick
for someone else to earn wages, ha ha!
testicles in Tchaikovsky's nutcracker,
enter Santa Clause in soprano singing:
** ** ** that's what happens with Oedipus
resurrected, why not resurrect Hercules?
you sick or something? they rather resurrect
Oedipus than Christ to create the Antichrist...
the sickness spreads.
May 14, 2016
May 14, 2016 at 9:59 PM UTC
And I write.
I write about everything I did and regret,
I write about everything I lost and missed,
I write about a darkness that's lurking in my head.
And I write.
I write about stars, space and bliss,
I write about the nights I spent sleepless,
I write about the internal extraterrestrial intelligence.
And I write.
I write about stolen kisses and awkward hugs,
I write about sharing a bed and drugs,
I write about drunken *** and whisky jugs.
And I write.
I write about literature and poetry,
I write about Sexton making out with Bukowski,
I write about Akhmatova painting Dostoevesky.
And I write.
I write about music and lovely symphonies,
I write about Tchaikovsky waltzing with Vivaldi,
I write about a world where we dance as we please.
And I write.
I write about childhood lost not forgotten,
I write about battered women and abused children,
I write about you and them. I write me every now and then.
And I write.
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 1:43 PM UTC
Johanes Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart: Symphony No.6 in F major, (K 43)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0EgG8qYcYTU
Tchaikovsky Symphony NO.6 (Full Length) : Seoul Phil Orchestra
h ttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yDqCIcsUtPI
Beethoven - 6th Symphony 'Pastoral' (Complete) ♫♥
h ttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dbfa86bTD34
Jul 17, 2015
Jul 17, 2015 at 12:24 AM UTC
Watching the ballerina
tying her ballet shoes
preparing for Swan Lake
you remembered
that time in London
when Judy was away
for the week in Italy
and you were held
by the black dog
its teeth holding
onto your soul
going to the coffee bar
in Leicester Square
sitting there
gazing out the window
watching the people
feeling the dark mood
deepen
waiting for time
for the ballet to begin
at Covent Garden
then you are there
sitting in your seat
surrounded by others
well dressed
high talk
posh tones
and you thought
you saw Judy
in the faces
that were there
even one
of the ballerinas
seemed to be her
the same hair
the figure similar
and when the lights lowered
and darkness held you
you thought of her
beside you
her perfume
her soft voice
but some other dame
sat there some brunette
some thin *****
dressed in blue
and yellow
then the music began
the Tchaikovsky
the black dog biting
and Judy in Italy
and you stuck there
at the ballet
some other time
some other year
and you watched
as the ballerina
having tied on
her shoes
stood and prepared
and stared
as you sat
thinking back
mixing it
with that depression dog
of black.
Apr 26, 2013
Apr 26, 2013 at 7:48 AM UTC
The music sails across my ears, not in.
Sail.
Blame it on my ADD baby.
Odd is what this is.
I went in the kitchen looking for Papa Johns.
And you.
I only found a closed computer and empty counter.
I guess you heard the music too?
Feb 7, 2012
Feb 7, 2012 at 12:53 AM UTC
Aluminium ladders from the attic creak during forbidden midnight ventures, whilst auditory perceptions of Tchaikovsky’s Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy echo within the magical darkness.
Many times, Dolly stood at the edge of the platform and articulated prismatic pronouncements, as the train hurtled along the tracks.
We must permit our nostalgic souls to remain attached by silver chords, as we travail along the corridor of indiscernible planes towards twilight.
Therefore, my slippery soul of simplicity, we must hold up the lantern in this obscure existence. Joe, I have toasted bread by the coal fire within the flickering shadows of overwhelming anticipation. Your carriage awaits.
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 10:07 PM UTC
You took me as I was,
you rescued me from my own condemnation,
a remembrance of John the Baptist saving
the life of Jesus.
You glued back the pieces
of my broken lego soul with your songs
of, Its Okay ,and we danced while the
new foundation dried.
And you let me stand on your feet,
and you led me around the room
and we laughed a melody
that Mozart should've composed.
Even Tchaikovsky fingers twitched
in his cumbersome state.
But now, my love
I've forgotten the notes to our melody
and my cracks are expanding.
I'm sorry your glue went to waste.
I'm so sorry
But thank you for teaching me how to
dance.
Dec 27, 2013
Dec 27, 2013 at 12:28 PM UTC