"woodwind" poems
Can I write you a love song
I’ll sing it softy in your ear all night long
Blow gently without words on my saxophone
Diamond and Pearls behind the throne
A beautiful ensemble meant for only you
As I give credence too
Take my hand
Cross this journey with me as I sing about faraway lands
Past Egypt pyramids shifting Morocco sands
Lay back my love, allow your mind to silently drift
Feel the enchantment of my piano keys as it spiritual uplifts
I’ll sing love songs of old
A cappella chorus echoed from deep within my enlighten soul
I’ll sing to you about the blues, society’s injustice, and elements of darken storms
Keep your heart warm, while playing my French Horn
Enrapture foretold from this dedicated symphonic poem
A music sheet of percussion, woodwind, brass, keyboard, and strings
Harmony carrying the mind away as the joy of coming spring
I’ll hum your favorite beats, can you feel the crescendo now
Fiddle from the heart by the sweat of one’s brow
Submerge your cerebral cortex, lose yourself in the sultry tunes
Harp sounds bathe of light kissed from the illuminating moon
Destiny overcasts in the lyrics
Fate floating stratospheric
Karma of others handled in the eyes of satiric
Opera, I give you so grand in its grace
French Creole dialect murmured among silk and lace
Sounds of my flute resonant to face
Allowing my Cello sounds to thoroughly embrace
Can I write you a love song
Body and soul serenading soprano to keep you standing strong
My guitar stringing your philosophies along
An equal equation, one plus one equals two
Emotions, feelings, sentiments, its tenor expressed only for you
No compass to my heart, my seasonal love found in hidden melodies
Trombone guiding back and forth breathless as it please
Orchestra sounds
Ascending minds, bodies, souls, pass the opening clouds, divine and profound
The last note sung by me as we gradually come down
Beautiful music embraced, needs never to make a sound
Shh, close your eyes
Meditate on the music for a little while
Hush sweet baby don’t say a word
My heart softly tweets to a mockingbird
If that mockingbird don’t sing
Can I write you a love song created only for your being
As minds are sightseeing
Hearts fleeing
Timpani drums guaranteeing
Entwined of our divine wellbeing
Emotions freeing
Crooning of bodies heard as the day is long
Can I write you a love song
Sep 9, 2018
Sep 9, 2018 at 10:39 AM UTC
he spends his time
rowing through the
rugged, blockaded channels
of my catharsis,
the bitter staccato
of ****** habit.
his love
can be as jagged
as gashes in an
Elvis Costello record
thrown against the wall--
the frayed words of the last love song
Billie Holiday ever uttered.
he is two
exclamation points lit on
fire, kerosene pumping through
tautly wound muscles and
caressing our funny bones with
sandpaper.
he is
dulcit woodwind melodies
and jilted viola strings,
epic poetry and grindhouse theaters,
McQueen gowns and thrift store bargains,
the kiss on the forehead
and the nudge for a *******
he is a double helix.
he is the beginning
and end of every sentence.
Sep 4, 2010
Sep 4, 2010 at 3:45 AM UTC
THE SAXOPHONE STORY
BY RAJ NANDY
The Saxophone is perhaps the most expressive
instrument next to the human voice.
Was made by Adolphe Sax, a Belgian, through
a deliberate choice!
He wanted to offset the tonal disparity, -
Between the string, wind, and brass instruments,
with musical clarity !
He felt that the strings ones were overpowered
by the wind instruments.
While the wind instruments got overblown by
the brass ones instead !
Now what would happen if the best qualities
of these three instruments types,
Could in a fusion blend and coalesces into a single
instrument type ?
So finally at the age of 20 years, in March Eighteen
Hundred and Thirty Four,
Adolphe Sax created a magical instrument for the
World to hear and adore!
It had the power of the brass, the flexibility of the
strings, and the woodwind’s variety and tone;
Which got christened after Adolphe Sax as the
SAXOPHONE !
Adolphe’s famous composer friend Hector Berlioz
in Paris City,
Gave this new instrument wide publicity!
In 1844 the Sax was presented in the Industrial
Exhibition at Paris;
And subsequently got patented on 20 March 1846.
It soon got adopted by the Bands of the French Army.
Making other instrument makers to become green
with envy!
The Sax was 80 years old when it became part of the
musical instruments of the Jazz Band.
A small bore mouth piece was created to suite the
varying tonal qualities required by Jazz.
Initially, 14 different sizes of Sax was created by
Adolphe.
Today only five types are in use for us to hear and
see;
The Soprano, Alto, Tenor, Bass and the Baritone
Saxophone.
