Best Verdi Poems
Born in New York of Italian descent,
From my childhood and beyond through the years,
Deep in my soul live the sounds of lament—
The drama of romance, fear, death and tears.
The power, the movements, fill up my soul
Like thunder that clashes in dark of night;
So vibrant and flowing, lost in the role,
I listen, to grasp each note with delight.
The voices, emotions strike at my heart,
I'm filled with a depth I cannot explain—
The beauty, the sadness in every part
Bring stories to life that stir inner pain.
Yes, opera I speak of—so part of me;
My favorites played again and again—
Puccini, Bizet and those of Verdi;
Of Tosca, Carmen, and best, La Boheme.
Each opera a drama of life and death—
The singers stir feelings with every word;
Strong voices mingle to deepen my breath.
Emotions rise with great arias heard.
Born in New York of Italian descent
With family that loved and nurtured this art;
Played records at home and many times went
To the Met where opera thrilled my heart.
~1st Place~
Contest: That's why I love (insert your subject)
Sponsor: Lewis Raynes
Judged: 06/06/2016
~1st Place~
Contest: Favorite Music Type
Sponsor: Nayda Ivette Negron
Judged: 10/26/2015
"The Clementine"
for the plucking,
the Clementine
leaves were fresher back then
the light glistened stronger
each segment a morsel
a revision slow and deliberate
transcribed by Jerome
gates to be opened
and consumed
in latin passages
verdi vulgate ancient fruit
before the modern world
the meaning lost
for those lost
between orchards
of words, opened
before
the greater great war,
a harvest, the Q source
strange language
strange stories
some found
apocryphal,
the hidden
didymos Thomas,
buried by strict canons
revealed untrue
in that strange winter
the orchards
were all burned
(LadyLabyrinth / 2022)
apocryphal. Adjective
apocrypha. Noun
didymos/Greek, meaning.
Q Source
Thomas
Jerome
The work I do is not the most prestigious one,
from four to twelve thirty I drive...until my shift is done;
a forklift driver rarely takes a coffee-break,
and being courteous and helpful to customers means a lot.
My long-life dream was to be a songwriter like Andrew Lloyd Webber, but my songs
didn't click...they never made the Top Ten on the Billboard Charts;
and although they didn't sell well to make it my profession, I still hold my thumb up...
that if a famous recording artist performed them, I'd have a huge hit!
My free time is devoted to creating lyrics that I will set to music in late hours;
and I would never be a Mozart, Verdi, or Beethoven if didn't knock on doors
and expose my works to those who would be willing to listen without reluctance...
could one be old and succeed as the young ones with fresher, brighter ideas?
For now, I remain the same blue collar guy coloring more illusive dreams;
many approach me and say," Don't give up...you have plenty of chances!".
I do want to believe that and wear the deserved crown and be lauded as others...
'till my lucky day comes, I must make a living and have the faith of the achievers.
Land of Dante, Michelangelo, Vivaldi, Verdi, Vanvitelli and da Vinci;
there Julius Caesar spoke these victorious words," Vedi, vidi, vici."
From the majestic snow-capped Alps to the sun-scorched Sicily,
one is astonished by the sea and sky blending to unravel a mystery!
My gorgeous town lays among shady mountains that
protect it from storms and winds coming from the West;
its vast valley is overlooked by a stately, sturdy castle...
standing as a sentinel that made the invaders tremble.
Walk with me down the narrow paths flanked by pines, maples and firs
that lead to the scented and harmonious landscapes loved by Ovid,
and adored by Virgil who once saw them on his long travels;
and I being born there, makes me very enthusiastic and glad!
Not many have seen a splendid sunset stretching as far as Mount Vesuvius;
I stood on that breeze-caressed hill transfixed and vowed by the glorious
spectacle of rosy clouds as shrilling seagulls hovered over a harbor so calm;
I could almost see the swift, white sails returning from a sea still blue and warm!
