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Best Famous French Horn Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous French Horn poems. This is a select list of the best famous French Horn poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous French Horn poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of french horn poems.

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Written by Allen Ginsberg | Create an image from this poem

Death and Fame

 When I die
I don't care what happens to my body
throw ashes in the air, scatter 'em in East River
bury an urn in Elizabeth New Jersey, B'nai Israel Cemetery
But l want a big funeral
St.
Patrick's Cathedral, St.
Mark's Church, the largest synagogue in Manhattan First, there's family, brother, nephews, spry aged Edith stepmother 96, Aunt Honey from old Newark, Doctor Joel, cousin Mindy, brother Gene one eyed one ear'd, sister- in-law blonde Connie, five nephews, stepbrothers & sisters their grandchildren, companion Peter Orlovsky, caretakers Rosenthal & Hale, Bill Morgan-- Next, teacher Trungpa Vajracharya's ghost mind, Gelek Rinpoche, there Sakyong Mipham, Dalai Lama alert, chance visiting America, Satchitananda Swami Shivananda, Dehorahava Baba, Karmapa XVI, Dudjom Rinpoche, Katagiri & Suzuki Roshi's phantoms Baker, Whalen, Daido Loorie, Qwong, Frail White-haired Kapleau Roshis, Lama Tarchen -- Then, most important, lovers over half-century Dozens, a hundred, more, older fellows bald & rich young boys met naked recently in bed, crowds surprised to see each other, innumerable, intimate, exchanging memories "He taught me to meditate, now I'm an old veteran of the thousand day retreat --" "I played music on subway platforms, I'm straight but loved him he loved me" "I felt more love from him at 19 than ever from anyone" "We'd lie under covers gossip, read my poetry, hug & kiss belly to belly arms round each other" "I'd always get into his bed with underwear on & by morning my skivvies would be on the floor" "Japanese, always wanted take it up my bum with a master" "We'd talk all night about Kerouac & Cassady sit Buddhalike then sleep in his captain's bed.
" "He seemed to need so much affection, a shame not to make him happy" "I was lonely never in bed nude with anyone before, he was so gentle my stomach shuddered when he traced his finger along my abdomen nipple to hips-- " "All I did was lay back eyes closed, he'd bring me to come with mouth & fingers along my waist" "He gave great head" So there be gossip from loves of 1948, ghost of Neal Cassady commin- gling with flesh and youthful blood of 1997 and surprise -- "You too? But I thought you were straight!" "I am but Ginsberg an exception, for some reason he pleased me.
" "I forgot whether I was straight gay ***** or funny, was myself, tender and affectionate to be kissed on the top of my head, my forehead throat heart & solar plexus, mid-belly.
on my prick, tickled with his tongue my behind" "I loved the way he'd recite 'But at my back allways hear/ time's winged chariot hurrying near,' heads together, eye to eye, on a pillow --" Among lovers one handsome youth straggling the rear "I studied his poetry class, 17 year-old kid, ran some errands to his walk-up flat, seduced me didn't want to, made me come, went home, never saw him again never wanted to.
.
.
" "He couldn't get it up but loved me," "A clean old man.
" "He made sure I came first" This the crowd most surprised proud at ceremonial place of honor-- Then poets & musicians -- college boys' grunge bands -- age-old rock star Beatles, faithful guitar accompanists, gay classical con- ductors, unknown high Jazz music composers, funky trum- peters, bowed bass & french horn black geniuses, folksinger fiddlers with dobro tamborine harmonica mandolin auto- harp pennywhistles & kazoos Next, artist Italian romantic realists schooled in mystic 60's India, Late fauve Tuscan painter-poets, Classic draftsman Massa- chusets surreal jackanapes with continental wives, poverty sketchbook gesso oil watercolor masters from American provinces Then highschool teachers, lonely Irish librarians, delicate biblio- philes, sex liberation troops nay armies, ladies of either sex "I met him dozens of times he never remembered my name I loved him anyway, true artist" "Nervous breakdown after menopause, his poetry humor saved me from suicide hospitals" "Charmant, genius with modest manners, washed sink, dishes my studio guest a week in Budapest" Thousands of readers, "Howl changed my life in Libertyville Illinois" "I saw him read Montclair State Teachers College decided be a poet-- " "He turned me on, I started with garage rock sang my songs in Kansas City" "Kaddish made me weep for myself & father alive in Nevada City" "Father Death comforted me when my sister died Boston l982" "I read what he said in a newsmagazine, blew my mind, realized others like me out there" Deaf & Dumb bards with hand signing quick brilliant gestures Then Journalists, editors's secretaries, agents, portraitists & photo- graphy aficionados, rock critics, cultured laborors, cultural historians come to witness the historic funeral Super-fans, poetasters, aging Beatnicks & Deadheads, autograph- hunters, distinguished paparazzi, intelligent gawkers Everyone knew they were part of 'History" except the deceased who never knew exactly what was happening even when I was alive February 22, 1997


