Long Symphony orchestra Poems
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Embarrassed of her age and getting no praise,
she cut her gray hair with a furious face;
oh, it seemed the color of glittering gold
strewn with silver curls! What made her think
she was unattractive and way too old...
and if that were true, how would she get another wink?
Blinded by shame, she cut off the gray strands and hid them
in a violin case...was she a famous violinist of a Symphony Orchestra?
Was it madness, lack of confidence or even allodoxaphobia?
One can be certain of this: age cannot be stopped as air or hail!
Why go into fits and curse fate for not grating one's wish?
Don't we know that our stay is a temporary one until our death?
I barely remember her, and could never say hello when she hurried
past me with deep worry and sadness on her unfriendly face stricken with horror.
" What a lovely lady! Why didn't she smile? " That made her look old!
Had she put on a sweet smile even for a second, she'd have been my lucky ace poker!
I even thought of asking her for a date...go out with a complete stranger?
Not quite so, a few times I bumped into her at the coffee shop last winter.
Here comes the funny part...it wasn't coincidence,
yesterday rushing out of the door a gust took off her blonde wig,
her shaved head was similar to a watermelon: smooth and shiny like pie,
and her pretension even more absurd than foolishness;
she tried to chase after it with speedy steps, but she failed and began to cry...
by luck, I caught that wig floating as a newspaper's page or twig.
Before passersby saw her bold head, she covered it with her wool scarf,
and turning to me said, " Thanks a lot, sir . " I was shocked and wanted to laugh,
she flashed the most adorable smile and she really looked young and sounded bright;
and as she pulled it down with hurry and nervousness, " My name is Susanne Moore...
what's yours? " I replied, " I am Andrew, the single guy next door. "
" Eh, still single? Would you like to go on a date this Saturday night? "
Still I Reach – Memories of my Father.
My Dad — a virtuoso, once hailed among India’s finest — was one of three English gentlemen credited with bringing Western classical music to India, helping to lay the foundation for a tradition that would echo for generations.
His artistry shaped the sound of a nation, and his influence touched the lives of his students who would one day stand on the world’s grandest stages – L Subramanian (US) Zubin Mehta (Pavarotti’s conductor)and Jerry Fernandez who finished his LTCL (Licentiate of Trinity College, London) with honours.
At 58, he came to Australia, carrying with him not only a large family but the resonance of those concert halls, the applause of audiences, and a burning ambition to let his music speak here as it had across the seas.
But the stages he sought here remained closed. After countless auditions and unreturned calls, the verdict came cold: retire from music. As if the brilliance he carried, the decades of mastery in his hands, no longer belonged.
For a moment, the weight of those words threatened to silence his song.
And yet, as the lyrics say, “Still I reach… still I dream… still I ache for what might be,” he held fast to the stage in his heart – This has been captured in the song.
One year later, the story turned. The same man who had once closed the door called again — this time with an invitation to perform with the renowned Sydney Symphony Orchestra. That moment lit the fuse of a second act.
From there, his music would rise again — with the Russian Bolshoi Ballet, the Kirov Ballet, and in celebrated musicals like Hair and Jesus Christ Superstar.
This song is for him… and for anyone who has ever been told their time has passed, only to rise and prove that true artistry is timeless.
Chicago.
Wish you were here.
Walk with me in my heart, My Love...
I was expecting more noise on a Saturday night,
But the wind wasn't even up.
(I was expecting more wind, too! First time here.)
But the only sound is down by the Lake,
Two Hispanic girls riding bicycles with their brother,
Gaily chattering in Spanish.
This is the only music on the Lake,
But there is other music,
Deep in my Heart, and in my muscles, and in my bones...
Spinning like Cycles of Light, and Wheels of Sound.
The Chicago Symphony Orchestra echoes in all of me.
Beethoven, Bruckner...
And HAITINK.
Bernard Haitink is an old world all by himself,
A man who has seen Glory!
He has listened to her beating Heart,
And has heard her wild and focused Voice like a horn calling out in the
darkness
Glory rings in every cell of his body,
Every time he moves, or breathes, or even shakes...
He fell from the podium the night before, and we thought we had lost him,
But tonight! He is back!
