"woodwinds" poems
(Scene by the brook)
He came seeking solace to Heiligenstadt
and walked alone by its crystal stream
welcomed by songs the nightingale taught.
Its cheerful waters made Vienna seem
a distant, cool and forbidding stage
where few would embrace a pastoral dream.
He dotted his sketchbooks on every page
with earthen tones born of peasant heart -
(though fare rich enough for any age) .
He poured from the stream the fiddle part,
and woodwinds sang with the birds in the dell -
all "choired" together by his masterful art.
At Heiligenstadt Beethoven attended well
and bequeathed us his golden 'Pastorale.'
July, 2006
Aug 4, 2013
Aug 4, 2013 at 10:53 PM UTC
when God claps His hands
the sky plays woodwinds
while the clouds play
the percussions and
the ghost of
Athena plays
her golden harp
in the precession of
the blue-eyed storm
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 11:24 PM UTC
I am from too long grass
that left muted green stains on my knees
From rock gardens overrun with punny yellow snapdragons
which delivered into my care all sorts of fascinating creepy crawlers
I'm from ash grey two by fours
which were all together fun to climb on
but gave nasty splinter when they were mad
I'm from the woodchips and sand
that provided me an elaborate landscape
in which to house my boundless imagination
I'm from the tail of sulfur smoke
that burned white hot through the crisp October Sky
and propelled my rocket to high heaven
or so it seemed to my eger eyes
I am from Thursdays
from green and red rhubarb leaves
and dirt under every fingernail
I'm from hurling half-rotten tomatoes
at the fence accross the ally
and running haphazardly from angry neighbors
I'm from lasagna and jell-o
candels on Christmas eve
and the squirt bottle of water
my only defense against ants
I am from obscure old families
who came over like so many others
and played the ***** in the secret choir loft above the church
I'm from woodwinds and piano strings
and never a silent moment
From reading aloud and reading alone
and from those who did the reading
I'm from the future and the present and the past of a million different stories
And I've always been headed towards
Where I'm from.
Apr 30, 2012
Apr 30, 2012 at 2:47 PM UTC
Soup should be heralded with a mellow horn,
Blowing clear notes of gold against the stars;
Strange entrees with a jangle of glass bars
Fantastically alive with subtle scorn;
Fish, by a plopping, gurgling rush of waters,
Clear, vibrant waters, beautifully austere;
Roast, with a thunder of drums to stun the ear,
A screaming fife, a voice from ancient slaughters!
Over the salad let the woodwinds moan;
Then the green silence of many watercresses;
Dessert, a balalaika, strummed alone;
Coffee, a slow, low singing no passion stresses;
Such are my thoughts as -- clang! crash! bang! -- I brood
And gorge the sticky mess these fools call food!
2.3k
SUMMER MARCHES IN
(Movement no. 1)
It comes crashing down
like doom.
A martial fanfare
begins a long conversation
questioning fate,
arguing for the human condition,
and for death's open invitation,
which we dare not deny.
WHAT THE MEADOW FLOWERS TELL ME
(Movement no. 2)
Their blooming voices
are oboes and lush violins.
The sun is surely brassy bright
in the sky above.
Radiant alpine flowers
and woodwinds
from deep within their burrows
make the case
for a music well tended
and serenely fed
by sweet springs emerging from the depths
here below.
WHAT THE CREATURES OF THE FOREST TELL ME
(Movement no. 3)
The life force
tends to run amok.
Yet things do not fall apart,
the center still holds.
And though it is mundane -
pedestrian, at times -
we cannot deny the joy in this life,
nor do we wish to.
But know, traveler,
that submerged in every caldron of joy
is a small *** of darkness.
And it will find you
or you will find it -
not only because it is fated,
but for the sake of your sanity.
WHAT MAN TELLS ME
(Movement no. 4)
Here darkness sings.
Again the plucked string.
O Mensch!
You tell the tale!
You take this story
back to the mountain.
A woeful tale you bring,
but it is gilded with joy.
A chorus exalts your condition.
Deep is its grief,
but joy is deeper still.
