Best Tympani Poems
~ This poem is written in the 8686 syllable count style of one of my favorite Emily Dickenson poems, 'I Felt a Funeral in My Brain.'
'pon roiling sea a fierce storm brewed
waves crashed within my veins
fueled by heady winds, they pursued
to drown my life with rains
With tympani beat, thunder roared
bold lightning flicked and flashed
we pulled, we pulled, oh how we oared
with nature's ire we clashed
Then came a clamor from astern
our ship had split in two
in my veins, swells still pound and churn
until the moon breaks through
Calmed now, the vile tempest from Hell
sky riveted with stars
Man holds no power to dispel
nature's wrath when she spars
~ For Chris
Enchanted was I with a cloying scent...
whiffs of wild magnolia
mingled with the woodsy tang
of her lemon verbena perfuming the air
Like Samson's strength, the sun's threads of gold
were clipped by silver shears
of an ascending pearlescent moon
How sweet the bloom of love ~
We slowly walked around the lake
By the zenith of eventide
we were serenaded by a cicada symphony
in rhythmic allegro thrum...
In the distance... howling of a feral creature
crying with need of a mate
How wild the passion of love ~
She tensed at his wailing call
soothed with murmurs and kisses
Her heart beat in sync with my own...
tympani drums keeping time
like the pendulum of a metronome
How musical the lyrics of love ~
Her eyes met mine...
mirroring myriads of sparkling stars
gleaming as bright as a prismed diamond
I would pledge my troth tonight...
Here, beneath a celestial bower
How heavenly the gift of love ~
A tendril of long wavy hair
blew across her cheek
I crimped it around my finger
then released a raven curl
My lips whispered softly...
I bent to her like a willow to the shore
How eager the need of love ~
When I knelt
she trembled at my intent...
Bodies clinging, we swam fathoms deep
surrendering to each other as eternal lovers
passionately torrid... reverently tender
How plumb the depth of love ~
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
March 23, 2021
Eight Word Bardenesque Challenge
Sponsored by John Hamilton
Enchanted was I with a cloying scent...
whiffs of wild magnolia
mingled with the woodsy tang
of lemon verbena perfuming the air
Like Samson's strength, the sun's threads of gold
were clipped by silver shears
of an ascending pearlescent moon
How sweet the bloom of love ~
We slowly walked around the lake
By the zenith of eventide
serenaded by a cicada symphony
in rhythmic allegro thrum...
In the distance, the howling of a feral creature
crying with need of a mate
How wild the passion of love ~
She tensed at his wailing call
soothed with murmurs and kisses
Her heartbeat in sync with my own...
tympani drums keeping time
like the pendulum of a metronome
How musical the lyrics of love ~
Her eyes met mine...
mirroring myriads of sparkling stars
gleaming as bright as a prismed diamond
I would pledge my troth tonight...
Here, beneath a celestial bower
How heavenly the gift of love ~
A tendril of long wavy hair
blew across her cheek
I crimped it around my finger
then released a raven curl
My lips whispered softly...
I bent to her like a willow to the shore
How eager the need of love ~
When I knelt
she trembled at my intent...
Bodies clinging, we swam fathoms deep
surrendering to each other as eternal lovers
passionately torrid... reverently tender
How plumb the depth of love ~
All music is relational
Even if the instrument itself is unconscious:
Like tree leaves in a breeze
Telegraph their praise in God's presence,
Dot and dash an earthy hymn;
Like an earthquake whose rumblings
Remind you that in geological time
All that we think of as solid and whole
Shares water's properties;
Even mountains bend the knee;
What was tight winds down, relaxes,
Like a German music box,
Becomes a cosmic "OM" at last;
Only whales, those connoisseurs
Of deep and low, perhaps can hear.
Our human ears span such a narrow range,
Need scientific augmentation to hear
Last ringing reverberations of "Big Bang."
For sound is not just vibrating air,
Our eyes too have their limits
As invisible stars also play their role
And human senses discover new symphonies
In the music of the spheres.
For doesn't vision inflame the heart as well
As guitarist strums and fingers dance on ivory?
Have you never seen a string's exertions,
Or felt invisible waves of tympani?
Yes, even bowels play a role!
And, oh, the stories told in sound alone
Can find their poetry in dance,
A music of another kind,
A kinetic vision of the soul itself.
Whatever touches heart is music,
Cannot be missed, only denied,
Oh, do not ask for whom God sings,
He always sings your song.
Long Tooth
April 21, 2016
If you’re a bird, I’m a bird.
~The Notebook
If you’re a bird, I’m a bird, wing to wing
as we fly feathers synchronize and sing
a simple melody only two hearts never apart
can hear as under bright morning sun
we find filigree breezes finely spun,
as if god and angels take delight
in nature’s orchestrated pavane flight.
