Mozart has written opera, symphony, sacred and chamber music - not to mention his piano and violin concerti.
quote by Neville Marriner
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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For All Pianos All Around The World
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anno piano twenty twelve
poem by Nicolas Grenier
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A Music Eternal Is Divine!
Trumpet and drum music denote military band;
Guitar and piano music denote melodious score;
Clarinet and flute music denote pastoral melody;
Violin and all organ music denote symphony fine;
Jazz, maestro and symphony musics make all high!
Music acts as background for joy, sorrow and war;
Music makes all moods for man to move on in life;
Music creates a world of love, dream and fantasy;
Music as love has no beginning and end in influence;
Music whether East or West is divine as Nature is!
Confluence of Nature, music and dance is divine beauty
That elevates human spirit to divine spirit eternally!
poem by Ramesh T A
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Amadeus Mozart, con.k-365
What they adore
Is his genius
His music
Soaring to the heavens
Without so much
Effort
Effortlessly magnificent
Amadeus Mozart
And his music
Tossing me
From sea cap to sea cap
In my sea dreams
Piano notes ruffling
Like the windy beach
Waffling to the shore
Piano notes
Trickling
On my window pane
Like a soft rain
Playful
To the vines
On my window pane
What they adore
Is his genius
Soaring to the heavens
I envy him
Amadeus Mozart
His music grows like a river forever flowing
I do not mind if in there I drown
And die with a single note
He died in the sea drinking all the salty notes
Of Amadeus Mozart
Dehydration in the most musical fashion.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Unheard Music
Unheard Music (Mozart)
The fingers on my left hand move all by themselves
like they are playing piano that produces music
I cannot hear. I watch my fingers play but it makes no
sense so I try to stop by holding them still with my
right hand’s fingers. So I sit like a vicar contemplating
the Sunday sermon, a mild one who hasn’t an arsenal
of fire and brimstone speeches, but would rather talk
about the coming spring. My wife brings me a glass of
water and a pill, fingers rest, but I would liked to have
heard the music they played, for all I know it could
have been music brought to me in a dream by Mozart
who died so young that he can’t believe it yet, and
tries trough, me to play his latest masterpiece.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Symphony Of Music
music has away of projecting
your every-emotion that you
have to give, the art of music
lives inside every-one that wants
to follow it.
the sorrow that it has
gives a symphony of words,
to express the inner-emotions
that music has to expose to
us as we listen to it.
the symphony of music
impacts us as we listen
and compassionately take
it to heart, as we start
becoming involved with
the symphony of music that
is being produced to us.
some-how the art of
music takes us by the
hand and moves us in so
many different ways that we
can't even explain to any-one
that is around us.
we take the symphony of
music as it moves through
us, as we listen with an open
heart and an open mind, and find
the boundaries that combines our
very emotions, thoughts, and feelings,
with the symphony of music that reveals
to us a whole new world of music to
us and being the people of the world.
but what people don't
understand and realise is
that the symphony of music,
goes deeper than what they
had imagined it to go, and
some-how not to show this
bittersweet side of me and
what the symphony of music
does to me and my feelings.
and to have it some-how
over-flowing inside my
veins is some-thing that
i will never-ever talk about
with any-one who knows and
loves me.
poem by Erie Diane
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Lost In Music
LOST IN MUSIC
every night she liked
to take off her clothes to
Hungarian Rhapsody
she would bathe
every second Sunday
in Mozart's Symphony No.40
curiously she
would fall asleep to
The Flight of the Bumblebee
her every activity
scored to a music
she adored
mute
she let the music
speak for her
happy
trapped inside
her world of music
sometimes I glimpsed her
staring out from behind the bars
of musical notes
poem by Dónall Dempsey
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The Piano Lurched
Contact was sharp…
I jolted from immediacy of senses torn from mind:
Such was I at unawares with you –
To strike with Master’s single chord that pounced and caught me blind –
Piano, how you lurched and rent me through!
Delightful music welcomed me to drift in quasi-syncope:
Soft tranquillo sought to rest my bones –
I glided reaching largo; sang with sweet cantabile, and
Forte let me in to louder tones.
I cried with lacrimoso; squirmed when agitato flared;
My hearing rang when fingers danced the trill.
And so it was, this maestro grand was genius declared –
Acting out in music for the thrill.
