"verdi" poems
Ridonsi donne e giovani amorosi
M’ occostandosi attorno, e perche scrivi,
Perche tu scrivi in lingua ignota e strana
Verseggiando d’amor, e conie t’osi ?
Dinne, se la tua speme sia mai vana
E de pensieri lo miglior t’ arrivi;
Cosi mi van burlando, altri rivi
Altri lidi t’ aspettan, & altre onde
Nelle cui verdi sponde
Spuntati ad hor, ad hor a la tua chioma
L’immortal guiderdon d ‘eterne frondi
Perche alle spalle tue soverchia soma?
Canzon dirotti, e tu per me rispondi
Dice mia Donna, e’l suo dir, e il mio cuore
Questa e lingua di cui si vanta Amore.
2.1k
Occhi verdi come il silenzio, ostinati nel vuoto di forme angeliche e trasparenti. Finti giroscopici frammenti moltiplicati a dare geometrica forma al mare. Bianchi cristalli fragili ed invisibili. Osservo le onde, le persone e la musica. Ubriaco di volti e suoni. Incastonati nella mia storia. Semplici ed incomprensibili.
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 4:13 PM UTC
aggression must be denied.
****** Pol *** The Duke,
Kim Jong, Mugabe, Fidel Castro,
Saparmurat Niyazov,
the living bad the dead.
XiJinping
proudly announces in
November 2013,
the year of our lord,
they are doing away with
labor camps in China.
******** total,
renamed them
drug rehabilitation centers.
evil must be refuted.
who will call them out?
not us.
coming home from the opera,
some big **** SUV,
played chicken
with me.
I refused to let
him cut in the line.
He followed me
for ten blocks,
honking his *******
till he quit,
cause I would not give
the satisfaction of letting him
spit and sputter.
Took the woman home.
Went out looking for him.
searched hundred blocks.
found him, took out my jack.
(trust me I did not key his car).
when he saw what I had done,
I quoted him Verdi's Rigoletto:
He is crime, I am punishment.
you see opera ain't for *******
aggression must be denied
locally, before it becomes
a national treasure.
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 4:23 AM UTC
All that will remain is bones and rotting meat
Toss it in a cheap wicker box for worms to eat
Topped just with wild flowers and no cement
Plant a weeping willow instead of a monument
It can do the weeping, please don't you cry
There is a chance that I'll be busy when I die
For if I am wrong and there is life after this
I have plans with whom I'll dine and reminisce
I'll be dining with Oscar Wilde and Caravaggio
Cocktails and conversation with Kant and Plato
Then with Bellini, Verdi and Rossini I'll take a Show
An interval tipple and discourse with Rousseau
An after party with Bakunin and Proudhon
Whisky and blues with Howlin Wolf til I'm gone
I shall breakfast the next day with Tz'u Hsi, Homer and Malcolm X
And take morning coffee with Gandhi and Marc Bolan from T.Rex
At noon a spicy ****** Mary with Mary Queen of Scots,
Freddie Mercury, Lou Reed, Picasso and lots of tequila shots
Lunch that day with Saladin, Karl and Groucho Marx
Then smoke a pipe with Newton whilst discussing quarks
Afternoon tea with Queen Victoria, Kipling and Colin Ward
Followed by a game of Tafl with a viking on a giant board
Dress for flamenco with Carmen Amaya (then dress the blisters)
Then pre-dinner drinks paid for by Geronimo and the Bronte sisters
So you see, if I'm wrong
And we actually move along
A fascinating after life awaits me
Yeah, when I'm gone from here
There'll be plenty gin and beer
Cucumber sandwich's and tea
If you wonder what I'm doing
Give your watch a quick viewing
Then just check this poem and you'll see
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 8:56 AM UTC
Some dame sang
on the old
radio
a Verdi
aria
Sonya lay
on the bed
reading Kant
I showered
listening
to Verdi
filtering
through to me
through water
gushing down
how Sonya
could read Kant
after ***
I wondered
washing down
young Percy
my pecker
then Sonya
sang along
the Verdi
aria
I hummed some
Sinatra
melody
to contrast
the Verdi
recalling
entering
Sonya's fruit
in the bed
while Mozart's
aria
vibrated
in my head.