We curate sunrise and sing sunset lullabies
with hearts as free as dancing summer butterflies,
then resting in Luna’s soft midnight tympani,
whose notes may even charm the wetlands garganey*~
sleep easily tonight my love,
tomorrow flies the golden dove,
flying high with our true love.
* Small and unobtrusive, often described as shy, duck of reedy and vegetation-fringed wetlands.
THE NUTCKRACKER
Did you see it
Hear it?
Balanchine’s choreography
Tschaikowsky’s music
The New York City Ballet
Speak of dancing?
Speak of music?
Neither can describe art
It must be inwardly felt –
color and music extrasensory
Mathematics – Geometry comes close
You a throbbing spirit
centered in some rectangular enormity
The whole pounding awareness
Swept off in dream state
The ballerina
The toe
The grace
Quintessential feminine
The whirl inside your skull
Spinning
Round the brain
Yet there is a wholeness delicacy
So levitating
Can you sense the mystery –
what flies beyond the stage –
When all comes together
In a bold tympani stroke?
Salubrious antipasto
Trimmed to be vociferous
Left without the tympani
Holding up a symphony
Greased well guaranteed articulate
Inundated synchrony
Molded into ebony
Gone on before the starting gate
Innate
Careening toward a screening
Where is all this the leading?
A gracious over-seeding
All sliding towards a feeding
In generosity I ate
There are concerts in the sky
playing cosmically on high—
be they grouping in formation
or harmonious creation,
fashioned synesthetically,
astro-energetically,
with conclusion or collusion,
stellar scenes in grand profusion,
gravitationally steady,
starry outbursts brilliant, heady,
like orchestral symphony
from the brass and tympani,
viols, woodwinds, (theoried strings),
to the charms a keyboard brings—
measureless concerti vast
merging present with the past
seamlessly, or so it seems,
as in firmaments of dreams…
~ Harley White
* * * * * * * * *
Inspiration was from “Cosmic Concert for GAM 2017” which was livestreamed with composer Giovanni Renzo, described as “a collection of compositions and improvisations conceived as a visual and poetic exploration of the universe…”
Inspiration also came from the article, “Galactic Wreckage in Stephan’s Quintet”: “A clash among members of a famous galaxy quintet reveals an assortment of stars across a wide color range, from young, blue stars to aging, red stars.”
I slip in unobtrusively
and take a seat in back,
the orchestra is tuning up,
I open up my pack
and take a rolled up magazine
with which to play along,
conducting is a passion
I have had since I was young.
The brass, the woodwinds and the strings,
the tympani and all,
play scattered notes and splattered tones
until the maestro's call.
The program is Stravinsky's 'Rite,'
an overture by Brahms,
and there am I gesticulating
wildly with my arms!
A cello player noticed me
and signalled to the Man,
"Come, make music! Step on down
and join this merry band!"
the maestro cried in strident tones,
then summoned me on stage,
with great excitement I obeyed,
as he turned back the page.
"From the beginning!" he enjoined,
and handed me the stick,
I tapped the podium and stared,
I started feeling sick!
But then the downbeat... hell broke loose!
the orchestra responded,
Damn! I guess I nailed the Brahms,
how glorious it sounded!
It was then that I awoke,
my closet was a tip,
I stood in my tuxedo
with a poker in my grip!
The famed Chicago Symphony
with Solti in the lead,
how graciously he'd chosen me,
what better dream indeed!
AT THE CONCERT
the magic moment
in that silence just before
the maestro’s down beat
when the tympani
begins a soft roll
and the trumpets rise
just before contact
his bow about to touch down
this awesome silence
the last minute cough
those surrounding very still
la traviata
...inspired by 'Portrait Of A Lady' by T.S. Eliot
On winter days the view outside is nebulous at best,
within, the furniture is as it always was, and I am waiting,
waiting for a glimpse of you to silence my equivocating.
Somber is my attitude, the light is dim, curtains at rest,
as dust mites dance, the clock ticks unobtrusively,
marking time, the chamber maids make ready for my guest,
and dust the tables, clean the silver, place the flowers perfectly.
You return from 'La Boheme,' affected by the tragedy,
emboldened by Puccini's art, transfiguring his sadness
to an everlasting theme of hope eternal, with no misery.
A small group of confederates who seize the meaning clearly,
examine his conceptions with a true and honest face,
only those who can conceptualize his grace.
And we are bereft of conversation.
The curtain falls between our faces,
we are left with little else to say.
Gone are common talk, and airs and graces,
walls have grown, and bars along the way.
Your friends have grown in stature, tried and true,
reflecting what you feel within your soul,
and you must follow them and share their view,
as long as it will bring you to your goal.
Friendship is a bond that can't be broken,
even though you dally with your heart,
you cannot spring the lock, that sacred token,
that keeps your deepest feelings true to art.
Your friends are pure disciples of your creed,
they will legitimize your need
to pave your way to conquer and succeed.