WHAT THE ANGELS TELL ME
(Movement no. 5)
Bimm Bamm
Bimm Bamm
the children's choir
sweetly intones.
And what, pray tell,
do Angels have to say to us?
I've heard about love
I've heard about emptiness
I've heard about absence
without presence,
about nothingness and the void.
But I have never heard such singing!
WHAT LOVE TELLS ME
(Movement no. 6)
Sweet the air we breathe.
Pleasant the sights before us.
Words are stilled,
anxious thoughts banished.
There is nothing on Earth
or in Heaven
that disputes this sweet resolution
all the parts made whole
Nothing that could possibly
speak against it
(though French Horns will have
their interests heard).
But here it is.
The end.
O Mensch
come to your last and best
resting place.
Also sprach Gustav Mahler.
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 9:19 PM UTC
the wind whispers to you in furious ways,
ominous notes, like a dusty violin
stenciling finality into the air.
the percussion
of foot-soldiers trembles the grass.
you have grown, my war-child,
from the days of ****** tea parties
to a diva guerrilla,
terrible and well-rehearsed,
your bulleted libretto close to your chest--
and as trumpets sound in the offing,
the curtain draws back.
AK-47, pizzicato--
gasoline breeds fire, incinerates woodwinds,
the wine of the coloratura soprano
melts into blood.
witch, ***** daughter of gunpowder,
bella contralto, your
deep and tremulous vibrato is a
grenade,
and as death crashes to a crescendo,
mortality in the tin frequency of cymbals--
the only armistice
is annihilation.
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 10:27 PM UTC
steamed broccoli calls me
its scent a melodious accompaniment
to the dance of
nitrogen and oxygen we call air
next I will torch
the dead silent flesh
of some sinless bovine beast
a sacramental conflagration
whose rich vapors will
add strings and woodwinds
to the wafting symphony
tickling my snout
my salivary will weep
in effortless anticipation
of jubilant mastication
of the flora and fauna
of my own culinary killing fields
that allow me
a few more waltzes
in this soundless song of air
Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 7:31 PM UTC
@---\\---
i will hear
a classic piece
that my soul may rest
music soothes
the savage beast
which writhes
within my breast
the light begins
with violins
a lovely harpsichord
then came in
some flute!
woodwinds!
a winsome building chord!
finding my direction
back to a place that's fair
finding my connection
to a friend
who's there
finding my companion
in a friend who's free
music is the bastion
AND ALWAYS WILL BE
soulsurvivor
(c) 6/17/2015
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 8:49 AM UTC
Strong, hefty dynamics with a crescendo-ing beginning
Living as though you could fly
You try your hardest
Finally, the melody accompanied by such bewildering brass
Making you believe in human flight
Of the mind
The soul
And the mentality of each body
The andante section arrives with light and graceful woodwinds
Creating softer atmospheric winds
Suddenly, you start to fly
Spiritually, mentally
There are accidentals
There is cut time
Running eighth notes in the woodwinds give you the energy
The energy to do whatever you want
Even to conquer the skies
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 5:45 PM UTC
there's something 'bout jazz music, fills the eye
with thoughts of woodwinds brass and smoky dives
where clubs and streets meet moonlight in the sky
the music notes, arpeggio, they fly
with drinks around, the smoky mood arrives
there's something 'bout jazz music, fills the eye
the New York nightlife entertains the eye
past midnight, sewer smoke floats up alive
where clubs and streets meet moonlight in the sky
with Songs From the Night Before, Sanborn is high
and carries all, along with him they jive
there's something 'bout jazz music, fills the eye
the room is dark but for a stage so nigh
spotlight exposes New York's heartbeat live
where clubs and streets meet moonlight in the sky
where jazz songs live forever, never die
the spirit of New York at night it thrives
there's something 'bout jazz music, fills the eye
where clubs and streets meet moonlight in the sky
(C)2009, Christos Rigakos
Mar 26, 2012
Mar 26, 2012 at 1:27 AM UTC
Medicine induced hallucinations,
body quivering with ache,
and I'm hearing the sweet chime of bells
In this hour of pain my mind orchestrates.