They now form a part of our Jazz music's backbone!
- By Raj Nandy
FOOT NOTES :
Adolphe Sax (1814-1894) , son of famous musical instrument maker
Charles Joseph Sax of Belgium. Woodwind Instruments = Flute, Clarinet, Bassoon etc. Brass Instruments = Trumpet, Tuba, Cornet etc. String Instruments = Violin, Guitar, Harp, Banjo etc. The Saxophone today has become the very backbone of Jazz Music!
** ALL COPY RIGHTS ARE RESERVED BY: - RAJ NANDY **
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 11:06 AM 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
Long night
curtains dark the gloom
creak the steps to her sleeping room
solemn woman walks these woods
transforming limb and bone
in feathery flight she delights
to grace a moon swept pond
her whispers weave a song, to call her lover home
entwined they float the woodwind air
until the night is gone
Shapeshifter lights the darkness dawn
to shed the dreaming night
now slips away her lover
and fades the glorious swan
Aug 4, 2012
Aug 4, 2012 at 2:13 PM UTC
the good old baritone advises her,
his sopranino daughter tweets disjoint,
arpeggio his point, her counterpoint
a syncopated rhythm of meter,
her high pitched protestations in her pleas,
and low-pitched grumbling sighings alternate,
as puntal, contrapuntal altercate,
to musically the rolling of her eyes,
his stern yet soft soprano wife defers,
while yielding to her baritone's movement,
conducting, though, the orchestrated theme,
as tenor, alto sons caesur' occurs,
her soothing background voice reveals eschewment,
with daughter's movement stuck 'tween measures' beams
(C)2012, Christos Rigakos
Jul 30, 2012
Jul 30, 2012 at 9:19 PM UTC
It's not like a song you've ever heard
Or a song you'll ever want to hear
But it caught my ear when I first heard it sing
It sang in my head
The voices whispered it quietly
Curiosity urged me
Listen closer
A slow crescendo wrapped me
I was intoxicated by the gore that filled me
Before I could make it stop
The song had etched it's bars
It's time signature
It's key
Deep in my veins
Deep in my bones
It's taken over my brain
My body has become the instrument
That plays this addicting song
A woodwind perhaps
A string maybe
But all I know is this one song
Dead hands play symphonies
For dying hands to be
Please don't follow me
Don't listen to my song
You will become addicted
You will learn how to play
Please don't become the composer
Of your own suicide song
Jun 29, 2014
Jun 29, 2014 at 1:39 AM UTC
I’ve begun thinking
In terms of music.
We are a decrescendo,
Falling from forte
To pianissimo
As the clock ticks
It’s rhythmic warning.
Your voice is always
In crescendo,
A cello when you laugh,
Mournful viola for those moments
Your strings are wound
Too tightly.
The way your fingers
Glissando across my rib cage,
Playing con amore upon my skin.
You taste like a symphony,
Brass and woodwind,
An opus on my lips.
Some days
You make me forget
How playing someone
Can be bad.
Dec 12, 2018
Dec 12, 2018 at 12:02 PM UTC
The audience, silent, took a breath in unison
Included in the orchestra was every instrument imaginable
Banhus and Gadulkas played folk and polkas
The brutish brass, bodyguards and protectors of stringed melodies
Included in the orchestra was every instrument imaginable
A concert harp, plucked by fingers long, smooth and sharp
The brutish brass, bodyguards and protectors of the woodwind class
Saxophones provided a melancholy lilt, the timp was traditionally built
A concert harp, stroked by running fingers, smooth and sharp
Every sharp and flat note was passed through the throaty reeds of oboes
Saxophones reminiscent of ‘jive’, the timp in its size had nowhere to hide
This exhibition of musical traditions played late into evening with no intermissions
Every sharp and flat note accounted for, motifs carried whispers of folklore
Banhus and Gadulkas, swapped stories with bassoons and bagpipes
The exhibition had finished, piano keys rested, every note has its operatic death
The audience, silent, took a breath in unison
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 8:56 PM UTC
I am thoughtful, I dont speak unless I feel the need.
And with most people I dont.
Im observant, to the point of being creepy. :P
I watch people, not in a perverted or wrong way
I watch them to see how they act, and what their doing.
I am socially illiterate, Im extremely awkward with people
So I watch others to try to figure out what to do.
Im realistic, both optimistically and pessimistically depending on the circumstance
I think in logical cycles "If not this then that." "If not that, then this." and so on.
Despite all the logic and awkward social standing, I do have a sense of humor
It is sometimes crude, or overly complex but it is there.