Walking with a cane until intermission, when he refuses,
Perhaps, because it will be his last time conducting in America...
God, GOD! WHO could contain all that emotion?
What Bruckner suffered, Haitink knows,
And what Beethoven dreamed, Haitink has heard in the night...
And after Bruckner, the skyline...
A dark veil dropped down behind it,
And all lit up in blue and white and violet
And Arthur grumbles,
Because he wants
To swim a mile in Lake Michigan,
And the New Law
Will not let him...
What else to say?
There is a feeling of pink
That is in the air,
And the people are warm,
Once they drop guards,
And open,
And that's the best part.
That's Chicago.
Wish you were here, My Love!
Big Marty Milano
Blue-veined sausage nose
slightly off center
toward the right side of
a florid cop face
white-gloved hands
directing traffic
to the piercing rhythm
of staccato blasts from
the black wooden whistle
clenched between his teeth
everyone called him
Big Marty Milano and
he conducted a busy
three street confluence
of automobiles pedestrians and
kids going to and
from school like it was
his personal symphony orchestra
he was a beat cop
walking the streets
a kind word for every
old person living on his turf
a stern look for teens
with mischief on their minds
and an aura of invincibility
as he twirled his nightstick
on a black leather thong
woven between meaty fingers
Big Marty Milano
died one Friday night
in late March 1950
bleeding out beneath
The lamppost on the corner
in front of Doc Felcher’s drug store
after taking two bullets
in his neck trying to stop
a robbery in progress
the shots woke me up and
I watched from my
fourth-floor bedroom window
sobbing into my pillow
as the ambulance and patrol cars
flooded the streets with
sirens and flashing lights
they covered his body
with a raincoat but
his huge crepe soled cop shoes
stuck out of one end
the next Monday morning
when I left for school
there was a new officer
directing traffic
he wore a strip of
sticky black electricians tape
across his silver NYPD badge
but I just couldn’t
look at his face…
A Forever Wish
Together, with LOVE “ L E N O R E
ALWAYS ENTWINING
Hello, POETESSES and POETS I am Honored to Know YOU
I beat in the Light of a new LOVE: The LOVE of POETS on POETRYSOUP
Throbbing in a Serenity ; a Tranquility ; that LENORE’S Heart and I Once Knew
I am merely Floating in a sea of ecstasy with this wonderful POETIC Group
I pulsate to the tintinnabulations of this EverlastingDay Two Hearts beat as ONE
As the percussion section of a symphony orchestra reaching its crescendo : I pound
My host , in his excited demeanor is as soothing as a lullabye to a new born son
I startled , with the knock at the door “ It’s time Mr. Johnson to MARRY LENORE
The Captain in Dress Whites, the Wedding March plays, the Father of the BRIDE :
Mister Robert Joseph Adams ; walking down the aisle to Give My LIFE to me
I slowly Entwine with a Heart that beats as I; I leap at the LOVE I see in HER Eyes
Emerald GREEN Eyes sparkle through the transparent shade of a Pure White Vail
“Do YOU , Harry Daniel Johnson take LENORE ELLEN ADAMS as yours“Forever “
To become one in the Sight of GOD in Mind, Soul , HEART for the eons of Eternity
Beyond the earth YOU were brought forth from beyond the Heaven“ The Glory of GOD
The sound of my host saying “I D O” reverberates in my walls and Echoes in LENORE’S
ALWAYS , ETERNALLY, FOREVERMORE
SYMPHONY ORCHESTRA
There’s a player up there
stomach resting on his chair
blowing air
through at least a hundred feet of twisted golden tubing
and
A man putting oil on a slide
makes toothy talk aside
to a skinny tuba player (imagine a tuba player being skinny)
who takes the fat horn on his lap
Drummers four all stand
Testing skins and whatnot with their hands
The first selection using such collection?
NOISY indeed!
Then there are the winds
All in a row with chimneys on the end
sucking for dear life it would seem
the flutist (or is it flautist?) is a dream
Finally the violins
adjusting gadgets rooting with their chins
cellos (big violins) screw into the floor
basses (huge violins) as a rule sit astool
Here comes a fiddler late
must have had a heavy date
of all the nerve he turns and bows
then sits that’s more than law allows
for
Here comes the conductor with a stick!