May 17, 2016
May 17, 2016 at 3:17 PM UTC
Air fills with sharp shrills of jays,
the sounds
gratuitous warning
for feet adapted
to ground-
better directed
at a stray cat
that will dare limbs
in hope of his prize
dreamer's ears once heard
melodies of Verdi arias
through leaves,
their sweetness seeping
as from blue overhead
and imagination lured
to seek beauty in them
learning from too often falling,
wishes earning scars
that made skin numb and hard,
morning's music found muffled
by deaf cowardice,
its promise of safety
worn on gray,
dusty shoes
Sep 12, 2010
Sep 12, 2010 at 12:13 PM UTC
I am the wind of thought
that flows through time.
I am Homer and Achilles
Sophocles, Shakespeare
Verdi, Ibsen, and Williams.
I flow through the generations,
following imagination,
leaving dark Chaos to rule the past.
I am Zeus and Hera,
And deeper, Mnemosyne
Ananke
and
Chronos.
I flitter it seems as I pass
from moment to moment,
memory to memory,
soul to soul.
I am
Cleopatra, Jenny Lind, and Jolie
teasing, singing and dancing
to the delight of the Muses
I am Jesus and Buddha
Epicurus, Epictetus
Even Chinese too.
I am Descartes and Newton
Einstein and Plank
Math and logic
Love and hate.
I am God.
I am the wind of thought that flows through our minds.
I am the wind of thought that flows through our time.
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 7:55 PM UTC
Stolen warmth gone for now, followed by melancholic uneventful sounds. When I walk, I walk away from seeing. Everything I thought I might've been. This skin trying to fly away from me, like a misplaced shadow searching for a body to shrug off its grief. Bending, arcing, aching thumbs that have too much memory to allow them any fun. The old time might have agreed, with the girl lost for at least three weeks. Sugar and a can of milk condensed, heated up over campfire coals in the woods near Libereć.
Twice I'm too scared to talk. After a boxing match with a raging bull. Staleness lingers over these sweating hips, where half a moon quaffs down Verdi's Requiems. I told you I'm hiding in the jungle now. Through these cufflinks I speak through a startled jowl. First that dying tone, the startling sound of a fading D Minor song. The mines of the forest grieve, until the hours born sell the rights to sleep. Taken and away from grief, where wiggling children's fingers are seen. Only to find the child was not a realty.
Let your hands make amends to me, whether you're here for the pistachio ice cream or vanilla almond dream. Princess pleas for a pauper's being.
Looks like the child bit off half it's tongue, to ignore all inquiries into where its gone. Minute games and clauses of flesh, I tie her up using her own belt. Chasing The Rockies for a festive blue, then I gorge myself while she enrolled me too. Quiet bandits filled with starlight.
Sep 22, 2017
Sep 22, 2017 at 3:46 AM UTC
I enjoy a good band with its
Drums and fine guitars,
A keyboard and a couple of singers
At concerts, clubs, and bars.
A mellow band with harmonizing
Voices is a treat—
Not a loud rambunctious one
That blasts me out of my seat.
An exciting band can really send me—
That I will concede.
But an acoustic guitar, a pleasant voice,
And a song are all I need.
Take me to a symphony;
That can be exciting.
Beethoven, Brahms, and Mozart
All can be inviting.
Chamber music with a string quartet
Can often do the trick;
A grand concerto that gives me goose bumps
Has a definite kick.
Big band, pop, or classical
Music are fine indeed;
But an acoustic guitar, a pleasant voice,
And a song are all I need.
Opera can be scintillating
If you like the score.
A giant chorus or a plaintive aria
Makes your spirits soar.
Mozart, Wagner, Puccini, Verdi
Massenet and the rest
Make me realize that I am
Listening to the best.
But as much as I like opera
When it's up to speed,
An acoustic guitar, a pleasant voice,
And a song are all I need.
I like music from all around
The world as a rule.
Both modern and traditional
Sounds to me are cool.
German, Japanese, Norwegian,
Mexican, and Chinese
Music makes me feel good;
It puts my mind at ease.