And my friends tend to enjoy it as well.
I love to learn, anything everything anytime all the time.
Which is one of the reasons Im observant. I learn primarily through watching.
Though reading is just as easy for me.
Listening is not however.
I still want so much more knowledge though, and life is so short.
"He's a genius" is all I've heard since I was in 3rd grade.
I hate it.
I am not a genius, I learn easy and have good recall and intuition.
A genius is someone who can solve a problem in a hundred different ways
Im smart, but Im not a genius.
Im an artist in every sense. As this not-really-poem shows.
Its why I joined this site. I love poetry.
I love reading and writing, and I'm good at both.
I love painting and any kind of visual art.
I like shuffle dancing, its constant motion which plays
into my hyper moods. - I consider dancing art (Im not sure if it actually is though)
And finally.
Music.
Music is everything to me, Its what I do when I have emotions I need to deal with
I literally talk to my instruments when I play them - Yes I know that is weird. :d
I can play most instruments, not all. But most.
My favorite is the guitar, then piano, then any other stringed instrument.
Then any woodwind instrument - which is something Ive always wanted to learn to play.
Oct 4, 2012
Oct 4, 2012 at 6:03 PM UTC
incandescent
Only in yellow flames,
was the outline of your body revealed,
In ethereal guise,
Chalk outlines and white lines defined my kaleidoscopic mind state,
at that peculiar time.
We should of seen the signs,
but the stars aligned,
and your nature, nefarious,
exposed the worst of both of us,
combined.
Sometimes aurora came before sleep,
and I was weak at the knees,
the calmest breeze whistled woodwind notes amongst the trees.
So sure, demure,
You asked me what I was waiting for?
And I reacted chemically,
in luminescence.
I asked you if you learnt your lesson?
It was evident that I was just your favourite daydream.
So I stayed in limerence;
exposed like windless nights to the star skies.
Infatuated by nothing more than candle light.
I knew I was wrong,
You knew you were right.
I knew you were wrong,
You knew I was right.
Mar 5, 2016
Mar 5, 2016 at 9:15 PM UTC
She sings, unites beautiful melody with a naturally melodious language
The end result being how I don't have a clue what she's saying
chanting the mantra given to her
by the bearded sage in the terry cloth bathrobe
who told her "your mind is a vast field where elephants gather to play"
before conferring the mantra
She lets the Sanskrit words roll over her tongue
a vernacular of formidable power
effecting even those who don't speak a word
such was I, Sanskrit illiterate, but the repetition
opened the lotus flower of my heart
the baby blue visage of Sri Krishna materialized
from the words she was singing
I took away his flute and blew a line from an old Jethro Tull song
she thought it enchanting
but Krishna was not happy to see his vaunted woodwind in the hands of a mere mortal
he stepped up to me, polite as can be
he says "if you don't give me my instrument I will be forced to cut off your hands, and then what do you think will happen to this poem?"
I stood my ground, possession being two thirds of the law
I blew the flute solo from Genesis' "The Musical Box" (having known it by heart)
the blue boy asked several times for me to
give him that almighty flute
each time I told him "No! You'll have it soon enough"
apparently not soon enough
(For he felt a pair of garden shears slice firmly through his right hand
the same set of shears severed his left
he dropped his stylus and papyrus to the ground
toppled over, landing smashly with a great crash
within a matter of time he bled out from the stumps where his hands had once been attached
Krishna picked up his flute and said
"what a pity"
and vanished into thin air
it all ended quickly as it had begun
and the sweet lady never stopped chanting her mantra
in fact her back had been turned before Krishna even showed up
it was a great shock to find her gentleman friend's lifeless and handless body on the ground
She shed a tear
I was no less miserable and sad
wished above all else
that I had been a real poet
so I could have finished the man's life work)
Aug 29, 2016
Aug 29, 2016 at 5:21 PM UTC
Autumnal joy floats on the wind: it blows
A woodwind section through the buzzing leaves,
And gently rattles red arpeggios
That harmonise with mournful semibreves
Of ageing branches creaking in the breeze.
The forest spirits collectively moan.
Without the crunch of thund’rous symphonies
The rain can ****** on a xylophone:
The surface of a hidden woodland pond
Where all the stepping stones are so arranged
As keys of limestone next to keys of slate.
And all around the silence is estranged
And till the snow of winter has to wait.
We wave our sticks at where the air has thinned
And call ourselves composers of the wind.
