Best Schumann Poems
Jingle!
She has a bracelet on Hear it?
Jingle!
When she tells her friend how concert-hip she is it
Jingles!
Quaking little cupids. trolls and other creatures come together
and they
Jingle!
On the brighter side, she's taking off her hat,
but when she does it's tutti-forte
JINGLE!
I'm betting at the softest point of Weber's overture she'll
consult her program and it will
Jingle!
Oh, damn!
Jingle!
It's in my ears in my head like Robert Schumann
Jingle!
Get a grip The concertmaster has come on takes a bow
looks to see who makes a
Jingle!
The oboe sounds an A
Jingle!
The winds begin to tune
Jingle!
The brass have heard her song and laugh
Jingle!
Horns trumpets trombones give a mighty blast!
Jingle!
And here come the strings all 62 pull there bows
but still can hear that
Jingle!
Now at last her tintinnabulation's lost in thunderous
applause Maestro has come on
(Jingle)
I do believe he knows the lass
Jingle!
He throws to her a little bow a kiss
Jingle! Jingle! Jingle! Jingle! Jingle!
Dominica
Gawaine Caldwater Ross
We share melons and papayas
beneath a sun benevolent.
A salty breeze, the river is cool,
and the passion flower blossoms
are fragile but rich. We stroke
their fragrance and sip intoxication -
we slip a little further and
I find myself afraid of love.
Papaya trees are many breasted,
the flesh of mangoes, exquisite.
My restlessness is like the surf
seeking coral lagoons.
You speak in certitudes,
I dream of them.
Beyond the coconuts shining
in your eyes
I see gazelles outrunning lions -
you laugh,
I recall November sleet.
Your stainlessness and artless joviality
are in contrast to my venery.
But in honor of your being
I play Schumann on the flute.
You respond with a noble clarinet,
Royal, but so voluptuous.
You think love means saying “Yes,”
I think love means bleeding.
You say, “That's a grim thought.”
I say, “Life is grief.”
We are divided by that which attracts us -
even as you speak of trust
I see the void behind the stars.
You speak of freedom,
possibilities, and taking risks;
but I have been to prison:
Saturn has bound me with rings of lead,
the acid rain has stained my face.
We lay our cards out on the purple silk:
today they say I am the Hanged Man.
Are you the Queen of Swords,
or the Priestess holding
nine bright cups of Dionysian wine?
You smile and ask,
“Where, oh Where, is the
void in ecstasy?”
We strip and go against the current.
The water here is swift and cold,
the sunlight revels on your
scintillating buttocks.
I follow towards the cataract
and drink the water that has caressed your thighs.
You shriek, the monkeys leap,
and I wrestle with a jaguar.
You summon me to join you
high up on the rocks
where the moss is a foot thick.
I manage half a fervent laugh
And watch you diving into pools.
Opals ripple on the water.
We gather oleander, orchids,
Lilies and lotuses
and weave them into garlands
and in the falls we
linger in the timeless spray.
I freely admit I love classical music,
And please don't think me a snob
If I keep my composure
When I mention composers
As Beethoven, Mozart, Tchaikovsky, and Schumann,
And not Ludie, or Wolfie,
Or Petie, or Bob.
And a symphony simply cannot be enjoyed
At just any old time of the day.
I can't listen to them
Prior to seven p.m.,
And I don't mean to brag, but I couldn't be dragged
To a Wednesday or Saturday matinee
Of a ballet by Bizet or Massenet.
My taste in classical music, you see,
Is eclectic, but not meant to shock.
I choose Strauss for the schmaltz
Of a polka or waltz,
And Chopin is my dude when I crave an etude,
But I do tend to doze in my seat in the loge
Through an opera by Wagner…
Or more Offenbach.
Sweet dreams, to you, my precious child,
May you frolic in the meadow of a fairyland.—
Let angels keep your sleep beguiled,
As o'er your cradle doth the sandman softly stand.