But as much as I like all music,
One thing's guaranteed:
An acoustic guitar, a pleasant voice,
And a song are all I need.
- by Bob B
Oct 11, 2016
Oct 11, 2016 at 9:32 PM UTC
They said it wasn't right, wasn't normal
not how a life should be.
They said she is too smart, she is too pretty
not right to waste her gifts.
So, I took the beast and squashed him
swallowed him and made him small
to fit in a small corner
of my stomach.
I feed him chocolates and wine to keep him quiet,keep him still.
Then I bought a mask of normalcy (it came with an appropriate smile)
so I splurged on the accessories!
A thoughtful frown, a look of concern, a how-to book to fool the masses.
Now They look at me and smile
“My, she looks so healthy, see how carefree and happy!”
and they whisper “How wonderful, she never cries anymore”
But the beast, though he is resting, knows all that's going on.
Sometimes he tears at my stomach,clawing his way out
and up my throat.
More chocolate! More wine!
A cigarette to occupy him!
A shot of coffee to confuse him!
He quiets for a while,still restless
the anger, rage and pain hard to keep
locked away so long.
But, They say that this is better,in the long run
for us all
But when I shoved him in his tiny cell, he didn't go alone.
He stole the flames of love and passion,to burn his hate and rage.
Swiped the heart of kindness and compassion,to pierce with violent anger.
Took the soul of joy and brightness,choked it with jealousy and pain.
Sometimes, when I'm feeling brave
I let him out-for just a little while
To see if he can behave.
Testing to see if They can tell that he is among us.
They are blissfully unaware of his presence,
for a while.
But he always trips up, always shows his hand
he must be punished.
Squashed back down to his dank pit,
My stomach feeling queasy from his sickness.
And I quiet him again, with chocolates and wine,
keeping him drunken and content.
But the truth, the truth is
I miss him.
Copyright © 2010 Laura Verdi Stridiron
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 8:55 PM UTC
in ref. to the supposed "unholy" trinity -
i can only clearly identify one member,
antonym of the holy spirit (alias of
a community, rather than a person,
as stated by Žižek - in his words, should
it be different, it would be a profanity) -
if that is the case, then the variation
of holy spirit is ascribed the title zeitgeist -
or: the spirit of the times - the 20th century's
example is filled with zeitgeists -
communist, nazis, hippies, punks, goths,
beats, squares, or 21st century's militant atheists
and Jihadists, Blairites...
as is evident, the zeitgeist is short lived -
it's naive in being easily influenced - but because
of its gullibility it's also brutal in not being
influenced for worth of establishing a religion -
it's "unholiness" is precisely the reason why
it's poly-adaptable - multi-faceted - unruly -
it changes very quickly and is never rock-like -
but because of its gullibility it's also brutal in
not being influenced to the point of permanence -
the fluctuations are numerous, and democratically so,
many people can attach themselves to the "unholy
spirit" at any time they want, without knowing
they're actually part of a congregation - and as soon
as a congregation is established, the zeitgeist
implodes and disappears - the congregation breaks up -
soon overpowered by the forces of imitation -
ah - now the second person of the "unholy" trinity -
the Imitator - the flawed first entry post-zeitgeist -
never reaching the zeitgeist's potential, this tsunami
wave lasts longer than the actual zeitgeist - it's
a variation of nostalgia - not a nostalgia of thinking back
but a nostalgia of trying to revive - resuscitate -
the assortment of vanity projects; now i'm either too
hangover or just know what i have to do today
before the Royal Opera House and Verdi's Nabucco -
a peasant is heading into town, peasant better iron
his shirt and trousers and look respectably urban.
