Tchaikovsky Poems

Interment

In fifth grade, I earned first place
statewide for violin
against the girl I half-loved—
her fingers quicker,
her lineage more illustrious—
but that day,
mine did not tremble.

She chose a piece
with fireworks and pitfalls—
something by Tchaikovsky—
I chose Barcarolle—
plainspoken, sweet,
a boat gliding through moonlight.
I played it without flaw.
She slipped once,
only once.

We both knew I’d won
on a grace note—
not brilliance, nor fire—
just a clean line
held steady
while hers faltered.
Afterward,
she turned from me
like a violin
tucked into its case.

A week later,
dad took us to a restaurant
with cloth napkins and candles,
to celebrate my victory.
He smiled too much,
and talked too loud,
and the wineglass
trembled in his hand
just before he threw up
on the checkered tablecloth.

He tried to pay,
but the card was declined.
The cashier cut it in half.
He gave them his gold watch
as a promise.
I wished I could just
be invisible,
and we left without dessert.

Two years later,
I buried my medal in the woods
and never played violin again.

BM ecphrasis XI piano

Swan Lake* by Peter Tchaikovsky for sure
                                                                         success after initial failure

Selectively Eclectic, a Musical Matter of Taste

I freely admit I love classical music,
And please don't think me a snob
If I keep my composure
When I mention composers
As Beethoven, Mozart, Tchaikovsky, and Schumann,
And not Ludie, or Wolfie,
Or Petie, or Bob.

And a symphony simply cannot be enjoyed
At just any old time of the day.
I can't listen to them
Prior to seven p.m.,
And I don't mean to brag, but I couldn't be dragged
To a Wednesday or Saturday matinee
Of a ballet by Bizet or Massenet.

My taste in classical music, you see,
Is eclectic, but not meant to shock.
I choose Strauss for the schmaltz
Of a polka or waltz,
And Chopin is my dude when I crave an etude,
But I do tend to doze in my seat in the loge
Through an opera by Wagner…
Or more Offenbach.

Dreams Coercing Memory

“Dreams Coercing Memory” 

You want cherries jubilee
with a little Krug champagne
but soft custard is just the same
when reality plays its game
by the spoonful
morphine comes 
to save the day

the light changes 
subtle refractions 
of dreams coercing
memory

long elegant fingers

poised painted apricots
those false '70s fingernails 
tremendous talons 
for Tchaikovsky takeoff 

gracefully shimmering

glamorously sparkling
eyes smiling, clicking keys
without fear, the notes become
a romantic Chopin mystery

pianola peddles 
next to her laughs 
and says with glee,  
a good exercise

back then, we didn't
have the time, says
the matriarch smiling
just like a mother 

come to collect 

on the other side 
her sister, hand on shoulders
sits next to her 
a Nightingale Linnet

the number 
at pianola
3

one number 
most 
profound

one number

devine aligned,
most hard to forget
or push aside

kept close
in Love and loved 
for all eternity

this one 
as 3 
should never hide

(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
LM/HMM/LJM
17.9.23
mlb, klb, llb

Chance Meetings

I'd marry you tomorrow 
If I could, my dear
The only reason not today is 'cause 
Today's already here

Twenty four short hours
Is more than time enough
To put it all together
The small details and such

I'd buy two airline tickets
To somewhere far away
Care not for the timeline
Just plan a lengthy stay

We'll lodge romantic style
In quaint, idyllic suites
At placid, tranquil places
Where music fills the streets

First night we'll hear Tchaikovsky
The Nutcracker's in town
Let's share a clove before we go
And let the world go 'round

As long as you're my sweetheart
You're all my heart's eyes view
So go ahead now, you lay back
I know just what to do

Clerihew Tchaikovoky

Peter Ilyric Tchaikovsky
maybe the 'greatest' you'd see
Conhsumat charm&technique
vulnerable romantic sleek

Christmas In Minnesota

digesting ballet —
prime rib and bacon, waltzing
Nutcracker taters
Tchaikovsky suite crescendo
fork and knife tenderizing

12/25/2021

Portrait On the Fourth of July

A girl in the crowd takes a selfie.
Her tam o’shanter sparkles
because of the fireworks going off
in the background, and because it has glitter.
At the gates of Moscow
weary French troops run away
hands over their ears, as Tchaikovsky
fires his righteous cannons.
The girl with the cell
is as pretty as her friend beside her,
but her friend outshines the tam o’shanter
as if it were just an ordinary beret.
She has sapphires in her eyebrows.
Kids in earshot of adults
‘wow’ or mouth age-appropriate obscenities.
The limp body of a teenage messiah
is elbowed and pushed around by his disciples.
Several rows back, a woman is laughing
as she cranes her neck skyward;
from the chin up, she looks like Greta Garbo,
only she is short and fat.
Rockets fly like fan-dancing ostriches.
The truncated 1812 Overture burps to a close.
My lens can’t capture the woman
or the girl, or her friend
who now all shine like diamonds.
I can’t fit all of this into 12 mega pixels.
The night eventually stops throwing missiles
at the moon,
the girls, and women fizz out,
the kids continue to sizzle
until they are led away by dark-eyed dreams.

