the opera starts and the guy comes out and says,
"look, fidelity is for losers."
a bloodbath is coming
so is this opera in july
but we sit in preparation for Verdi
and i send messages about
the great parking space
and it begins
and after five minutes
my son turns to me and says, "dad, i like this."
i am turned into something
pure bliss
my son reads during the interval
and i walk to the back of the opera house
i count six smartphones dropped in the dress circle
followed by tutting and disgruntled people
the chocolate has melted in my pocket
but so have i
digitialised sand and upcoming tears.
the back of the ticket reads,
'alcoholics are refused entry.'
but we're all drunk on our US cotton
Aida souvenir shop XL T-shirts
(In his opera ‘Nabucco’, Verdi included this song.
The dispossessed Jews represent Verdi’s own
Italians, who were being oppressed by Austria.
It's an anthem for exiles everywhere.)
Go, my thoughts, on golden wings
to where my feet would love to tread,
to where the blackbird of the twilight sings
as day subsides and shadows spread,
to where the gentle murmurings
of languid streams console the dead.
Oh my land, so fair, so lost!
All our troubles come from men.
Can the sunlight crack the frost?
Will I see my home again?
Carry me across the waves
to where my soul will sleep at peace,
to where the ageless architraves
disdain our turbulent caprice:
where none are owners, none are slaves,
and winter yields to summer's lease.
What better than a summer afternoon?
Where else, but on the trail to La Toscana?
Who is it mounts a mens that's not more sana,
devouring a voluptuous Verdi tune?
Which month might one elect, which isn't June?
I'll pass on Sassafrass and Lisdoonvarna,
to binge on bars, basilicas and Barna.
I like my treasures liberally-strewn.
You're cynical? Think pinnacles don't serve?
I can't agree. A twelvemonth of frustrations,
quotidian slap-downs and humiliations
are answered now. We've finally capped the curve.
The clouds will come again, of course, but verve
should also have its vestals. A libation!
Born in New York of Italian descent-
from childhood on- lasting still all these years,
Deep in my soul live the sounds of lament-
The drama of romance, fear, death, and tears.
The power, the movements, fill up my soul
Like thunder that roars to shake up the night;
So vibrant and flowing, lost in the role,
I listen to grasp each note with delight.
Emotional voices strike at my heart,
I'm filled with a depth I cannot explain-
The beauty, the sadness in every part
Bring stories to life that stir inner pain.
Yes, opera is a big part of me;
My favorites played again and again-
Puccini, Bizet and those of Verdi;
Of Tosca, Carmen, and best, La Boheme.
With musical dramas of life and death-
The singers stir feelings with every word.
Strong voices mingle to deepen my breath;
Emotions rise with each aria heard.
Born in New York of Italian descent-
My family loved and nurtured this art;
played records at home- with happy hours spent
at the Met- where opera lifted my heart.
Verdi Guiseppe Francesco
let melody &drama flow
A favourite of the opera crowd
with his music both soft&loud
"The Clementine"
for the plucking,
the Clementine
leaves were fresher back then
the light glistened stronger
each segment a morsel
a revision slow and deliberate
transcribed by Jerome
gates to be opened
and consumed
in latin passages
verdi vulgate ancient fruit
before the modern world
the meaning lost
for those lost
between orchards
of words, opened
before
the greater great war,
a harvest, the Q source
strange language
strange stories
some found
apocryphal,
the hidden
didymos Thomas,
buried by strict canons
revealed untrue
in that strange winter
the orchards
were all burned
(LadyLabyrinth / 2022)
apocryphal. Adjective
apocrypha. Noun
didymos/Greek, meaning.
Q Source
Thomas
Jerome
A radio aired an awful auld aria,
Astounding all my aged aural edifices
In eerie aura of araucaria trees
Aching angrily in a loud typhonic breeze.
My brain wanted to burrow to escape the pain
Of sounds as a warren of rabid jackrabbits
Digging to escape mangy slobbering coyotes
Howling hungrily in panting pursuit of prey.
Such a scratchy song, if played in the briny deep,
Would chase crazy-eyed kraken to the mountain tops.
Callas, Verdi and Puccini would flee their graves
For a screechy symphony of barbed wire sitars.