The next drop from the IV,
helps even greater than the last,
a constant drumming in my head
a beat which was not meant for dance.
The others around me dressed in white
say I'm doing fine and that I should rest,
but when there's music pouring into the room
Sleep is what I must detest.
Can they not hear the wondrous sounds?
The vibrations that reflects my pain?
Those invisible waveforms move visibly
or have I just gone entirely insane?
There is no music, they tell me.
It must be a side-affect to the medication.
The ambiguous tune that rattles my brain,
is death knocking, it is by my orchestration.
But who is to say what I hear
is not real?
The tune in my head I wish to transcribe
but I'm weak,
and barely clinging to life.
So no one will hear this stirring melody.
This is the song I hear towards the end of my life.
In these last precious moments
laying in my seemingly sterile bed,
the tune haunts me 'till I shut my eyes.
but the tune is my comfort, I do not dread.
So take me with you, oh humble melody.
I welcome your amplitude with open ears
Let's take a listen to what you're telling me,
I dare you to move me to tears…..
The warm blanket of the strings comforts me,
the brass section: a foundation, a rock.
Oh, but hear the timpani? It taps to the beat of my near-ending biological clock.
The woodwinds, a sympathetic harmony that aides my despair.
Their aloofness like the machine by my side, filling me with air.
*The main theme speaks to me directly, and I've been worn thin
but I swear the main line is "I've fought valiantly, but this battle I could not win."*
I do not have to open my eyes to see,
that the director of this symphony is myself.
I've created this music on my death bed,
and it was not meant for anyone else.
When I close my eyes this final night,
take a somber breath and leave.
I'll have my tune in my head,
and nobody for me to grieve.
Goodbye to this world around me,
now the nurse come to medicate.
One last final wave of my arms.
This song I hear, mine alone, I orchestrate.
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 11:02 PM UTC
Chicago
Black clouds are stirring-
White men gaze down white noses,
Seemingly immune.
Joliet
Music in the air-
The sound of brass and woodwinds
Permeates fields;
Exercising their freedom,
Equality, and kinship.
Springfield
Blood in the terra-
Innocence spilled under the
Cradle of a king
Now grows ironic flowers
Ignorant of unmarked graves
Carbondale
Black sky is waking-
Picket signs silhouette on
Pyramids of coal
Jan 10, 2015
Jan 10, 2015 at 3:01 PM UTC
My heart aches
Yearning, burning
To find beauty in the mundane
To find meaning in the stirring of the strings
The secrets that hide behind the
Swell of the harmony
Why do our souls
Cling so desperately
To the mountainous musings of the melody
Riding over the hills
Of a despairing land.
The horns scream out the
Pain of the peasants
While the clarinets take up
The whispers of the voiceless
And the flutes cry with the motherless child
But all of that quiets as the black notes sail away
The strings adopt the voice of the man pleading to his star crossed love
To run away
And the woodwinds soon join the chase
Of this dreamy eyed couple from that ****** place
Music moves
It soars it sinks
It carries and spellbinds the wandering soul.
It promises a divine love that will heal
Music is truthful
It tells us that there is something bigger than us
How else could these vibrations
Rip our souls apart and just as quickly sew them back
Every soaring note carrying our dreams to the one that formed us
No other medium could as purely
Convey the true beauty
Of Gods unfailing love for humanity
Feb 2, 2014
Feb 2, 2014 at 9:06 PM UTC
The fear has subsided,
Uncertainty melts into endless kisses,
The second movement begins
On a hopeful note,
The violins build with a confidence
And unity, powerful and harmonious.
The unstructured first movement
Simply a search for a theme
A leitmotif to progress from darkness
To light.
The woodwinds laugh,
The horns announce the news,
The drums are strength and power
Driving the rhythm of our love.
Writing the notes together
We flow like rain
Blow together like leaves
In a breeze so brisk and strong.
We are conducting this movement
In gentle caresses and playful interchanges.
A melody only the heart can hear,
Silently envelops our waking hours,
And urging us to surrender.
The orchestra plays as one
We float upon the ocean of sound,
Wondering if the symphony will ever end.
Let the musicians play on
We can dance till dawn.
