If
If I could,
I would turn back
the cruel, unrelenting hands of time.
I would patiently wait on the sidelines
instead of jumping headfirst into life.
I would wait for a better song,
a gentler tune,
a better partner than the devil
I got stuck with—
an evil waltz,
unending.
And like an evil zoetrope,
I keep seeing glances
of distant places,
of glimpses of once-reachable hope,
and the laughter
of old times.
Grace quietly dances with another.
Peace glides past.
Yet in another—
the teary eyes of my mother.
On and on,
we waltz.
Paganini, lost in his world.
Time doesn't work on him.
And on and on we dance,
hoping for the inevitable,
sad end,
and longingly wishing for a sip
of water
on the expensive table.
La Campanelle* by Franz Liszt
paganini with many a twist
All night
a sleepwalking death
stumbled in and out of his prone body.
He had been drinking again,
whisky fumes rolled around
a dry, thick tongue.
The air in the room
wavered from hot to cold,
feverish self-repeating scenes
of Paganini trilling a fiery violin
haunted his aching brow.
A sledgehammer dawn hit him.
Death withdrew from dulled senses,
yet it lingered like a bloodshot eye,
at the bottom
of a half-full decenter.
“sipping Jack while singing Charlie”
the season left leaving leaves
left and right right
on the all
around ground except where
a windswept wind kept
the streets clean
at the crossroad cross meant
for meetings to be met
by Paganini and
me
and
Him
Nicolo Paganini
a violinist a he
With fingers so pliable
he a virtuoso fable
Back on Baker Street -
pulling on a calabash pipe.
Paganini and Bach stream through
a cracked third-story window.
The Merseybeat’s…
the disaffected Pink Floyd years,
Mary Jane brain, mulling over
puffing magic dragons;
reading Sherlock Holmes
secretly.
Today, downloading
a picture of myself back then,
no pipe just a youthful smirk
as I strut down that busy road.
Sometimes I wish I still smoked.
first from Faust
then to Tartini
Paganini passed
Tommy and Robert
Johnson but not
of the same blood
then Zimmerman
stated they were
all related
some how
so i got thinkin
to just throw in
the towel and
my boots to
boot for you
want a soul
well i've got
two so by
verbal agree
ment i sold
him my
soles
Cristovão Paganini
With such beauty that is truly divine,
Which I had wished was mine all mine;
Of a blessed sound containing rare form,
That within my heart has created a storm.
Vivaldi of vigor reflected by violin strums
And vibrant beating of virulent drums,
All around marvelous music was reflecting
As great as the person who it is directing.
Truly gladly want to hear again and again;
What a wonderful day mine must have been,
God vividly gave Vivaldi this music to write,
To hear its vivaciousness me He did invite.
James Thomas Horn
Retired Veteran and Poet
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RMHguvZPcqQ
She sits and dreams as though in a trance
Of being on stage playing a wonderful dance
Clutches violin to her breast as though her heart could play
Teasing the strings , making music, night or day
She has practiced forever to get an overture right
A contest to win, so they can eat
She closes her eyes, in another world as she plays
The music echoes around the air in a magical way
Believlng it’s like Paganini* that she plays
She tenderly draws her bow creating a musical foray
No money to spare for lessons and such
Just a determination to bring happiness in touch
With all people, whatever their creed, music is for all
To listen and enjoy and bring hope to their soul
Now she dreams, but dreams do come true
She smiles knowing full well she will see it through
So raise a glass to the young girl who lives with hope in her heart
That her future will go smoothly, making her name as a star
• Paganini famous Italian Violinist
PENNED 24TH DECEMBER 2014
HANDS IN THOUGHT
Paganini, with his bony, white hands,
In the graveyard,
Playing for the dead
What a thought!
All that cold, weathered stone,
The few leafless trees,
What a diseased sort of scene
And the great Italian violin virtuoso,
So thin, so hook nosed,
Courting Satan
So they thought
Hands of old grandfather disturb,
Reminding the hour,
Pointing up
For sure, the fiddler,
Weird, stick of a man,
Was headed south,
Or so they thought
And so this crazy fiddler thinks,
At his late hour,
Hands hanging limp
Rage?
No
Hands clasped in prayer?
No
Just a chuckle
At the outrageous thought
Of being no more
Dave Austin
11:49 PM
and I am lost,
tired,
and I want love to knock on my door,
but sadly I am too poor.
Low and high,
high and love,
scared of heights
and it scares when it bites.
As Paganini plays away in my ears,
enrages my brain in beauty,
I think of her,
as the night slips away with her
and I slowly close my eyes
and dream away.
Good morning world, wake up
Today’s Egypt, tomorrow’s ancient Eldorado, El Paso, Colorado, Suzhou, Picasso, Pissarro, Pizarro, Pirandello, Paganini, Mandela, Nakym, Muhammad, Mugabe, Jabbar, Quadir, Kalani, Nahzi, Adirah, Baariq, Noni-n-Zhari, Mrs. Sheffield, My mommy, a list of cities, states, countries-n-places of wealth, influential people.
Prophets, Presidents, Painters, Poets
Explorers, my children, my wife, my mom, myself, a statesman, an artist, a violinist-n-an author, a man, a father, my words walk through air, and on water, my wealth fed, not only mine, but the world’s sons-n-daughters, we all need supporters, Asians, Arabs, Blacks, Americans, Africans, Latinos, Indians-n-Italians, we all need supporters, wake up the sun is shining, good morning, what would the world be without our sons-n-daughters, wake up the sun is shining, good morning, I’m here 2 wake the world up, good morning.
Huzza
Huzza
Debussy Inspiration
I advanced from piano player to pianist
When I finally memorized Claire De Lune.
Since then I’ve migrated to a rhythm guitarist,
But I could never escape that flowing tune.
I played Debussy’s song so often without the sheets
That over time it evolved to something else.
A few different notes or off-rhythmic beats;
So that an expert would patently find it false.
I eventually learned to play more difficult songs:
Rachmaninoff’s Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini,
And many of Scott Joplin’s syncopated ragtime songs;
But Debussy’s Claire De Lune still remains a part of me.
20140528
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