Limerick croisés : Once our Senorita from Sevilla – 11
Once our Senorita from Sevilla
Shed tears for Don Carlo in Opera
Touched by Verdi in heart
Present in Phillip’s Court
She could give her life for Isabella !
Oh ! How she cursed the Princess Eboli
Denounced hers-Inquisitor’s treachery
Upped her seat in Act IV
Hung around Exit Door :
Which caused King Phillip’s heirless Court to flee
So there she slept till the next performance
When tocsin rang the King’s comeuppance
Carlos Quinto’s grandson
All spruced-up as Mammon
Wed Senorita richer by tuppence !
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
"2:43AM: MONDAY"
there’s nothing to see here.
move it along.
last night I cried but no one
heard it.
I walked into my living room,
opened my record player and
played Verdi.
I was considering suicide.
I played it as loud as I
could but I could still hear
myself die.
that’s the thing about
suicide: it only matters if
someone cares.
but no one cares.
my woman is gone and
everything is razor blades
floating in the sky.
”you’re too skinny,” she
said, “when we get back on
our regular routine, I’m
gonna fatten you up.”
suicide and silence start
with an “s”.
as I walk on dead leaves
under the sun and wait for
lady death, my woman is
happiest without me.
in suicide, there is silence.
she has asked me to stop
talking.
I still might be able to make
her the happiest woman on
earth.
By: Chicano Eddie
Wednesday's rain was in a shrouded sheet,
With puddles moving toward the ditches;
But Thursday's forecast brought no repeat,
Oklahoma weather leaves me in stitches.
Thursday starts cloudy but turns to sunny,
With northwest winds and gusts to thirty;
Weather changes make eyes and nose runny,
Like to vacation in the Isle of Cape Verdi.
Today's wind is northerly and bitter cold,
Bringing a chance of snow, though slight;
Even yesterday's seventy was foretold,
But morning's twenty-eight is no delight.
Twixt me and Kansas, not much but fences,
To have slowing effect on this north wind;
I'll say I'm thrilled under false pretenses,
It has its bite when your blood is thinned.
Friday brings with it another high at fifty,
With northwest wind blowing around ten;
Turning south/southeast becoming shifty,
Saturday its back to the northwest again.
For Sunday's weather I have no clue,
May be hot and raining or sleet and snow;
It's too deep for my mind to construe,
Oklahoma weather, one can never know.
If I long for days both calm and sunny,
And today's cold weather seems strange;
I just remember life is so unlike honey,
And wait a short while for it to change.
LISTENING
it’s a given
old people are forgetful
every one says so
most old people will listen
and so they are infected
when one gets older
one naturally slows down
every one says so
most old people will listen
and their minds are infected
these few listened too
deaf beethoven wrote his ninth
einstein listened
verdi – 80 – wrote falstaff
they called it miraculous
the old just wither
they just wait around to die
listen to the crowd
some greats, too were listening
but it’s what they listened to
Having been born in legendary Italy,a country
as old as the stones of the Via Appia,
made me recall the fiery image of Attila...
the barbarian from Hungary,
who dared to defeat the mighty Romans:
by sacking their imperial city with clanking swords!
Attila might have become the new emperor,
if he hadn't abandoned that land he came to conquer,
but golloped away...vanishing into the unknown:
remorseful or giving up on becoming great;
and some agree that he was as untaimed as a lion...
with a chilvalry to melt any woman's heart!
Many great battles were fought on this soil,
fortified by faith,valor and blood:
an Italy immortalized by Vergil,
Dante,Davinci,Michelangelo and Verdi: a legacy continuing today;
and I, as her native son, like to lead the way...
to be among these and not vanish into nothing!
Where I walked as a teen, castles rose towards
crimson skies to capture my fancy and hold me in wonder,
until dusk came with the tinkling bells; and sweet mother
called me...her voice echoing,with affectionate loveliness,
amid the pine trees and a garden of blooming roses;
there, at the gate's entrance, she waited with flowers!