Mar 30, 2016
Mar 30, 2016 at 10:39 PM UTC
The rich woody sound of the saxophones steady the sharp, yet smooth timing of the trumpet’s muted horn. A tapping blues rhythm sinks the whole sound through a connection to corresponding beats. Over all the solemn chaos rapping through the eternal war of brass and woodwinds came a godly sound pointing out the direction of the whole bickering band. The top Trombone leads the solo of the blues piece and soars through it as though he was reminiscing of the bright times as a young boy, and you can see tears come to the point of being exposed and fade away as the solo and dream slowly dissipate from the strong, passionate phrases. The barry sax stands up for his gritty solo to talk back, he sets himself in the song and drifts away only to come back by the strong powerful boom of the bass drum. As you stand by the judges, you notice they have put all the judging behind and started to slowly tap with the band’s appealing rhythm; no notes are put down; no intimidating growl, just the tap of the foot and the swift but slow recognition of what was here today. Ladies and gentlemen this is the Nevada Union Jazz Band.
Mar 13, 2012
Mar 13, 2012 at 10:37 PM UTC
I'll take my time to dance
around this place I call the world.
A place to the many, the few, the rich,
the poor, the fallen and the cruel.
I'll dance a mini waltz across the fields
of the golden flow of wheat fields and drown into
the seas of the deep, as your little toe
only touches the surface of the cold water.
I'll catch each star that I see in the evening sky
while the other
stars wax the dance floor with
velvet memories of constant
tomorrows and melted dreams.
I'll sweep the musical notes
under the rug that plays
from the piano,
as it's lyrical raindrops hit my heart
softly with countless bliss and
mindless thought.
I'll sift through the symphonies of time
as they cascade their 8 notes in a 2 second beat
off the balcony and then I'll bury their
melodies in my own backyard.
I'll dance with the strings of the harp
interlaced between my fingers
then kiss the reeds of the woodwinds
as they play their melancholy songs.
So please, I ask of you, give me one
more moment
on the dance floor
in this world and let the many, the few,
the poor, the fallen and the cruel dance with me.
Let us take up one more waltz together
Feb 24, 2017
Feb 24, 2017 at 10:59 PM UTC
Quickfeet like fairy flight and butterfly wings,
chipper sounds from hollowed woodwinds,
and notes lifted through particles of pollen.
Hither,thither, away, and below,
the swing on the porch creaks,
with the push of sundresses and bare dirt feet.
Petals dance in whirlwind,
touch delicately in the way of courtship,
under the gaze of the parental sun.
All these are warm as blanket grass tanned over,
left as the picnics finest venue.
All these are lovely like the pipers giggle ,
muffled into a shoulder or tried by a kiss.
There I am wrapped,
in waters twinkle,
earths brass,
fires blaze,
and the winds ultimate silence.
This I felt on the wraparound porch hoisted to spring.
May 9, 2012
May 9, 2012 at 6:01 PM UTC
*it's like they're feeding themselves the line: things i should have said / thought about / cared about... me? bring on the woodwinds and saxes and violins... like the other day, they really wanted to make the classical music scene pretty by enforcing a weird post-colonial theory of how composers and musicians should be black once in the while, i dig that the japanese just love chopin, but come on: john coltrane, sonny clark, miles davis, cannonball adderley? who the hell wants it to look pretty, like a half-wit beauty of a woman: i want it mandible, not porcelain... next thing you'll be telling me is that a donkey can moo... jazz is an impromptu get-together, it's not an impromptu scribble scribble scribble readying a bunch of ponce ******** to sit it out stiff in a grand music hall - when i went to see swan lake by tchaikovsky the crowd clapped so frequently without a clear moment of aspiration to feel the music... plus i think ballet ruins the music, all that stomping, it's not an art-form, but an encircling stampede: plus i think it's also a sadism; rumba cha cha cha mambo cha cha cha tango cha cha cha foxtrot cha cha cha.*
after qualifying to be listening
to b.b.c. radio 4, after all the ponce
of classic f.m., i find that
people listening to radio 4
are craving a schizophrenic simulation,
they're the ones who never
cried listening to a piece of music,
they want company...
honest to god, schizophrenics (ego shrapnel)
complain about the symptom of
"hearing" voices (yes, the sense needs
ambiguity)... while those on
the b.b.c. radio 4 diet always want
company, they're not prone to liking
thinking... the world's weirdest simulator;
i'll admit it, even the cheesiest pop
music makes me feel like candy floss
in comparison to middle-age depth of talk.