There’s a player up there
stomach resting on his chair
blowing air
through at least a hundred feet of twisted golden tubing
and
A man putting oil on a slide
makes toothy talk aside
to a skinny tuba player (imagine a tuba player being skinny)
who takes the fat horn on his lap
Drummers four all stand
Testing skins and whatnot with their hands
The first selection using such collection?
NOISY indeed!
Then there are the winds
All in a row with chimneys on the end
sucking for dear life it would seem
the flutist (or is it flautist?) is a dream
Finally the violins
adjusting gadgets rooting with their chins
cellos (big violins) screw into the floor
basses (huge violins) as a rule sit astool
Here comes a fiddler late
must have had a heavy date
of all the nerve he turns and bows
then sits that’s more than law allows
for
Here comes the conductor with a stick!
It’s not about the winning or losing
But how the race is run
To be in the Winners Circle
To bask in limelight’s fun
It’s not about the winning or losing
But how the race is run
The preparation starts well before
The race is even begun
It’s not about the winning or losing
But how one runs the race
In a Universe full of Abundance
One must take their place
It’s not about the winning or losing
But how the game is played
It’s always great in the winner’s circle
Especially when one meets the grade
Life is but a transitional race
In which we take our place
It’s a Universe full of abundance
To foul would be bad taste
Grievances set aside
In Harmony enjoy the treat
A Universe full of Abundance
The World is at your feet
Solitary you battle through the race
On a journey all alone
Let’s join you then and run in fun
That’s how this race is run
Footnote:
The music is from the movie 'Chariots of Fire', a true story of two young dedicated British contenders with different religious denominations who were fierce competitors in the 1924 Paris Olympics.
Music by - 2CELLOS, Luka Sulic and Stjepan Hauser in their new album playing the Title from 'Chariots of Fire' by Vangelis with London Symphony Orchestra.
POTD 15th July 2017
Maestro – 4-23-24
Dedicated to Dr. Stanley Chapple. Co-founder of Tanglewood. Conductor of the London Philharmonic. Head of the Music School University of Washington. Conductor of the University of Washington Symphony Orchestra. Beloved Professor and so much more!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Maestro
Music flowed from his baton
Like water from his English wellspring,
Taming trills in the perfume of restless scherzos
Coaxing shy adagios into lyrical splendor
Charming sinuous rondos into sinuous symphonies
Coaxing Thalia from cobwebs into tarantellas
In tangled woods and brick paths lined with cherry trees.
Bewitching a young baton to rise
Like a cobra hypnotized in west side stories
In concert with souls of Glorianna and Appalachia’s spring
And arabesques of rodeos to fanfares voces
Riding on concertos beckoning for east to oceans west
To streets glistening in an hourly carillon cadence,
Rain showers so like the Old City’s rhythms,
He found sheltered rests beneath gothic eaves
Soaring with scores of venomous revenge,
And octaves in librettos of a butterfly’s death,
To crescendo young symphonic dreams and emeritus chords
Maestro, melodic mentor, gift and inspiration
Friend of Lenny, Ben and Aaron.
A Night of Dreams
Will I ever know the joy of waking by your side,
refreshhed, revived from what we did the night before.
A meal with wine, conversation with cognac,
that smile, a touching of hands, a beginning,
the delicate prelude to a concerto of passion, then,
the crescendo prefacing the rousing final movement.
The storm before the lull, a return to a gentile caress
another glass of wine, a single cigarette, more conversation,
all leading to a reprise of the previous hour
before sleep demands to replace excitement.
Who would wake first to lay in silent thought,
or would excitement return,
a gentle arousal by word and deed,
a touching homage to each other,
the Symphony Orchestra replaced by Easy Listening,
listening to cries of delight as Nature takes its course,again.
As I lay alone I wonder, did your thoughts ever mirror mine?
What would that night have told us?
Sadly, what is in the mind remains in the mind,
the past cannot cannot be changed,
the inevitable becomes the present.
Each future will remain unknown to the other
and we will never know the joy of waking siide by side.