Sweet dreams of golden elfin glades
Where the babble of a brook will sing a sleepy song, —
As round your bed float winged shades
To lullaby each slumbered hour the darkness long.
Sweet dreams, until the dawning break
Steals the night away with rosy gleams of beaming sun.—
Then you, my baby, will awake
To gladden days of treasured pleasures every one.
So soon a mourning dove will coo—
There I'll be with loving arms to hold you.
Sweet dreams, and never need you fear,
Blessed babe, for you shall always find me near.
Though happiness may come and go,
For tomorrow joy or sorrow in our fate could lie,
Just dream and grow, my child, to know
Always your mother everlastingly I will be biding by.
– Harley White
[Song lyrics to music of 'Trämerei' – by Robert Schumann, (1810–1856) ]
We all hear Rachmaninov and Chopin
Plus Mozart, Brahms, Beethoven, and Schumann
But it’s unfair, I say
That no one will play
That great composer who’s just known as Stan
ROMANCE
It was something by Schumann or Schubert
A Sonata for piano perhaps
I wouldn’t have cared
But the music fit the girl
Flawless in dress
Hair not short not long middling
It swept just mildly over forehead and cheek
Cupable shoulders
And the rest?
Not a line not a curve too severe
She came at the same time each day
I strained to see her face.
But my view was taken just far enough away
The vision much in profile
I must revel in her stride
Not short not long deliberate
Just right
In a flight of fancy
With missing dimensions of the physical time and space
I decided she was form-in-isolation
A shape behind a scrim
Always coming
Always going
Leaving her ghost in wake
And the door would softly shut
A little space for dreaming
Then this same piece
It was something by Schumann or Schubert
(no matter)
Each day played with more polish
‘til at last it sounded perfect to me
I must know that which she played
Its name (lack of) haunted me
This was my excuse
My excuse for knocking on the door
Peeling Back the Bubble Wrap
Peeling back the bubble wrap on the ancient of days,
Back to when Nixon was still presiding,
He, leading with paranoid deliberations,
Sold his yeses to the Goldbricks, and the Mustard Men;
And while he was dipping into the rubbery tides of the latex surfers,
I found your shadowy pointing breasts, shivering outside my backdoor.
You were standing in the dark, waiting for me to turn the key…
1973 was the year you taught me how to love a woman;
You, at 21 years, and me, ensconced in the stereo-lit darkness,
Of my dimly-lit bedroom on Hoover street;
You, wearing a wool skirt and that ruffled low-curving blouse,
With those tan buttons, like a half dozen corks, ready to be popped,
And you, sitting at my black upright piano,
The 1907 Schumann, made of stubborn black mahogany, and
You, with your long curved nails, femininely tapping the ivories,
Soliciting an intimate song I have since forgotten, but can still hear,
Your cylindrical tan legs pressing the piano pedals,
Like a fragile dancer made of fine glass, and
You, exploring human desire with determined pressings.
And then, into your garlanded home we strolled,
Hand in hand; And with our lips, we cleared the stoney path
Leading into the sun garden, amongst the cats and the posies,
And found astonished silhouettes behind the peephole.
Still peeling back the bubble wrap on the ancient of days,
Back to when my door was locked, and a green candle burned therein;
I saw you in the naked flickering, riding the tree of silver ascensions,
And with five pulsing fingers, I eagerly picked your finest flowers, over there,
Inside the throbbing, sun-lit bed of this poised sun garden; then,
You told me you loved me. Told me what I never wanted to hear,
“Even now, with me on top of you, in this silent grinding darkness,
I cannot bring myself to lie and say, ‘I love you.’
There is something about you I don’t want to know.
Yours is a long and complicated book I do not wish to read.
Your mind I cannot calibrate, or truly understand, so…I am sorry.
I deserve to be called an ass, deserve to be brushed off like a gnat, but
With you, my shoes never seemed to fit. My ears never seemed to hear.”