Mar 6, 2016
Mar 6, 2016 at 6:23 AM UTC
The violin is sonorous
The cellos are in tune
The kettle drums
of thunder
Beat against the moon
Woodwinds through
the eaves
Make the nightbirds
swoon...
Coyotes are a clarinet
Such a lonely howl
As the night storm passes
You can hear the owl
Cougar makes his
entrance
With a roaring growl...
Crickets are ubiquitous
Rosening their bows
Sometimes in the
summer
Cicada's music flows
The nocturnal fragrance
Trickles through
the groves
It makes the
lovers giddy
Romances the nose...
The stars are
great musicians
At last, they appear
They play the piano
With the music
of the spheres
All the while, listening,
The cactus stands
and hears
God gave coyote
voices...
*but Saguaro He gave
EARS.*
May 26, 2017
May 26, 2017 at 1:00 AM UTC
*they say blind-solipsism is in the air, the radio speakers
keep announcing a return of a mozart,
they glorify the death of classical music
as if it were still alive and worthy a prodigy
to keep a lineage, and it is so, but only
in terms of imitation rather than composition,
like the philologist able to read ancient greek
or latin, these imitators merely revive from dead
script the breathable air from the cluster of fading ink,
than providing a revival from scripts not yet written.*
once the masters of woodwinds brass
and horse-mane hairs tightened
and scratched against violin and cello
strings: now masters of solely drums,
and how the beatified contrast resounds:
the former with music soothing
but the soul warring,
now the latter with music rousing
but the soul pacified,
once masters of orchestral arrangement,
now masters of their own destiny of
individuated chaos... once the music
of the element of air... now the music
of the element of earth - the heavy stomping
excess of drums.
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 12:39 PM UTC
Dance for me, dear minstrel of the moon,
Sing languidly, sweet flute of the lune.
Tressed in silver trains and sashed with gleaming stars,
Galaxies for your flowing mane, Princess of Mars.
White against red, like blood to linen cloth–
Such is your skin, as soft as a white moth:
A spot of whitewash, a drop of pure milk
That stains the heavy crimson sky with silk.
Descending from your ship of steel,
Your gaze in veils of iron concealed,
You step onto the sand of the Moon –
The first of foreigners in the land of Aün.
A grand procession seeps from the ships:
Brass, woodwinds, and pipes on their lips,
Maidens of braided coiffures and gowns,
Menservants bearing jewelry and crowns.
Lances, spears, percussion, and cheer,
The Universe revels in awe and fear.
Gonfalons, standards, colors, and banners:
Kings, lords, and men of all manners,
Gathered from every corner of this Realm,
With ships of all sizes, and captains at their helms,
To witness and celebrate a sacred union
Of two people, two nations, in a blessed fusion.
Aün and Imandi, two worlds made one,
A union, a tie, dare challenged by none.
The Moon and Mars now weaved with a loom
Of iron and silver–the bride and groom.
O Princess of Mars, allow me one last glance,
As the breeze whips your hair in a dance,
As your dress sways to a sweet lullaby,
As I whisper a final goodbye.
Though I’m unworthy, allow me this word,
I’ll dare to say it, though it sounds absurd:
I love you, o princess–a plain, simple love.
With my heart of hearts, like a tender dove.
Not a love of pain and lust,
Neither one of ashes and dust.
Though it’s rude, admit it I must,
Lest my strength be made to rust.
Go, dear princess. Take your prince’s hand;
Enter with his people, his heart, and his land.
For now is not the time to weep,
But to sing, twirl, dance, and leap.
A cheer erupts from the gathered crowd–
Ten thousand races, hands aloud;
Brass resound a hymn from Mars,
Pipes and drums echoing the stars.