Translating pen to piano, this player takes me back thro’ time…
In the chamber, fine composers charm:
I watch the manic hands of Liszt abound with tunes sublime;
Mozart teased my mood with stark alarm.
Then entered Bach to demonstrate his mathematic flare,
Calculating notes supreme of form.
And I – the minion audience – sat wanting in my chair,
Having heard my idols all perform.
Did Darwin’s theory tell at all why Man evolved this way?
Why would music help him to survive?
But scientific muse had veered my thoughts from this display, and
Music called: ‘Just listen - you’re alive! ’
The maestro draws conclusion; lets the piano die a death
To stand as wood, inert just as before –
A pollished casket lined with keys, at calm from naught of breath,
Bade me scream: ‘Bravo! ’ and ‘Hail! Encore! ’
He wakes the box to dance again with noble works of art:
Resurrected; fully primed with zest.
Now even I was back to life with reason in my heart –
Heightened from the pounding in my chest.
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2009
All rights reserved
music music music music music music music
music music music music music music music
music music music music music music music
music music music music music music music
music music music music music music music
poem by Mark R Slaughter
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That was my way, and I also use the music after five years, I started hearing opera, opera, it was very good instrument to keep the spirit very strong because you feel like you are yourself singing opera, and I used to hear a lot of opera, they send me tapes.
quote by Mordechai Vanunu
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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When Finally I Wanted To Rock
at 49
i surprise myself and the rest of those who are watching:
i want to rock
i want to seal my ears with bass and drum music.
i want to bind myself with the electronic guitar strings.
i want to jump and stamp my feet on the solid
rock, i wan to be deaf and be dumb,
and be the subject of their talks
in the market and in the church,
i want to be shamed, and be the object of their
ridicule. i want to laugh the hardest like a
big rock falling from a cliff
and crushing hard on the sea with
splashes like cyclones but then
at 49, it is too late,
it has gone beyond the page of the calendar
and it is too late.
Solitude found me. And there was only Mozart
with his soft piano
his violin on a wintry day.
i sit on a
rock and keep on waiting.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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That Music Extraordinaire, Mozart
That music extraordinaire, Mozart,
Who from his tender days, played with desire
Musical from the bottom of his heart.
Sweet notes from his music he did impart
That captivated audience to admire
That music extraordinaire, Mozart,
Whose tones can set an emotion to start
With a charm to have their hearts raised on fire
Musical from the bottom of his heart.
With pleasant pace from his great style of art
Is such that shows he was such a live wire,
That music extraordinaire, Mozart,
Whose harmony when heard is nice and smart
Can cheerfully raise hearts to go much higher
Musical from the bottom of his heart.
Joy occurs from such wonders that does chart
In tremendous ways that truly inspire.
That music extraordinaire, Mozart,
Musical from the bottom of his heart.
poem by Obinna Kenechukwu Eruchie
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Lonely Dancefloor
The Pangs of death
Shroud me in mystery
I am so lonely
Left to dance alone
as always as myself
And that's dangerous
Seeing the fangs
of loneliness To me
It's too much, So
I am ding inside
In my brain
and in my soul
it is like you see me
On A Lonely dancefloor
dancing to the maestro
of the sad Lonely music
that rings to blacken me
within my heart
the bells of loneliness toll
I am losing the will to live
I still dance alone, on the
Maestro's Lonely Dancefloor
at Least untill you save my
Lonely, heart and soul
A Sad sour Violin plays
with sour and sadding piano
song, The lonely Waltz is
Playing, until you save me
Get me out this lonely place
Or the Lonely sour Flute will play
I cry the moment this
sad symphony plays
The sad violins, Piano,
Flutes and Piccolos
Play the sting of lonely
defeat, I want you, Near me, when it does.
Get me out this music hall of sadness
And into the cheerful Lad of the living
Spare from the death of it all
My Heart and soul, forever more
I only want your friendship
So I may happily dance again/
poem by Ashleigh Leona Mellon
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In Full Volume
It started out with a violin,
bow drawn steadily across the strings.
With a haunting tune it did begin,
to delight me, which such music brings.
Now joining in with this gentle strain,
a lone flute took up the melody.
Its bright notes enriching the refrain,
creating a honeyed symphony.
Entire orchestra in full volume,
brought other instruments into play.
