I would still love to do more Handel. I think Handel was a fantastic composer. I did lots of Vivaldi, but it's also important to do the music of Handel, one of the greatest composers of the 18th century.
quote by Cecilia Bartoli
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Related quotes
It hurts
It hurts being me.
I want to break free.
I wish I could let go.
I wish I could move on.
I only wish I knew how.
I've lived with this for so long.
I only wish I could be strong.
What they did was wrong.
But still I let them win.
I cant put it where it belongs in the bin.
Please let me be me.
God help me win.
Please let me win the fight.
Even though it leaves me with fright.
And I fear the on going plight.
God it hurts to be me.
They say god dosent give you any more than you can handel.
So why can't I handel this?
It hurts It hurts.
IT HURTS
poem by Amy Louise Kerswell
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You listen to Handel operas, right? And there are a thousand of them, right? And they all sound alike. If I look back on my work, maybe it's the same thing.
quote by Isaac Mizrahi
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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What a wonderful thing it is to be sure of one's faith How wonderful to be a member of the evangelical church, which preaches the free grace of God through Christ as the hope of sinners If we were to rely on our works--my God, what would become of us
quote by George Frederick Handel
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Roll over Beethoven
She loves her classical music does Val
as Tchaikovsky helps her to unwind
then again so does Handel as well
and a bit of Stravinsky she doesn't mind.
She's in heaven listening to Bach
and dreamland to the sounds of Debussy
Mendelssohn sends her all of a quiver
but Borodin too so she's not that fussy.
Beethoven is another favourite though
but Ravel's Bolero she reckons is tops
she dances around her house when it's on
and even when she's down at the shops.
But she likes the volume up really high
especially when it's Mozart or Liszt
but this upsets her next door neighbour
who bangs on the wall with his fist.
So the next time you hear loud classical music
that'll probably be coming from Val Dohrens house
but don't worry she'll be doing her housework
while waltzing about to the sounds of Strauss!
poem by Kevin Halls
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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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One Lake
A flight on a lake is skidding like that,
A swanning obvious one, a skimming release
Of energetic gust and water, a water too late.
He is burdened by me, by my singing song
Of water and Handel like comfort an island.
His live is a sensible one, a swan’s life,
Identical to a bird that poisoned myself
By its wings and breast.
Why deader poultry catches my drift?
Because livers and heads too hairy
Are on the front of my memory.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Computerwelt
Interpol und Deutsche Bank, FBI und Scotland Yard
Interpol und Deutsche Bank, FBI und Scotland Yard
Flensburg und das BKA, Haben unsere Daten da
Flensburg und das BKA, Haben unsere Daten da
Nummern, Zahlen, Handel, Leute
Nummern, Zahlen, Handel, Leute
Computer Welt
Computer Welt
Denn Zeit ist Geld
Denn Zeit ist Geld
Interpol und Deutsche Bank, FBI und Scotland Yard
Interpol und Deutsche Bank, FBI und Scotland Yard
Finanzamt und das BKA, Haben unsere Daten da
Finanzamt und das BKA, Haben unsere Daten da
Automat und Telespiel
Leiten heute die Zukunft ein
Computer fuer den Kleinbetrieb
Computer fuer das eigene Heim
Reisen, Zeit, Medizin, Unterhaltung
Reisen, Zeit, Medizin, Unterhaltung
Computer Welt
Computer Welt
Denn Zeit ist Geld
Denn Zeit ist Geld
song performed by by Kraftwerk
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Came the Great Popinjay
CAME the great Popinjay
Smelling his nosegay:
In cages like grots
The birds sang gavottes.
'Herodiade's flea
Was named sweet Amanda,
She danced like a lady
From here to Uganda.
Oh, what a dance was there!
Long-haired, the candle
Salome-like tossed her hair
To a dance tune by Handel.' . . .
Dance they still? Then came
Courtier Death,
Blew out the candle flame
With civet breath.
poem by Dame Edith Louisa Sitwell
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Not Your Type Of Town
It will never be known as a cultural town
Where footballers and macho men vie for renown
In the pub one once spoke of Rembrandt someone asked who is he
If he does play football his name is strange to me.
If you cannot talk of work, farming, politics or sports and join your pub mates in a beer
This not your sort of town what business have you here
Though if you like line dancing and Country music that might be your saving grace
For these are the most cultural things that are known to the place.
If you talk of Beethoven or Handel they might ask who are they
For they must not be famous never heard of them anyway
Those we most admire play cricket or football
These are the people that we wish to recall.