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 3:58 PM UTC
she looks at me as if to say,
you were simply,
an honest mistake,
made with good intention,
and nice at the time,
but long since forgotten,
a futile woodwind, in
an orchestral life,
struggling to make an impact,
on hyperbolic composition...
tell me, truthfully,
you don’t remember its pitch,
the call of its notes,
rang true, it seemed,
for you to imply,
it was not even heard,
makes a mockery of the
efforts made,
honestly, just once,
say its crescendoes
did not bellow, with
the strength of
a timpani, the
sweetness of flutes,
the heart of a sax,
say that the notes
that you sang at the time,
were a lie, simply,
an honest mistake,
and i'll leave this composition,
promising though it seemed,
broken and incomplete,
just as you’d like.
Dec 29, 2010
Dec 29, 2010 at 9:45 PM UTC
Why care about the coronglais (English Horns) music.
Of course the brass I speak of is woodwind.
Masters of sound are older then the Tux-
Edos choking boughtie on my white neck.
The pub next door never will hear opera
The way a glass of hard ale fills me.
All a reason to say hiphop is jazz.
The old lady with scotch breath doesnt show
Me how ice melts in her mouth like twelve octaves.
On the concert halls roof cellos fall off the gutters
Like drops of rain. The rare wood burns the hobos
Metal warm fire and we finally walk with purpose.
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 6:44 PM UTC
O living being... how long alive?
Through the ages I've survived
Through war and peace, abundant thirst
Of all that's living, I was first
O living being... what have you seen?
A forest coast, a rocky green
A bird to float, a cloud to wing
A wave to wash, a sand to sing
A maid to rise, a king to fall
A peasant wise, I've seen it all
O living being... what have you heard?
A poet's hush, a silent word
A trumpet's bleat, a woodwind's blare
A piercing crowd, a noisy stare
A cymbal's trill, a fluted crash
A dynasty of smoke and ash
O living being... what do you know?
A rapid sloth, a hare that's slow
A solemn kiss, a passionate oath
Yes, young man, I've seen them both
The wise to boast, the fool to swear
The sun to glint, the stars to glare
O living being... I stand in awe
Surely you're Methuselah.
Soul Survivor
Mar 1, 2014
Mar 1, 2014 at 9:43 PM UTC
If you’d just hold out your arms and lead;
force feed my feet to eat up the floor and once I - promise -
find that rhythm I will tip the tables and turn them so you’ll
be led in a waltz around the place, until your head is hidden by your hair and the dub-step-house-trance coming from the speakers turns to Mozart’s fifth, a symphony that features woodwind and strings in an endless kiss.
Will we dance to all four movements? you say
Yes, until we become a dance floor nuisance, something more than a blur and an illusion and we're asked to leave.
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 11:17 AM UTC
Well, you're in a good mood.
Those friends left and right
could learn a few things,
how not to whine as a kettle
until I notice the gold body,
black pearls for eyes.
To me it's a forest,
first breath of March,
winter locked up
and now leaves bleed green,
snow switched to slush.
Who wants to be raucous,
get sloshed, go hoarse,
slur every word?
With you each syllable
twirls through the air,
hopscotches from note to note.
We may cough/choke/sneeze,
as the curtain rises
but when you choose to speak
spring skips to my ears
regardless what month.
Sep 19, 2013
Sep 19, 2013 at 6:38 PM UTC
There's a soundtrack stuck in my head.
A whispering, quiet melody.
Flutes and violins take center stage
As cellos and clarinets round out the sound.
The soft plucking of a harp shades and fills in
With the gentle support of a French horn.
And so the basses and the tubas grow louder
As the melody swells
Like a leaf blown higher on the wind.
As it begins to crescendo,
I can feel it in my fingertips--
The emotion of it all.
There's a symphony in your smile,
An orchestral accompaniment
To the twinkle in your eye.
Your laughter is the thumping of the timpani;
Your chuckle the plucking of an upright bass.
Your soft conversing is a harmonic woodwind;
Your finely crafted wit, a lively piccolo.
And your hands gently taking mine,
Cradling them and never wanting to let go,
Is the soft caress of a singing violin.
And when you say, "I love you",
I realize it was you all along.
You are the music in my head,
The soundtrack to my life.
And like we used to do in bygone days,
I would play this music cassette
Over and over and over again
Until the film is faded and cracked,
And there is no more cassette that can be played.
Then I would sit and close my eyes,
And recall it in my memory,
For the music of the heart never fades.
Just like your "I love you's"
And my "I know's".