What powerful vibes suffused the room.
An overwhelming concertante.
This harmony of glorious sounds,
all bursting forth from the piano’s keys.
made me listen. How it all astounds,
this perfect piece, one of Vivaldi’s.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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About My Very Tortured Friend, Peter
he lives in a house with a swimming pool
and says the job is
killing him.
he is 27. I am 44. I can’t seem to
get rid of
him. his novels keep coming
back. “what do you expect me to do?” he screams
“go to New York and pump the hands of the
publishers?”
“no,” I tell him, “but quit your job, go into a
small room and do the
thing.”
“but I need ASSURANCE, I need something to
go by, some word, some sign!”
“some men did not think that way:
Van Gogh, Wagner—”
“oh hell, Van Gogh had a brother who gave him
paints whenever he
needed them!”
“look,” he said, “I’m over at this broad’s house today and
this guy walks in. a salesman. you know
how they talk. drove up in this new
car. talked about his vacation. said he went to
Frisco—saw Fidelio up there but forgot who
wrote it. now this guy is 54 years
old. so I told him: ‘Fidelio is Beethoven’s only
opera.’ and then I told
him: ‘you’re a jerk!’ ‘whatcha mean?’ he
asked. ‘I mean, you’re a jerk, you’re 54 years old and
you don’t know anything!’”
“what happened
then?”
“I walked out.”
“you mean you left him there with
her?”
“yes.”
“I can’t quit my job,” he said. “I always have trouble getting a
job. I walk in, they look at me, listen to me talk and
they think right away, ah ha! he’s too intelligent for
this job, he won’t stay
so there’s really no sense in hiring
him.
now, YOU walk into a place and you don’t have any trouble:
you look like an old wino, you look like a guy who needs a
job and they look at you and they think:
ah ha!: now here’s a guy who really needs work! if we hire
him he’ll stay a long time and work
HARD!”
“do any of those people,” he asks “know you are a
writer, that you write poetry?”
“no.”
“you never talk about
it. not even to
me! if I hadn’t seen you in that magazine I’d
have never known.”
“that’s right.”
“still, I’d like to tell these people that you are a
writer.”
“I’d still like to
tell them.”
“why?”
“well, they talk about you. they think you are just a
horseplayer and a drunk.”
“I am both of those.”
“well, they talk about you. you have odd ways. you travel alone.
I’m the only friend you
have.”
“yes.”
“they talk you down. I’d like to defend you. I’d like to tell
them you write
poetry.”
“leave it alone. I work here like they
do. we’re all the same.”
“well, I’d like to do it for myself then. I want them to know why
I travel with
you. I speak 7 languages, I know my music—”
“forget it.”
“all right, I’ll respect your
wishes. but there’s something else—”
“what?”
“I’ve been thinking about getting a
piano. but then I’ve been thinking about getting a
violin too but I can’t make up my
mind!”
“buy a piano.”
“you think
so?”
“yes.”
he walks away
thinking about
it.
I was thinking about it
too: I figure he can always come over with his
violin and more
sad music.
poem by Charles Bukowski
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Violin
Four strings across the bridge,
Ready to carry me over,
Over the quavers, drunk in the bars,
Out of the realm of the orchestra,
Out of the realm of the orchestra.
Filling me up with the shivers.
Filling me up with the shivers and quivers.
Filling me up with the shivers.
Get the bow going!
Let it scream to me:
Violin! violin! violin!
Get the bow going!
Let it scream to me:
Violin! violin! violin!
Paganini up on the chimney,
Lord of the dance,
With nero and old nicky.
Whack that devil
Into my fiddlestick!
Give me the banshees for b.v.s,*
Give me the banshees for b.v.s.
Jigging along with the fiddle, oh, johnny.
Jigging along with the fiddle-dee-dee.
Jigging along with the fiddle, oh, johnny.
Jigging along with the fiddle-dee-diddle-dee-dee!
Get the bow going!
Let it scream to me:
Violin! violin! violin!
Get the bow going!
Let it scream to me:
Violin! violin! violin!
Get the bow going!
Let it scream to me:
Violin! violin! violin!
Get the bow going!
