Late November,
and lonely resonance of harmattan
salutes this solitude.
A weaverbird's contralto, in one
gale-sweep, lays bare the lower balustrade
of a maisonette,
and the romance of the last seasons
shoots the long throat of the clarinet...
O'classicals, on wings
ye come;
leaf cusps and petal ears —
classicals, swearing oaths of
mellifluous assembly...
Calm rhythms hasten to the
ears of Beethoven —
summon him for a serenade,
lest the dark shelter of a
decrepit day strips this solitude.
Anodyne hisses among
this hidden threshold,
curing and healing the weakness of
Clepoatra's hair, dampened with
the venom of haters of vanity.
Classicals,
rid us now of this grief of mundane
dances...
Even in death, Stravinsky hails solitude
on notes of the keys.
From the clarinet,
the bimetallism of barter —
the platitude of life and death
(symbiosis of percussions)
epitaph to the aftermath of
inveterate tradition —
now and forever...
And the clarinet looms.
Categories:
stravinsky, life, music, seasons,
Form: Free verse
“My music is best understood
by children and animals.”
_Igor Stravinsky
So rapturous is music with its sounds
that stir emotions deep within the heart;
to enter in a realm that has no bounds
in soothing mind and body from the start.
So rapturous is music, it can draw
earth species both on land and sea to come
and listen to the source, transfixed in awe-
alone or with a group, entranced become.
Mysterious, how music casts a spell
with dulcet sounds that soon beguile the mind;
and as we humans know it very well-
so do our earthly creatures, now we find.
The joyous sound of music, widely shared-
can rapture all who listen while it is aired.
Categories:
stravinsky, appreciation, music,
Form: Sonnet
"stravinsky"
the chord
D E A D
played on
a piano
sounds
like
life
Categories:
stravinsky, color,
Form: Free verse
Composer Igor Stravinsky
an overnight sensation came to be
He got the ballet audience ro sing
his praise with Rite of Spring
Categories:
stravinsky, music, people,
Form: Clerihew
Taken inside the bowels
of bassoons,
tropical heat from
swelling bows.
Sweat labors the brow,
full with carnal dissonance.
The throat is lunged
by a beast
veiled in foliage.
Spewed in a mass of
broken pickaxes!
Kicked again into the
thunder of claws!
In flames of foundries
lost.
Becoming Roman Candles
opening across the night.
But drinking cool women
in the thaw of glaciers,
smoothing their oblong stones,
clear cleansed lemon lime oboes.
Naked bodies bloom.
Raced around a corner
at top speed,
the pounding of industry,
a worker in goggles
forging metal.
Without notice,
still mesmerized by fire,
in the belly of percussion,
paused
by a dawning pond of sullen fog,
a brief dream
shrouded in ungrasped riddles.
Sudden conductor realized
in the grass of tones,
using his baton as a machete.
On a distant hill
A shepherd beckons.
Animated, beclouded,
a restless crow in search,
a cinematic fade-out.
Categories:
stravinsky, analogy, birth, creation, desire,
Form: Personification
His music was to cause a riot
As Stravinsky lost the plot,
Beethoven ...it was not-
This rite of Spring
Soon made the critics sing.
Categories:
stravinsky, music, people,
Form: Narrative
Each day I am born into a symphony. Tones and chords eloquently choreographed in minor keys of insurgent melancholia. Lumbering contrition escorted by virulent humiliation where no penance can seem to be found. A drum beat of loneliness as bitter as flour, marches an aging reflection that can only scowl and mock. This beat, beautifully and relentlessly recited as a tempo for horns. The onomatopoeia of these horns is my recalcitrant social seclusion, played by the trumpeter that is my refusal to accept the world as it was handed down to me. The horns, escorted as a prisoner by his guard, are the strings. Strings of repetitive failure drawn by the bow that is my incompetence and inadequacy. Each morning, I awaken to Mozart, to Stravinsky, to Mendelssohn. Each embodied by variations of my own melancholia. Each piece written so perfectly as if I were only ever meant to feel this way, that I cannot close my ears. Each days emotions crafted for me with such care, that I believe it may lead to some heightened level of introspection or enlightenment, that I force myself to learn to dance its waltz. And, each day, the piece comes to a close with no edification to be spared to me.
Categories:
stravinsky, angst, anxiety, conflict, depression,
Form: Free verse
TANGLEWOOD AS THERAPY
Tanglewood untangled me, took my breath away
each moment of Sibelius, Mahler, Rachmaninoff
sweet violins, trumpets, kettle drums, cellos, fire
mixed with wind, echoing within the shed, over
the lawn, concert goers sprawled on blankets,
seated on beach chairs attentive to every sound
those strains, my favorite classics, filled my blood
stream, inched me toward lovers, tugged me,
two spouses proposed, suitors hugged my body,
kissed me with gusto, whispered into my ears,
became surrogates for melting chocolate cream,
weakened my knees, laid bare my breasts, filled
my groin, all from the moment my father took
our family to the shed where I first heard Mahler’s
First “The Titan”, not on a scratchy 78 platter, not
from our wood cabinet radio in our Brooklyn house
the melodies of democracy, free radio, modern
media, fade, assaulted by the Kremlin loving
leader. Russian composers crowd the classical
repertoire, do not taint my delight, my passion,
for the memories of past affairs are Picasso art
filtered through Stravinsky, Prokofiev, and one
therapist treating me for TRUMPRESSION
Categories:
stravinsky, anti bullying, appreciation, depression,
Form: Prose Poetry
Tribute to David Michael Jones. 1895 - 1974.
A British poet, painter and engraver
Was a lad of 20, left art college to join the RWF*
"In parenthesis "was his write
A poem describing horrors
Of being a front line soldier, to fight
In the world war 1 battle on the western front
An event he described as epic
and imbued with religious, moral and mythic
overtones where Divine Grace manifested a continual presence
T.S.Elliot called his work "a work of genius"
badly wounded in Mametz Wood his life they did fear
In 1921 he converted to Catholicsm, going to Eric Gills
Community in Ditching Uk where he honed his
carpentry and engraving skills
When Stravinsky came to UK For the last time ,
was solely a pilgrimage to visit David Jones
David died in 1974
Some of his paintings are in the Tate.
His work is mostly forgotten
Was deeply Catholic, writing
The Sleeping Lord and Other Fragments.
Classed amongst the most important poems of the 20th century
*RWF. Stands for Royal Welch Fusiliers, they wear a feather in their cap
badge.
Read notes please.
Categories:
stravinsky, tribute, work, work, ,
Form: Free verse
His music was to cause a riot
As Stravinsky lost th plot,
Beethoven ...it was not-
This rite of Spring
Soon made the critics sing.
Full story @ The Rite Of Spring by Stravinsky
Categories:
stravinsky, music, on writing and
Form: Narrative