Oct 13, 2016
Oct 13, 2016 at 10:25 PM UTC
Rubayiat Al Thurab (Verses of the Dust) - 72
BismillahIr RahmanIr Raheem
Like a bamboo flute his dear life'
Noble birth of woodwind family.
Which naturally generates;
An acoustics stream of sacred music!
Allah Khair..... Khairul Rabul Alameen Yah Arrahmanur Yah Raheem
Ummah Thurab - Badshah Khan.
©UT-BK 2019
Mar 13, 2019
Mar 13, 2019 at 2:41 AM UTC
Handsome face chiseled by a Greek sculptor
Your bass guitar I could listen to forever
Deep, resonant music like that of a cello
I suppose what I'm trying to tell you
Person, friend, in this letter
Is I would like to know you better
Since my identity I am hesitant from just giving away,
Identify me not by name rather by the instrument I play:
A silver and black woodwind.
Dec 28, 2011
Dec 28, 2011 at 11:26 PM UTC
Instrumentation selection
Was a big step in our lives
Choices made in fourth grade
Would stay with us through school
To the end
If we stayed in band
So many choices
Brass or woodwind
Big or small
Loud or louder
Percussion as an option too
What would be the perfect fit
Did we take advice from mom or dad
And play the instrument that they played
Or maybe a brother or sister
Or one of their cool friends
A lot of impressions molded
Our decision on the path that we went down.
I selected, with a few of my friends,
The long and shiny brass trombone
Touchy slide that perfecting
Lubrication with silicone proved tricky
And dumping the spit from the valve
Proved essential and gross.
It took years to become adequate
Enough that the notes flowed like spit
All the way through my senior year
Until I put the parts away in the black case
That one last time then sold it
To the parents of a fourth grader.
Jun 2, 2019
Jun 2, 2019 at 5:14 PM UTC
ONE
A dense forest, from some
skulking angle, is a vista—
Even this wildly colonnaded temple
has its nave—
If only in dry times
with shrunken leaves
A distant sun, the closest star
or hot words of light surge
As living blood through the
harmless hole in your heart
TWO
As leaves with tapering green fingers
scratch their sisters' backs
Or hard breath rustles them
through a tattered woodwind
Not only friction slides between
these skins — immutable green
Phrases indeed pass: howled
notes of irritated flesh
Or the tissues through which
some sick blood red beats blow
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 5:14 PM UTC
Oh, to be cradled in the arms of a stringed quartet, where ancient phantoms tickle forbidden structures and intertwine with my wandering spirit across baron regions of the netherworld.
As the fallacy of alleged progress warms the darkest graves with ambivalent laughter, I now ask for your permission to caress your slippery soul as it seeks to slide into cosmological inertia.
Articulation of the Algerian torso punctuates the pervasive sanctuary where seduction of the King resonates with my Arabic woodwind instruments.
Therefore, let us embrace under the canopy of Ashtoreth, as her velvet hours are forever shortening like the contemporary expressions of a wanton Eve.
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 1:26 AM UTC
i've had to synthesise falling
asleep for years now,
alcohol and sleeping pills
thoroughly knock at my door
of sleep prior to the roller coaster
kin to a boxing match -
sleep chemical, sleep chemical -
dandruff and snow also -
a sweaty horse tilling to mind,
lack of dreams, too much colour
inviting otherwise...
and to and fro, and to and fro,
the remnants of a sinking ship,
a gallop, horse fed heartbeat,
a tilting, a tomorrow,
nigh tide with noon,
nigh tide with midnight,
the Thames, the Thames,
night of all circumstance
reduced to reaping a harvest
of beetroot
or shimmy a fake discourse
with embarrassment; eternity in the eyes
of logging and the foggy qualm;
clay subduing marble to state a David
in fingerprint of Michelangelo -
sire the power of indentation for printed
canyon with crayon -
etymology in practice:
Polish skleroza, avid formulation
of sclera, itemised -
-rose, -rossa, pinkish, barbarossa..
the whitened forgetfulness...
the rosy forgetting...
skleroza, the whitening of the eye...
róża - rose, pinky white, beauty of
forgetting...
Heidegger's dasein is no more than
a copula... a connective-compound...
grammatical words undress all philosophical terms
to a nakedness, e.g., whereby dasein becomes
merely a copula.. shortcrust bread, poison ivy,
it's not the meaning that's necessary,
but the musicology without brass or woodwind,
what's required to breed poetry like a viral
infection is accent, the oddity -
or let's fly the kite of the free reign of language
accommodating the many individuals to be
further expressed.
Jun 8, 2016
Jun 8, 2016 at 10:11 PM UTC