Within the mellow of the violins,
the sweetness of the celli and the horns,
I hear a tattoo beating all alone,
the tympani begin to pound
a loud crescendo of their own.
I listen, there is something out of tone.
With cigarettes and sherry, unconcerned,
we wander through the garden unaware,
take in the sights and pass without a care,
as if our similarities don't matter,
we give ourselves to nonsense, idle chatter.
Roses now are brightly blooming,
to your friends now you are calling.
I know not of what you speak,
I cannot fathom your delight.
You say: 'Try to understand my mission,
learn to trust in things unseen,
I must find what nature seeks
and fathom its eternal meaning.
Youth will never gather roses,
never see beyond the garden.'
I will stay for now, trapped in the cold.
I slip in unobtrusively
and take a seat in back,
the orchestra is tuning up,
I open up my pack
and take a rolled up magazine
with which to play along,
conducting is a passion
I have had since I was young.
The brass, the woodwinds and the strings,
the tympani and all,
play scattered notes and splattered tones
until the maestro's call.
The program is Stravinsky's 'Rite,'
an overture by Brahms,
and there am I gesticulating
wildly with my arms!
A cello player noticed me
and signalled to the Man,
"Come, make music! Step on down
and join this merry band!"
the maestro cried in strident tones,
then summoned me on stage,
with great excitement I obeyed,
as he turned back the page.
"From the beginning!" he enjoined,
and handed me the stick,
I tapped the podium and stared,
I started feeling sick!
But then the downbeat... hell broke loose!
the orchestra responded,
Damn! I guess I nailed the Brahms!
how glorious it sounded!
It was then that I awoke,
my closet was a tip,
I stood in my tuxedo
with a poker in my grip!
The famed Chicago Symphony
with Solti in the lead,
how graciously he'd chosen me!
what better dream indeed!
Ask Nothing of this World
What is this?
What sleek retribution is held within the
Slightest movement on the soil?
What slim issues stance is almost broken
In cadence and cascade?
Words shall leave the senses blind,
Enough, time will find a healing balm for
Eye to seize the day, when all in dreams must
Fade; oh, this is not a sadness offered; this is not the final cut of circumstance; for
yes, my fellow’s dreams are sharp, yes their corners are folded clarity; all plans are
Squared away this day; all is smooth and proper in
Some ceremony of guilt and pleasure – but low a lasting treasure is found beyond such rituals,
Such histrionic poses; beyond your comprehension –
A gift which beats a pulsar tympani – as angels moan
In symphony to herald the coming of His summation;
His fingers on the moon, unseen tendrils tug the axis
of the universe toward a sanguine moment…
Shout this Brothers!
True!
His fiber strands withstand all trauma, his nightly dream,
Your daily drama to give your heart a twirl,
To ask nothing of this world.
On winter days the view outside is nebulous at best,
within, the furniture is as it alway was, and I am waiting,
waiting for a glimpse of you to silence my equivocating.
Somber is my attitude, the light is dim, curtains at rest,
as dust mites dance, the clock ticks unobtrusively,
marking time, the chamber maids make ready for my guest,
and dust the tables, clean the silver, place the flowers perfectly.
You return from 'La Boheme,' affected by the tragedy,
emboldened by Puccini's art, transfiguring his sadness
to an everlasting theme of hope eternal, with no misery.
A small group of confederates who seize the meaning clearly,
examine his conceptions with a true and honest face,
only those who can conceptualize his grace.
And we are bereft of conversation.
The curtain falls between our faces,
we are left with little else to say.
Gone are common talk, and airs and graces,
walls have grown, and bars along the way.
Your friends have grown in stature, tried and true,
reflecting what you feel within your soul,
and you must follow them and share their view,
as long as it will bring you to your goal.
Friendship is a bond that can't be broken,
even though you dally with your heart,
you cannot spring the lock, that sacred token,
that keeps your deepest feelings true to art.
Your friends are pure disciples of your creed,
they will legitimize your need
to pave your way to conquer and succeed.
Within the mellow of the violins,
the sweetness of the celli and the horns,
I hear a tattoo beating all alone,
the tympani begin to pound
a loud crescendo of their own.
I listen, there is something out of tone.
With cigarettes and sherry, unconcerned,
we wander through the garden unaware,
take in the sights and pass without a care,
as if our similarities don't matter,
we give ourselves to nonsense, idle chatter.
If I was the rain
I'd be wary of
...friends like me;
one of those
"fair weather" friends
who curse my
unexpected arrival
on inopportune days
-but then cajoled and
praised when needed.
If I was the rain
would it be wrong for me
to feel used when
I am welcomed in the one
and shunned in the next?
At sad times I'm told
I contribute to the pain,
but then, a work of wonder,
as I meander on the window
or a tympani of pitter-patter
tapping on the roof.
I would just want to be me - and alone
if I was the rain...