Jul 13, 2016
Jul 13, 2016 at 8:52 AM UTC
*eating breakfast in a long time,
half a teaspoon of sugar,
coffee black, three marzipan
nuggets coated in chocolate,
two cigarettes...*
and wondering where did the time
go since silverchair
released their debut frogstomp (1995),
or what happened to the offspring
after americana (the song *pay the
man* still wasn't a commercial song),
or the sudden thrill of red hot chilli
pepper's reunion with john and
californication, deftone's white pony,
or when buying the mortal kombat
soundtrack, and someone nice enough
at our price putting a different c.d.,
not the score, but the soundtrack
with actual songs: type o negative
(subsequently ****** kisses),
monster magnet, k.m.f.d.m., and beside,
days with cassettes (m.o.d.'s mr. oofus
ha ha) - and gigs, tool in glasgow
with that awesome german girl
who i gave water to in exchange for a kiss,
wolfmother in edinburgh, a few gigs
in london (papa roach, disturbed,
type o negative, iron maiden, the offspring,
american head charge, rammstein,
slipknot, korn, red hot chilli peppers -
when that arena at canary wharf was still open)...
but then there was verdi's la traviata in st. petersburg,
and aerosmith in hyde park, and boy
did depeche mode rock hyde park too...
i mean, most these influences came from
my uncle, but i can't give him credit
for king crimson, jethro tull and other
prog bands (early genesis, for example)...
or the jazz...
but it's just annoying to not have seen
the holy wood tour by m.m.,
or not seeing slayer when jeff hanneman
was still alive - after all i pledged the
tribulation of growing long hair in school
to him, one day, looking at the band's poster,
i was 15 then and became known as chewbacca
for a while.
Mar 10, 2016
Mar 10, 2016 at 5:36 AM UTC
Never would I ever smoke a cigar,
promise made to mother and the lonesome pa,
promised not to drink, Verdi in a cup,
but now have times changed, not just a little pup,
we promise all these things, to the ones we love so much,
but not one person is innocent, no innocent is such.
Sep 19, 2016
Sep 19, 2016 at 5:20 AM UTC
Sara played the Chopin,
her fingers moved
in a steady pace.
Maggie was in the kitchen
preparing lunch,
thinking of Edward,
hoping he will get
the tickets for the Verdi.
Sara's fingers trickled softly
over the keyboard.
Her mother sat
in the chair,
although not really,
she was dead,
but Sara
saw her there.
David was coming
that evening
to make a foursome
with Maggie and Edward
to see some Italian opera.
Sara paused playing,
and turning
saw her mother disappear,
leaving an empty chair,
as if she'd not been there.
Maggie listened
to the silence;
the piano playing
had stopped;
she felt ill at ease,
she waited,
the soup and bread
prepared.
Sara began
the Chopin again.
Maggie smiled,
all was well.
She took
the soup and bread
into the room
for both to eat;
the Chopin trickled
to a gentle cease,
but Sara's eyes revealed
no peace.
Jun 5, 2019
Jun 5, 2019 at 3:00 PM UTC
it began with her eyes, green like the trees
outside 72nd and broadway.
she asked me for the time in verdi square,
but seconds felt like hours the way she caught me.
it began when my heart broke for the 7th time (i’m tired
of trying to put it back together,
i may just leave it a mess for someone else to fix this time).
it began with her kissing my nose.
it began with the way she says my name
(my tastebuds are filled to the brim with her).
it began with a crease in her lips, she smiles
like the moon (maybe i can be her sun).
it began with her breath in my lungs.
it began when her eyelashes strung together
like a violin, and every time she blinks, i swear i
hear “all of the lights” (it’s dark in here and
i’m scared that sometime soon i’ll find a light).
it began the moment i saw her.
it began the moment i told her i loved her.
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 9:00 PM UTC
Le toit s'égaie et rit.
ANDRÉ CHÉNIER.
Lorsque l'enfant paraît, le cercle de famille
Applaudit à grands cris.
Son doux regard qui brille
Fait briller tous les yeux,
Et les plus tristes fronts, les plus souillés peut-être,
Se dérident soudain à voir l'enfant paraître,
Innocent et joyeux.
Soit que juin ait verdi mon seuil, ou que novembre
Fasse autour d'un grand feu vacillant dans la chambre
Les chaises se toucher,
Quand l'enfant vient, la joie arrive et nous éclaire.
On rit, on se récrie, on l'appelle, et sa mère
Tremble à le voir marcher.
