Long Arpeggios Poems
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I named her Felicity.
Don't know why
All babies look the same to me.
Yet she grew up into a lively girl,
so well accomplished.
She learned the piano all by herself.
How I delighted to hear her lento
and arpeggios. Heavenly music.
Then she took to singing her own tunes.
Oh, what a delight to my ageing soul.
Such melodies, such delicacies.
The neighbours flocked to hear her sing.
Then I decided to enter her into a contest:
The famous " America’s Got Talent".
You could not fail to admire her beautiful face,
Her slim figure, the elegant dress I bought her.
Her singing brought her great ovations.
She came second. I could not help but cry.
Musicianship
(3 May 2014; For my son Steven, an ACCOMPLISHED guitarist)
Real musicianship can truly drive you nuts—
There really are no “ifs”, “ands”, or “buts”.
Practice, study, memorize, then more practice--
Is this just an obsession or complete madness?
Learning chord inversions, arpeggios, and scales
Is like reaching Heaven by crossing through seven Hells.
It wouldn’t be bad if there were only a dozen majors,
But there’s also those other dozen minors.
What’s worse, it seems we’re never finished
Because there’s also augmented and diminished,
The major/minor/augmented/dominant sevenths.
And symmetrical double-flatted diminished sevenths,
And if this harmonic mess is not enough,
All those dissonant Jazz chords get really tough…
Such as the sustained seconds and fourths,
The sevenths add nines, sixths, blah-blah-blah, elevenths.
And if learning all this isn’t already extraordinary,
There’s music theory and music vocabulary.
Instead of just saying “get louder”, you have to “crescendo”,
Or for “fast” or “slow” you say “allegro” or “lento”.
Then there are names like Ionian, Dorian, Phrygian,
Lydian, Mixolydian, Aeolian, and Locrian.
(All being modes derived from scale C-major,
Plus each major scale also has a relative minor)
Multiple pattern exercises on guitar fretboards
Are even worse than finger drills on piano keyboards.
Worse, the string tuning on a six-string acoustic guitar
Is not quite the same as on a 4/5/6/7-string bass guitar.
It’s hard to get up on stage and routinely play
That same song, for the umpteenth time, in an inspiring way.
No wonder musicians seem to all suffer manic-depression,
From trying to play a full sets with unique expression.
All the advances in music equipment and technology
Bless and curse musicians like two-edged swords, you see,
Because all this work they do to sound like a maestro or genius
Can be counterfeited on a computer by a musical ignoramus.
But computer geeks won’t ever find that special place,
That fugue-like subtle sacred state of grace,
Which for brief moments is like deep meditation.
No, that’s the forbidden domain of the real musician.
To suggest that musicians all are just “gifted” naturally,
Is the absolute superlative worst insulting irony.
Truly, real musicianship can drive you nuts—
No, there really are no “ifs”, “ands”, or “buts”.
Twinkles dust the dark's silent hush.
Silver sparks lights on soft velvet shade-
Somewhere in the vast cosmos
A baton's tap opens the stardust serenade.
The Milky Way streams in arpeggios,
The galaxies resound in harmonies,
Every star becomes a wind chime
To ring in the stardust serenade.
Constellations join the chorus,
Choirs of zodiac voices displayed,
All together in Heaven’s grand concert hall,
To play the stardust serenade.
Raise the baton, let's all be swayed,
To join in tonight's grand parade,
When the cosmic song of joy is played
In tonight's stardust serenade.
In tonight's stardust serenade.
Nebulae rise up in slow crescendo,
Planets strum bright chords to keep the beat,
Comets streak in with violin glissandi's
Keeping the score for the stardust serenade.
All the universe rocks 'n rolls in time
To the rhythm of shimmering stars,
All is one, as one and all now join
Singing along to the stardust serenade.
When the dawn begins to rise,
The baton falls, calls diminuendo,
Stars begin to fade, bidding farewell
To softly close the stardust serenade.
Raise the baton, let's all be swayed,
To join in tonight's grand parade
When the cosmic song of joy is played
In tonight's stardust serenade.
In tonight's stardust serenade.
It was just another ordinary day
Scattered notes are all over the place
Drums trying to maintain a certain beat
Guitars either strumming or singing
Violins studying their scales and arpeggios
The piano pouring out its player’s soul
Clarinets and flutes blowing out harmonies
A mesmerizing vocal cuts through
A white butterfly flutters freely
Basking in the building’s flowing melodies
Students rushing in and out of the cafeteria
Sheet music in their hands while eating
Leaves of variant colors fall from the trees
The wind blows in one direction
Compensating for the scorching hot sun
Taking turns as nature takes its usual course
Old friends reconcile and greet each other
Re-living past memories and narrating the present
Speaking of profound concepts within their discourse
Anyone overhearing may be left confused
It was just another ordinary day
Scattered notes are all over the place
Many things happening all at once
Yet the resonant music remained unnerved
Hobgoblin in the gutter under canopy of midnight,
magic brew of muti without rein.
Shadow figure torchon, darting half-light dare.
Spine chilling droplets wobble slowly down drains,
rusty copper mouthwash at the edge of jagged chutes.
Eerie urban soundscapes frame,
a sneeze or smothered cough.
Drone of vagrant motors probe, the flyby ink-black abyss.
Youthful laughter echoes over back streets,
as nearby lamp posts cast their bloodshot rays.