With a forlorn gaze, I sigh and falter.
With quivering breath, I sadly whisper,
“Farewell, dear princess. May your years be prosperous,
And your love be stronger than a fortress.”
With one last look, I turn away,
Boarding my ship, the 'Evergray'.
Though I’ve no plans, I’ll return someday,
A visit to the Prince and Princess I will pay.
Aug 20, 2024
Aug 20, 2024 at 8:45 AM UTC
yeah, buy art, what a weird concept in the 21st century; i'm waiting for pope Francis to become my patron and ask me to redo the Sistine chapel.
i can only remember buying four
singles disks in my day,
i bought en vogue's don't let go (love)
when i was "supposed" to buy
the prodigy's music for the jilted generation
(indeed i'm part of the jaded crew),
i bought no doubt's cover it's my life
(original version by talk talk),
m.m.'s fight song, and indeed the Budweiser
advert song done by the wise guys
say ooh la la - the Graeae frogs you remember?
bud - weis - er... the shared eye actually
a brown glass bottle - peer in...
admit it, pop music is intended to make
your heart into a sponge, soak up **** up
all those emotions that you'll never get
as you might get from toasting bread
or making coffee or drinking a sharpshooter
of excess whiskey and little coke, a shandy
by comparison (shandy? ah,
beer topped up with lemonade, like you like me
i know the only slang is that of drunks)...
well the 5th was eagle eye cherry's save tonight,
but i don't know why i returned it
at the our price store (post-virgin megastore
music cornershop outlet) with the cashier's bewilderment;
but admit it, pop music is intended to make
your heart into a sponge, **** it up and soak in it,
when the songs don't reveal you the love intended;
well, the music industry did combat the free music
policy (i still stream but don't keep),
they employed about 5 producers,
used algorithms to create an endless stream of
music without an original message
but a pattern by which you react emotionally to it
in the same way... and i'm not ashamed to admit
that justin bieber's love yourself is good,
i mean the sly and gentle guitar riff and the horns...
and i can relate to the message...
music for the bedroom, music not for arenas or
clubs... music you can think in rather than dance
or be a cheerleader of movie iconoclasm -
man, the lack of drums, where the vocals act
like drums, bring back the woodwinds of the vocals
and drop the excess bass and drums that
thump your eardrums deaf.
Mar 19, 2016
Mar 19, 2016 at 8:26 AM UTC
souls
take
their
shapes
from
the
woodwinds clouds
and
the
crosswinds
that
sweep
through
the
Serengeti plains
Nov 1, 2015
Nov 1, 2015 at 10:15 PM UTC
Play for me a melody
Something in a far off tune
One that brings the sounds together
The way it's meant to do
A symphony to fill the need
Of those who have lost sight
As woodwinds fill the air we breath
Setting music into flight
Play for me a rhapsody
One that takes me to cloud nine
Swoon me into ecstasy
As euphoria waits in line
With a hand held over my warming heart
As it flutters to the beat
Play for me a melody
That is ever so soft and sweet
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 3:42 PM UTC
I hear the Violins,
Vouching for each trivial,
But fair feature of yours that lies chaste.
I hear the Violas,
Bearing the melancholy,
Your heart conceals deep within.
I hear the Cellos,
Pouring the velvety essence of love,
In my sullen ears.
I hear the Woodwinds,
Singing for beauty, calling for love-
All in unison.
But then the Clarinet disagrees,
For the sheer taste of dissonance.
There,the Oboe tries to moderate,
As the Flute flares up,
Emphatically proposing the passion be mutual.
Then the Strings intervene,
And all play in unison-
The purest articulation of the desire,
For love - yet unmet.
I hear the Brass finally,
With Percussion on its side,
Sounding as though Zeus were to erase Mount Olympus,
Arising turmoil,
Provoking the Strings and the Winds,
Ousting the gentle harmonies,
And ousting the gentle melodies,
And alas! ousting the very notion of love.
Yet,I love the symphony.
And You - are the symphony.
The most beautiful I've heard.
Feb 15, 2019
Feb 15, 2019 at 10:06 AM UTC