Praise be! The off button my shaking hands did find;
I woke up, pressing on my belly button hard.
lost,
the forest
surrounds..
sounds
of life
here
and
there
nature
in
the
natural..
a crescendo
of
reality
dawns
within
inspired by clip of Verdi Days of Wrath
"2:43AM: MONDAY"
there’s nothing to see here.
move it along.
last night I cried but no one
heard it.
I walked into my living room,
opened my record player and
played Verdi.
I was considering suicide.
I played it as loud as I
could but I could still hear
myself die.
that’s the thing about
suicide: it only matters if
someone cares.
but no one cares.
my woman is gone and
everything is razor blades
floating in the sky.
”you’re too skinny,” she
said, “when we get back on
our regular routine, I’m
gonna fatten you up.”
suicide and silence start
with an “s”.
as I walk on dead leaves
under the sun and wait for
lady death, my woman is
happiest without me.
in suicide, there is silence.
she has asked me to stop
talking.
I still might be able to make
her the happiest woman on
earth.
By: Chicano Eddie
Oh you painted lady's draw me in.
Floating in on your dreamy dusky wings.
You're the monarch of your glen.
Or a fancy pants , west coast lady .
Silhouetted against a silvery blue sky
or against a marine blue sea.
Your music for my eyes. "Verdi"
Gossamer winged paintings.
Beauty on an angels wings .
Name of a real butterfly in every line.
comp entry 09/01/2017
Land of Dante, Michelangelo, Vivaldi, Verdi, Vanvitelli and da Vinci;
there Julius Caesar spoke these victorious words," Vedi, vidi, vici."
From the majestic snow-capped Alps to the sun-scorched Sicily,
one is astonished by the sea and sky blending to unravel a mystery!
My gorgeous town lays among shady mountains that
protect it from storms and winds coming from the West;
its vast valley is overlooked by a stately, sturdy castle...
standing as a sentinel that made the invaders tremble.
Walk with me down the narrow paths flanked by pines, maples and firs
that lead to the scented and harmonious landscapes loved by Ovid,
and adored by Virgil who once saw them on his long travels;
and I being born there, makes me very enthusiastic and glad!
Not many have seen a splendid sunset stretching as far as Mount Vesuvius;
I stood on that breeze-caressed hill transfixed and vowed by the glorious
spectacle of rosy clouds as shrilling seagulls hovered over a harbor so calm;
I could almost see the swift, white sails returning from a sea still blue and warm!
LISTENING
it’s a given
old people are forgetful
every one says so
most old people will listen
and so they are infected
when one gets older
one naturally slows down
every one says so
most old people will listen
and their minds are infected
these few listened too
deaf beethoven wrote his ninth
einstein listened
verdi – 80 – wrote falstaff
they called it miraculous
the old just wither
they just wait around to die
listen to the crowd
some greats, too were listening
but it’s what they listened to
LISTENING
it’s a given
old people are forgetful
every one says so
most old people will listen
and so they are infected
when one gets older
one naturally slows down
every one says so
most old people will listen
and their minds are infected
these few listened too
deaf beethoven wrote his ninth
einstein listened
verdi – 80 – wrote falstaff
they called it miraculous
the old just wither
they just wait around to die
listen to the crowd
some greats, too were listening
but it’s what they listened to
LISTENING
it’s a given
old people are forgetful
every one says so
most old people will listen
and so they are infected
when one gets older
one naturally slows down
every one says so
most old people will listen
and their minds are infected
these few listened too
deaf beethoven wrote his ninth
einstein listened
verdi – 80 – wrote falstaff
they called it miraculous
the old just wither
they just wait around to die
listen to the crowd
some greats, too were listening
but it’s what they listened to
Limerick croisés : Once our Senorita from Sevilla – 11
Once our Senorita from Sevilla
Shed tears for Don Carlo in Opera
Touched by Verdi in heart
Present in Phillip’s Court
She could give her life for Isabella !
Oh ! How she cursed the Princess Eboli
Denounced hers-Inquisitor’s treachery
Upped her seat in Act IV
Hung around Exit Door :
Which caused King Phillip’s heirless Court to flee
So there she slept till the next performance
When tocsin rang the King’s comeuppance
Carlos Quinto’s grandson
All spruced-up as Mammon
Wed Senorita richer by tuppence !
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
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