Night owls chinwag over Onion Bhaji,
raucous babble buried in a saffron whiff.
Strains of ragtime jazz and sleek arpeggios,
shrine or vinyl monument ahoy.
Hobo’s lonely whistle on an empty pier.
Urban jungle cast-off ghostly lurch,/
Burakumin patsy in high dudgeon.
Spooky timelines relish every moment of suspense,
swallowing the hush with ghoulish glee.
Quasimodo bell ring vaults a broomstick,
setter of alarm and wanton panic.
City wall clock twiddles on its hourly thumb,
scene plotter’s endless play denouement,
wee small hour dialogue without a script,
waiting for the dawn to take it’s baton.
Soundscape Strata
Did Bach know to what end
his harvest of melodies-in-parallel would become?
Scholars agonize
Was creation of counterpoint
musical destiny
a hybrid fruit of beauty
knowing no boundary
bewildering those of first look
given musical staffs
voicings and manuscripts
always conformed to traditional confinement?
What spurred his palette of sound
to become one with the elusive rainbow
providing independence through marriage of numbers
allowing prolonged courtship
sanctioning destinies to verge
converge
separate
return to coalesce?
And so
From guitar
to clavichord
string quartets
to symphonies
counterpart airs were discovered
became melodious architecture
challenging new musical frontiers
voiding tundra's boundary rules
reducing history's brass survey monuments
to mere reflections of past memory
Popularization of Bach's invention
soared beyond the artistic elite
for in '55 "Picnic" graced movie screens
initiating the unsuspecting
elevating emotion with layered melodies
Moonglow playing under the love theme
Bach's kaleidascope of synchronous colors
reached the century's romantics
keyed into a music major
minored ala Brubeck
scat-a-tized via Ella and Mel
and
made unity of opposites a given
Thus
From Bach's synthesis of two dimensions
musical ironies evolved
influencing writers' language
line upon line
stanza to stanza
chapter to chapter
making magical
the double entendre
metaphor
subtext
contrapuntal imaginings
all translated into
infinite language-in-progress
With applause knowing nowhere to go
except to acknowledge the roots of prodigy
a high five to the man
who pioneered so much of our soundscape
taught us all the numbers of romance
ironically created attraction to opposites
arpeggios with many colors
intimacy amidst chaos
Encore Mr. Bach
Encore
With eyes in judgement often lies
Authority for beauty’s prize
In symmetry or colours lush
By heaven’s gift or artist’s brush
And rarely one we deem as wise
The beauty of such sights denies
With ears we may declare profound
A splendor realized in sound
Arpeggios that rise and fall
And tempo’s measured protocol
Much lure in music may be found
So beautiful is music crowned
And yet, there is a third domain
To which true beauty may lay claim
A place exists inside our minds
And there imagination finds
In shades unseen and chords unheard
The beauty of the written word
Submitted for Overlooked Beauty Poetry Contest by Jesse Rowe
Mist of Moonlight Fantasy
Ludwig~
Shimmering waves of arching arpeggios
Grace the first moments
Of your moonlight child;
Mysterious conception
Hidden in fleeting legends
Of a composition enraptured by blindness
Or love
Mystical as white shadows
On ebony
Dripping with dedication
Or sheer clouds that veil round fullness -
A dreamy maiden of pale passionate
Quasi fantasy
Wandering between grieving illusion
And figments of yearning;
Shapeless minor moon moods,
Like velvet blue vespers,
Rise up as scintillas
To ride
On wisps of major melody
In notes
Of fragile all consuming passion
Grasping at moonbeams
Of melody from borrowed light -
Descending fancy now flees
From the resolution
In the inevitable dawn.
Ludwig ~
Here your ears still hear
Moonlight rhapsodies
In a sonata by a waltzing river blue.
There are so many things I am mad about.
Take sunrise with red clouds and soft rays
Penetrating through the water-laden clouds.
Rain is imminent, thunder threatening afar.
It matters not, for I love to stay cosy indoors.
Soon, it will rain, and with impulsive haste, I’ll
Sit at my beloved baby grand and play
A few tentative light-hearted arpeggios
Followed by a mesmerising, uplifting allegro
But never finish with some sad dirge.
By noon, the weather clears into a soft breeze
And I proceed to have a meal made up
Of my favourite shellfish and rigatoni
With shredded truffles and a glass of chilled Chablis.
From that terrace, I could see the turbulent sea,
Its waves roll nonchalantly towards the shore,
Rising and falling, always transient
And showering us with a froth of salty spray,
A sweet caress that tastes so pleasant on my lips.
There are so many things that give me pleasure and satisfaction.
And you, Madam? I still remember your sensitivity.
Your glossy lips met mine: It was the best thing I loved.
The wind,
a poetry brushing
my skin.
Ferns painting
ankles
in cool dew
on a hiker’s trek.
The stars,
arranged or
understood as
arranged...
a song not
yet forgot.
An arrangement of
notes, of diacriticals,
of arpeggios,
awaiting the blushing
washout.
My arms, open to
the lovely dark,
the smokily smudged
pre-dawn...
Tea vapours’ tendrily
hand caresses tenderly
my nostril, my
hungry Palace of
Intent.
She sleeps,
Somewhere.
Or rises.
Somewhere, that
accursèd ‘not here.’
She starts a shower,
she starts her coffee,
she starts her car.
She starts her day.
These arms are never
so Empty, so Open
as in these epoch
hours before the Light.