...when the copter went down, witnesses heard you scream…
“I am truly sorry.”
Mother Earth beheld
wonders man’s mind held,
of unvoiced intent
seeking soul’s ascent.
Our fervent cries heard,
Divine Mother stirred,
enlivening form
by bliss currents warm.
Heart is the centre
where bliss beats canter
but we dwell in mind,
gripped in ego’s bind.
Thus the boon bestowed
remains unused, stowed
deep in our heart’s cave,
bliss that sages rave.
Love gives us a shake
that we may awake
to it’s magnetism
within body prism.
Dance of innocence ~
Schumann’s resonance
rises that we feel,
bliss in full appeal.
21-September-2022
Notes: https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Schumann_resonances
Musclan Cesar Cui
part Russo-French was he
A composer& critic voice
Schumann his favoured choice
Composers Schumann husband&spouse
music filled their marital house
Clara an infant prodigy
Robert with musical urgency
Manipura chakra to jugular notch alive
Cognised by soma nectar dripping
Toroidal rapture in heart gripping
Entwining thus becoming a bliss hive
We look around; each follows their path
Energised by God’s grace omnipresent
As of yearning, flowing with the current
Each life breath received, holy sabbath
Schumann resonance rises; ascent’s inevitable
Myriad love hues enable bliss throbs to brew
Heart’s where they renew, like the morning dew
Oh holy lama, be to become thus, God’s miracle
30-January-2022
The March equinox ushers spring
Mating urges to mammals brings
Nightingale melody sings
Greener is forest foliage
Eyes gleam, irrespective of age
As life reveals, a new page
Liken spring to inflowing breath
Free from clutches of winters death
Heavens shower hidden wealth
With Schumann resonance rising
In spring, hearts begin brightening
Play of nature, delighting
11-January-2021
Attention to detail poetry contest
Sponsor: Rob Levasseur
Fire within bowels of earth,
stretch and yawn in bubbling mirth,
transforming every life form
by divine magnetism warm.
In as ordained we all rise,
ascending to heart’s surprise,
wherein flame of love is lit,
taking soul to the summit.
Vibration rise, gift of grace,
steadies heart, slows thought flow pace
and we respond in delight,
as bliss cascades day and night.
Schumann’s resonance risen,
lets us escape fear prison
but we must choose to be still,
upon which voids within fill.
There’s nothing we need to do,
save letting bliss beats renew,
taking us straight to heaven,
through body chakras seven.
I walked with Mozart,
and he whispered,
“The Magic Flute will be my final prayer.”
Its light pierced the tender chamber of my heart,
and I wept.
I stood beside Beethoven,
his hand trembling in mine,
and he placed upon my soul
a chorus that rose beyond time itself—
each note a cry of eternity,
each harmony a tear reborn.
In the dreamland I found Bach,
the eternal architect of sound.
I said to him:
“You are the cathedral-builder of music,
stone by stone of melody and fire.
Your spirit still kneels within us,
woven into every prayer of sound.”
Chopin’s nocturnes touched the air,
fragile as moonlight on broken glass,
and I was lifted from the weight of sorrow,
healed by beauty too delicate to name.
Vivaldi unfurled his seasons before me,
a circle without end.
I was bound forever—
a prisoner of strings
who rejoiced in the chains of music.
When my mother played Tchaikovsky,
I whispered,
“What visions stormed your soul,
what fire burned through your pen,
to bring such wonder into the world?”
I spoke with Schumann:
“Your concerto will breathe
into countless souls
long after silence has devoured us.
You have made sorrow eternal—
and thus, divine.”
And in twilight, Wagner asked me:
“Do you love my work?”
I bowed and answered:
“I love all composers,
for in their voices lives the world.
Yet your fire burns like a secret sun,
a flame that no silence can quench.”
And so it was—
when silence wept,
music became our prayer,
our confession,
our everlasting breath.