From a tiny spring, flowing from the snow-capped mountains,
I drank the purest water and saved some in my canteen...
while my companions threw rocks at each other and told jokes;
and none of us were older than seventeen!
O golden days,return to vivid memory...
when we are taken by reminiscence to renew vows of loyalty!
By a bright lamp,I'll write these memoirs 'till morning,
and whenever sleep comes...I'm ready to hop in bed,dreaming
to be in Amalfi or Positano along the rugged coast of emerald...
listening to the murmurs of the gleaming sea,so old,
overlooked by the immobile stars and hear a happy mandolin play
a serenade and to be taken into eternity!
I'm finally there, retracing each footstep on a stony path,
running through the streets of my fled youth;
wouldn't I be happy to stay and find a place to rest?
Copyright 2008 by Andrew Crisci
Sitting in the dark
sipping Sonoma burgundy
listening to a Japanese soprano
sing Verdi.
Moon through the window’s
world of song,
I’ll take my solo self
off to bed.
Oh you painted lady's draw me in.
Floating in on your dreamy dusky wings.
You're the monarch of your glen.
Or a fancy pants , west coast lady .
Silhouetted against a silvery blue sky
or against a marine blue sea.
Your music for my eyes. "Verdi"
Gossamer winged paintings.
Beauty on an angels wings .
Name of a real butterfly in every line.
comp entry 09/01/2017
LISTENING
it’s a given
old people are forgetful
every one says so
most old people will listen
and so they are infected
when one gets older
one naturally slows down
every one says so
most old people will listen
and their minds are infected
these few listened too
deaf beethoven wrote his ninth
einstein listened
verdi – 80 – wrote falstaff
they called it miraculous
the old just wither
they just wait around to die
listen to the crowd
some greats, too were listening
but it’s what they listened to
Unsatisfied with this history lesson
turn for the worse
stuck on the skyway again
with recurring dreams
of a shaggy three-headed orchestra
do you remember?
from whose foaming mania
we deciphered regal symphonies
and ghost written autobiographies
while lamenting the inevitable fall
of those sonic philosopher kings
who crawled from the moss laden architecture
of the new old republic
murmuring dream commands
to the coolest nerds on the block
like those mild-mannered maniacs
who captured a New York pier
as Verdi cried beneath nameless silhouettes
of eager open windows
I was there
do you remember?
for the magnificent arrival
of a disintegrating memory
recalled only upon realization
that we left a perfectly good century unfinished
By Art Wright
It's the most famous of all musical instruments,
with shining black and white keys
that make beautiful sounds
to delight the composers' minds.
Many famous composers played it beautifully
in opera houses, schools and churches...
large audiences listened and admired their creativity
while their spirits soared to the Heavens!
Verdi and Mozart wrote from it as if they were lost in contemplation,
spending long hours, sometimes days, writing sumptuous melodies;
see a well-kept lead sheet of the times...
to get that feeling of awe and creation!
If many famous composers played it beautifully,
can I do the same and amaze others as they did?
It's always been a fantasy standing in front of a crowd,
but playing it to myself in a quite room it's pure ecstasy!
Today that musical tradition still continues
getting more popular than ever
and it's widely used in songs and symphonies;
I have tried it and learned it well.
Out of the few instruments I've played,
I prefer this one to compose as I play it...
its awesome feeling can't be matched
by any other means: it's so obsolete!
Written by Andrew crisci
for nette oncloud's contest,
" Sounds Madness "
the instrument: piano
LISTENING
it’s a given
old people are forgetful
every one says so
most old people will listen
and so they are infected
when one gets older
one naturally slows down
every one says so
most old people will listen
and their minds are infected
these few listened too
deaf beethoven wrote his ninth
einstein listened
verdi – 80 – wrote falstaff
they called it miraculous
the old just wither
they just wait around to die
listen to the crowd
some greats, too were listening
but it’s what they listened to