Quelquefois nous parlons, en remuant la flamme,
De patrie et de Dieu, des poètes, de l'âme
Qui s'élève en priant ;
L'enfant paraît, adieu le ciel et la patrie
Et les poètes saints ! la grave causerie
S'arrête en souriant.
La nuit, quand l'homme dort, quand l'esprit rêve, à l'heure
Où l'on entend gémir, comme une voix qui pleure,
L'onde entre les roseaux,
Si l'aube tout à coup là-bas luit comme un phare,
Sa clarté dans les champs éveille une fanfare
De cloches et d'oiseaux.
Enfant, vous êtes l'aube et mon âme est la plaine
Qui des plus douces fleurs embaume son haleine
Quand vous la respirez ;
Mon âme est la forêt dont les sombres ramures
S'emplissent pour vous seul de suaves murmures
Et de rayons dorés !
Car vos beaux yeux sont pleins de douceurs infinies,
Car vos petites mains, joyeuses et bénies,
N'ont point mal fait encor ;
Jamais vos jeunes pas n'ont touché notre fange,
Tête sacrée ! enfant aux cheveux blonds ! bel ange
À l'auréole d'or !
Vous êtes parmi nous la colombe de l'arche.
Vos pieds tendres et purs n'ont point l'âge où l'on marche.
Vos ailes sont d'azur.
Sans le comprendre encor vous regardez le monde.
Double virginité ! corps où rien n'est immonde,
Âme où rien n'est impur !
Il est si beau, l'enfant, avec son doux sourire,
Sa douce bonne foi, sa voix qui veut tout dire,
Ses pleurs vite apaisés,
Laissant errer sa vue étonnée et ravie,
Offrant de toutes parts sa jeune âme à la vie
Et sa bouche aux baisers !
Seigneur ! préservez-moi, préservez ceux que j'aime,
Frères, parents, amis, et mes ennemis même
Dans le mal triomphants,
De jamais voir, Seigneur ! l'été sans fleurs vermeilles,
La cage sans oiseaux, la ruche sans abeilles,
La maison sans enfants !
Mai 1830.
845
*my exhibition of lost temper is only shown to those i respect;
for those i am contempt with, i exhort the energy of tact.*
my exhibition of a lost temper is only shown to those i respect, for those i am in contempt with: an exerted show of temperament that says tact is evident; which makes sense hearing my father break apathetic silence in anger on the building site to fathom a solidarity... and me without solidarity break it clean & open... on the gargantuan drums of emotion, to have being a god equate with a ****** ****** for a moment sanctified with “pride” in a miss händel's messiah playing in the royal albert hall and me in the brothel thinking it up in trumpet pistons, well... mickey trump. but how easily i would worship the narrative of a russian cobbler, had i two flats in st. petersburg and a chance to spot gucci and verdi together to **** off the russian slags of tight-nit suspenders... easing a forever-might-we-live face make-up that became surgery... how’s that? i exhibit my anger on people who can encompass the person... not the stage-fright fake personality... blood is veined blue with honour less colder. my exhibition of lost temper is only shown to those i respect, for those i do not: i am contempt in anonymity, and with such anonymity i exert the energy of tact... silenced anger that brews a carbon dioxide fizzling out.. that never does... but burrows deeper than haemoglobin into marrow rather than the veiny aquaeduct; should have let the beast sleep rather than wake it in its full pleasure of a nightmare slept in.
Oct 29, 2015
Oct 29, 2015 at 8:29 PM UTC
Poorly holding up to the harsh assault
Mal reggendo all’aspro assalto
well, if that's so, aight,
and this is the test, we took it,
what would ya thank for that, eh?
Heavy metal, anvils are the archetype,
before Iron Horses and world tying steel
industrial spirit to try like hell
to move a mountain told to move,
ai, we had a form of free press, indeed
and steam, bound in cylinders ground
and smoothed to specs a micron or two
from perfectly round, squared center to edge,
by pi, the idea, we need
to make compassion,
compass me round about, and think me mad,
with deep and sensitive gentle assurance,
ai, we made the crossing, we're on
the other side.
I'm not, I am a little drunk.
Rare state, feels familiar, kind of rejuvenating.