Be Careful

BE CAREFUL      

Be careful what you ask for
One day life is simple, you ask
a female colleague at a partnering
organization not to call you “doctor”,
“professor” and such, then she says 
your name the way a symphony orchestra
tears into the finale of a spirited overture
by Tchaikovsky or Rossini and suddenly
your feeling like the primus pilus, the 
first violin, the anchor baton, the broad-
shouldered stroke in an eight-oared shell
or the seminal man with genes of genius
in his jeans: powerful, confident, perhaps
dangerously exposed – a burden you
don’t need
If you’re only doing business,
let formality play its role!

Tchaikovsky

Symphonies and ballets
No wonder you are loved.
“The Nutcracker” and “Swan Lake”
Were those ones you dreamed of?
I heard you filled halls and auditoriums
You were good at painting music with soul
A romantic prodigy of your era 
“Has a profound tune as a whole”.
Your overflowing melodies and harmonies
They sound like a quaint orchestration 
Where everything flows with the beauty
It moves my emotion.

A Tribute To Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake

The tale Tchaikovsky wove that day
Lives on and on upon a stage
Spun by  pirouettes ...and plie's
An epic story of love conveyed
Through the beauty of  ballet
 
Prince Siegfried and his Queen Odette
Who gave their lives without regret
To live forever bound together
As beautiful birds of a feather

As two swans upon a lake



Author:  Elaine C. George 

Authors note:  Plie' is  a french word 
pronounced Plee ay

The Bolshevist's Boat

"The Bolshevist’s Boat"



Where are the words
never heard in the hymn hidden 
a broken heart sitting 
solitary and questioning

In the Bolshevist’s Boat of Belief
there are questions -
and strange facts remain sticking 
in a mind, like thorns embedded; 

the circumference 
of a circle, whole, 
where recalcitrant numbers 
are perpetually moving

never ending

(LadyLabyrinth / 2020)
d.18.9.71, b.18.9.99
b.2.3.39, b.2.3.64
b.29.8.35, d.29.8.2010




Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky - “Hymn of the Cherubim”
https://youtu.be/OPlK5HwFxcw




“The One About Belief”
https://youtu.be/5AwSGyZRzYk

Tis a Season

it seems thinking
about this time
of year is
Tchaikovsky
nut cracking but
not other
Russians

why fight
with a rat king 
knowing exactly
his defeat and
demise why
not try a
satire

by Prokofiev or
better yet
direct and
to the point
atonal music
that any ahole...
nal

anybody
could play
in the most
uncompliacted
of ways know
ing no way
to play

but
playing
the triangle
exactly at
the wrong
time but
when

it was 
meant

to be

Portraits On the Fourth of July

A girl in the crowd takes a selfie.
Her tam o’shanter sparkles
because of the fireworks going off
in the background.
At the gates of Moscow
Tchaikovsky runs away
hands over his ears.
The girl with the cell
is as pretty as her friend beside her,
but her friend outshines the tam o’shanter
as if it were just an ordinary beret.
She has sapphires in her eyebrows.
Kids in earshot of adults
‘wow’ or mouth age-appropriate obscenities.
The limp body of a teenage messiah
is elbowed and pushed around by his disciples.
Several rows back, a woman is laughing
as she cranes her neck skyward.
From the chin up, she looks like Greta Garbo,
only she is short and fat.
Rockets fly like fan-dancing ostriches.
The truncated 1812 Overture burps to a close. 
My lens can’t capture the woman
or the girl, or her friend
who now shines like a diamond.
I can’t fit all of this into 12 mega pixels.

The night stops throwing cannonballs
at 1 a.m.

City Lights

"CITY LIGHTS."


Tchaikovsky 
plays into 
the night 
as the words 
crash in 
for this 
poet and 
the whore 
sleeps after 
the purple 
devils 
choke her 
goodnight.


by: Chicano Eddie
6.28.19

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