Written by T S (Thomas Stearns) Eliot | Create an image from this poem

Old Deuteronomy

 Old Deuteronomy's lived a long time;
He's a Cat who has lived many lives in succession.
He was famous in proverb and famous in rhyme A long while before Queen Victoria's accession.
Old Deuteronomy's buried nine wives And more--I am tempted to say, ninety-nine; And his numerous progeny prospers and thrives And the village is proud of him in his decline.
At the sight of that placid and bland physiognomy, When he sits in the sun on the vicarage wall, The Oldest Inhabitant croaks: "Well, of all .
.
.
Things.
.
.
Can it be .
.
.
really! .
.
.
No!.
.
.
Yes!.
.
.
Ho! hi! Oh, my eye! My mind may be wandering, but I confess I believe it is Old Deuteronomy!" Old Deuteronomy sits in the street, He sits in the High Street on market day; The bullocks may bellow, the sheep they may bleat, But the dogs and the herdsmen will turn them away.
The cars and the lorries run over the kerb, And the villagers put up a notice: ROAD CLOSED-- So that nothing untoward may chance to distrub Deuteronomy's rest when he feels so disposed Or when he's engaged in domestic economy: And the Oldest Inhabitant croaks: "Well, of all .
.
.
Things.
.
.
Can it be .
.
.
really! .
.
.
No!.
.
.
Yes!.
.
.
Ho! hi! Oh, my eye! My sight's unreliable, but I can guess That the cause of the trouble is Old Deuteronomy!" Old Deuteronomy lies on the floor Of the Fox and French Horn for his afternoon sleep; And when the men say: "There's just time for one more," Then the landlady from her back parlour will peep And say: "New then, out you go, by the back door, For Old Deuteronomy mustn't be woken-- I'll have the police if there's any uproar"-- And out they all shuffle, without a word spoken.
The digestive repose of that feline's gastronomy Must never be broken, whatever befall: And the Oldest Inhabitant croaks: "Well, of all .
.
.
Things.
.
.
Can it be .
.
.
really! .
.
.
No!.
.
.
Yes!.
.
.
Ho! hi! Oh, my eye! My legs may be tottery, I must go slow And be careful of Old Deuteronomy!" Of the awefull battle of the Pekes and the Pollicles: together with some account of the participation of the Pugs and the Poms, and the intervention of the Great Rumpuscat The Pekes and the Pollicles, everyone knows, Are proud and implacable passionate foes; It is always the same, wherever one goes.
And the Pugs and the Poms, although most people say That they do not like fighting, yet once in a way, They will now and again join in to the fray And they Bark bark bark bark Bark bark BARK BARK Until you can hear them all over the Park.
Now on the occasion of which I shall speak Almost nothing had happened for nearly a week (And that's a long time for a Pol or a Peke).
The big Police Dog was away from his beat-- I don't know the reason, but most people think He'd slipped into the Wellington Arms for a drink-- And no one at all was about on the street When a Peke and a Pollicle happened to meet.
They did not advance, or exactly retreat, But they glared at each other, and scraped their hind feet, And they started to Bark bark bark bark Bark bark BARK BARK Until you can hear them all over the Park.
Now the Peke, although people may say what they please, Is no British Dog, but a Heathen Chinese.
And so all the Pekes, when they heard the uproar, Some came to the window, some came to the door; There were surely a dozen, more likely a score.
And together they started to grumble and wheeze In their huffery-snuffery Heathen Chinese.
But a terrible din is what Pollicles like, For your Pollicle Dog is a dour Yorkshire tyke, And his braw Scottish cousins are snappers and biters, And every dog-jack of them notable fighters; And so they stepped out, with their pipers in order, Playing When the Blue Bonnets Came Over the Border.
Then the Pugs and the Poms held no longer aloof, But some from the balcony, some from the roof, Joined in To the din With a Bark bark bark bark Bark bark BARK BARK Until you can hear them all over the Park.
Now when these bold heroes together assembled, That traffic all stopped, and the Underground trembled, And some of the neighbours were so much afraid That they started to ring up the Fire Brigade.
When suddenly, up from a small basement flat, Why who should stalk out but the GREAT RUMPUSCAT.
His eyes were like fireballs fearfully blazing, He gave a great yawn, and his jaws were amazing; And when he looked out through the bars of the area, You never saw anything fiercer or hairier.
And what with the glare of his eyes and his yawning, The Pekes and the Pollicles quickly took warning.
He looked at the sky and he gave a great leap-- And they every last one of them scattered like sheep.
And when the Police Dog returned to his beat, There wasn't a single one left in the street.
Written by Edna St Vincent Millay | Create an image from this poem

The Concert

 In memory of Dimitri Mitropoulos


The harpist believes there is music
in the skeletons of fish

The French horn player believes
in enormous golden snails

The piano believes in nothing
and grins from ear to ear

Strings are scratching their bellies
openly, enjoying it

Flutes and oboes complain
in dialects of the same tongue

Drumsticks rattle a calfskin
from the sleep of another life

because the supernatural crow
on the podium flaps his wings

and death is no excuse

Book: Reflection on the Important Things