Wisdom smiles on those who try,
and try again.
Remember all this is after we won heaven,
by being invincibly ignorant as to why not.
Oct 24, 2024
Oct 24, 2024 at 10:10 PM UTC
Rest, oh rest so sublime
as night drifts into the unknown
forgotten is weary time
this, the sojourn alone--
light, oh light so calm
all darkness on swift wings has flown
ah, sleep so welcome-- the sweetest balm
what the living have never ever known
Apr 25, 2021
Apr 25, 2021 at 8:45 PM UTC
Magdalene's
parents row
she hears them
from her room
nightly fights
loud voices
hands slapping
she turns up
her tiny
transistor
radio
and listens
ear up close
to some song
by Elvis
she's undressed
soiled linen
cast aside
short nightie
a lush pink
she then thinks
of Mary
on this bed
hours back
listening
to LPs
on her small
hi-fi box
both smoking
sipping slow
some borrowed
of ma's gin
Mary said
that idjit
boy Brian
tried to get
his **** leg
over me
but I said
go **** sheep
they both laughed
huddled close
Magdalene
put her hand
on Mary's
naked knee
moved upward
Mary said
go ahead
still rowing
downstairs
her parents
her da's voice
thundering
through the floor
her ma's voice
soprano
counterpoints
his tenor
as if in
opera
by Verdi
Magdalene
gets in bed
says her prayers
(old routine)
then lays down
in the dark
(light turned out)
dreaming of
Mary's lips
Mary's hands
Mary's hips
Mary's eyes
letting out
in slow breath
her deep sighs.
Jan 9, 2016
Jan 9, 2016 at 2:41 AM UTC
Kim kime karıştı
kimliği bulanık gecede
tuhaf yıldız gülümsedi arkamdan
tiyosunu verdi
oktavlık bir yokuşta
saat yönüyle ilerledim
yürüdüm saklambaç sokakta
hapşırık tuttu boğazı
nane limon kaynat dedi.
cüsseli bir neon
makyajlı vitrin ona keza
seslendi göğün kızı sonra
şifalanmalısın
bir an evvel. dedi
uzanıp bir ayetin koynuna...
Feb 25, 2019
Feb 25, 2019 at 11:44 AM UTC
Sur les tuiles où se hasarde
Le chat guettant l'oiseau qui boit,
De mon balcon une mansarde
Entre deux tuyaux s'aperçoit.
Pour la parer d'un faux bien-être,
Si je mentais comme un auteur,
Je pourrais faire à sa fenêtre
Un cadre de pois de senteur,
Et vous y montrer Rigolette
Riant à son petit miroir,
Dont le tain rayé ne reflète
Que la moitié de son oeil noir ;
Ou, la robe encor sans agrafe,
Gorge et cheveux au vent, Margot
Arrosant avec sa carafe
Son jardin planté dans un *** ;
Ou bien quelque jeune poète
Qui scande ses vers sibyllins,
En contemplant la silhouette
De Montmartre et de ses moulins.
Par malheur, ma mansarde est vraie ;
Il n'y grimpe aucun liseron,
Et la vitre y fait voir sa taie,
Sous l'ais verdi d'un vieux chevron.
Pour la grisette et pour l'artiste,
Pour le veuf et pour le garçon,
Une mansarde est toujours triste :
Le grenier n'est beau qu'en chanson.
Jadis, sous le comble dont l'angle
Penchait les fronts pour le baiser,
L'amour, content d'un lit de sangle,
Avec Suzon venait causer.
Mais pour ouater notre joie,
Il faut des murs capitonnés,
Des flots de dentelle et de soie,
Des lits par Monbro festonnés.
Un soir, n'étant pas revenue,
Margot s'attarde au mont Breda,
Et Rigolette entretenue
N'arrose plus son réséda.
Voilà longtemps que le poète,
Las de prendre la rime au vol,
S'est fait reporter de gazette,
Quittant le ciel pour l'entresol.
Et l'on ne voit contre la vitre
Qu'une vieille au maigre profil,
Devant Minet, qu'elle chapitre,
Tirant sans cesse un bout de fil.
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