Let it scream to me:
Violin! violin! violin!
song performed by by Kate Bush
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A pencil sketch of Mozart
It’s a snapshot, except
before the age of the camera
yet more of a decisive moment
than any posed painting;
as any photographer,
lighting director, would see,
he’s next to you, could be
round about the fifth row back
of the stalls;
looking so straight ahead
that it doesn’t seem to be
the stage box; and it must surely be
a grand theatre, the lighting’s strong
on his white neck-stock,
his powdered hair, even catching
the lower white of his focussed eye;
he all there, he’s all here, and
attentive as a critic; the opera,
as it surely is, is playing and engages
all his faculties; and yet
there’s an appreciation
holding his lips far from the
childish joke, the poverty, the family deaths,
or even from the unimaginable creation
of music that speaks of something
deep in human hearts, speaks
of something beyond the human heart.
He’s listening to the music
as if he’d never heard it before yet
you can see it’s all inside him, too -
whatever ‘inside’ means
to genius;
it’s Mozart, there beside you
as you sketch him; as the
music you’re not watching
as you watch him and your pencil -
the music is telling you
what life’s about; and more.
Back to the sketch, with all the care you muster -
this will be the record for a thousand years
of watching Mozart listening
to the music of his self.
*
(revised)
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Music To Burn
He writes so many sheets of music,
Ideas bouncing around his head,
But financial times are hard,
And he has music to burn,
He needs those keys just right,
He needs to know what he is doing,
And not just rely on blind instinct,
Because he needs this money,
That only a musical score can make,
And ideas are something that he will take,
So he starts writing,
Thinking about the stars who will sing,
His melody that will be in history,
That will be popular with the public,
For this is how he makes his living,
He can't afford not to have ideas,
So he needs his muse,
A muse that won't leave him,
Burning his music in frustration,
He just needs a key and the right note,
To make his song a song everyone will love,
So he puts down this pen,
And retreats to his piano,
Then he pictures a violin and plays,
The piano turns into magic beneath his fingers,
The melody flowing from his mind,
And intuition and instinct stop him being blind,
And he plays and plays, writing on his music sheet,
And knows his muse has not yet deserted him,
And will, at least, make this song a success,
With music he doesn't need to burn.
poem by Paula Glynn
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the Joy Of Music
-THE JOY OF MUSIC -
The violin sang so softly
In the hands of this old man
As he sat there on the wooden stool
Bow held gently in his hand.
His wife played grand piano
Sweet music they did make
As from the hard work of the fields
This respite, they would take.
Gentle music of God's praise
They played for all to hear.
The sweetest music in the land
Was falling on God's ear.
They passed along that joyous sound
To children they did bare
The most relaxing trait of all
The gift of music rare.
And now throughout the generations
Which do continue to abound
We hear the perfect notes and glorious songs,
The joy of music does resound.
Author: Carolyn Ford Witt
2-11-07
By Ms. Caroline
poem by Carolyn Ford Witt
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Valentine Tweets
Hi, are you my valentine?
If not, why I hear this symphony of silence—
Playing secretly drums in my heart:
Playing the piano strings over my emotions?
2
Hey, are you my valentine?
If not, why am I lost in your eyes
Swimming deep into your mind lake
Searching for my lost other half?
3
Oh, are you my Valentine?
If not, why this effervescence of excitement
Lights array of lamps in our eyes
Linking us in a luminescent loop?
4
Oh, Ho, are you my valentine?
If not, why emotions liquefy into tears
Why the rays of light draw rainbows in them
Why am I humming rhyme-less rhymes?
And singing lyric-less lyrics to please you?
5
Hey, hi, are you my valentine?
If not, why am I painting this silent symphony?
Composing music for the throbbing emotions?
Why am I finding harmony in the fusion of minds?
6
Hi, hey, are you my valentine
If not, why I miss you more than my I-phone
Why missing you more than my Facebook and tweets?
7
In the fusion of music
Being played out of the cacophony of feelings
Why are we feeling the fusion of love
Why are we enjoying the symphony of love
Why are we in bliss
You must be truly my valentine!
*******
poem by Kp. Shashidharan
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If We Let Mozart Play Like A Beggar
if we let Mozart
play the violin
like a beggar
in one of the busy
streets in India
or even in New York
subways
he too will go
unnoticed.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I still the love classic period, but also the baroque period, and even 17th-Century music such as the music of Monteverdi. He's one of the greatest opera composers. He was the one who really started the opera.
quote by Cecilia Bartoli
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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