If you are literary minded or a poet at heart
Or if you are one who is interested in art
Then this is a town you ought not to live in
For here you may not meet with similar kin.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Handel Concerto Grosso
it was like a meeting
of cats
the objective of which
is to bell the
dog
who among you has the courage to do the belling of the dog?
yes the meeting among brothers and sisters
before mother died
before father followed her
before my grandfather died
it is about land, money
it is all about inheritance
who would spend to the funeral without reimbursement?
who would shoulder the bills of their hospitalization using private funds?
none would do that
my youngest brother said they died and they have their own money
let them spend for themselves then
what i want is, he said, which inheritance is mine
that is all i need, who cares?
so who will take the bell of this dog's greed?
handel play on play on they are killing each other.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Theodora And Beruriah's Sister
The words for Handel’s “Theodora”
are not written in the Torah,
or even in the book they call
the gospels, or epistles Paul
wrote to the Romans and Galatians
and other gentiles whose persuasions
conflicted with his own. Their source
is neither classical nor Norse,
but comes from legends Christians told
about the martyrs in their fold.
Most of these martyrs met their death
with Jesus’ name upon their breath,
impressing Romans by their dying
joyfully, as if relying
on Jesus to provide them better
lodging with the First Begetter,
His Father who ruled heaven and
the still unholy Roman land.
They threatened Theodora with
a far worse fate, so goes the myth.
This fate all legends have reported
by martyrdom became aborted,
for only by her death could she
make such a fate be incompli,
since it involved the cruel loss
not of her life, as on a cross,
but her virginity within
a brothel––what a heinous sin
this seemed to her, and so she gave
her life her purity to save.
Her fate recalls that of a maid,
a famous sister Romans made
a prostitute like Theodora.
Horny men would come from fora
to visit her, sister-in-law
of Rabbi Meir, whose wise squaw
was Beruriah, who though he wedded
was, like all women, too light-headed:
this false charge led to suicide
because it caused her to backslide.
Her sister while in Rome would make
excuses like those wives who fake
a headache, thus remaining pure
till rescued by a saboteur,
the rabbi married to her sister.
In the brothel a resister
of all advances made by Romans,
she proved to him that she’d been no man’s
possession as unwilling harlot,
though widely advertized as starlet
whose famous father Romans knew
had burned because he was a Jew,
Teradyon’s son, a martyr burnt
because most of the Romans weren’t
as sympathetic as the man
who cooled him, burning, like a fan.
Like Beruriah’s sister, Theodora
avoided brothels. Was she more a
saint than Beruriah’s sister, since she died
while Beruriah’s sister lived? Decide
this question for yourself! Would Handel
for her have ever lit a candle
as he for Theodora did?
Perhaps not. He was not a Yid,
and wore a wig instead of peyos,
but did score Judas Maccabeus,
and Hannah, Jewish memsahib,
in one of his great oratorios
where Jewish heroes were victorious.
If he had known of Beruriah’s sister
as he did of the other story,
his “Theodora” might well have
been “Beruriah’s sister.” Please don’t laugh.
George Frederic was a man who could
have written both oratorio––and should
have done, but since he didn’t, I
tell both curricula vitae.
Inspired by a performance of George Frederic Handel’s penultimate oratorio, “Theodora, ” by the Bach Collegium San Diego, conducted by Richard Eggar, at the First Presbyterian Church in Santa Monica on June 28,2009. The excellent cast included Mireille Asselin (Theodore) , Darryl Taylor (Didymus) and John Polhamus (Valens) . The story of Beruriah that I discuss in the poem is mentioned in the Talmud (bAbodah Zarah 19b) .
© 2009 Gershon Hepner 6/29/09
poem by Gershon Hepner
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The Justice's Tale
Chauser
With them there rode a lustie Engineere
Wel skilled to handel everich waie her geere,
Hee was soe wise ne man colde showe him naught
And out of Paris was hys learning brought.
Frontlings mid brazen wheeles and wandes he sat,
And on hys heade he bare an leathern hat.
Hee was soe certaine of his gouvermance,
That, by the Road, he tooke everie chaunce.
For simple people and for lordlings eke
Hee wolde not bate a del but onlie squeeke
Behinde their backes on an horne hie
Until they crope into a piggestie.
He was more wood than bull in china-shoppe,
And yet for cowes and dogges wolde hee stop,
Not our of Marcie but for Preudence-sake--
Than hys dependaunce ever was hys brake.
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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To a Pianiste
I SAW thee once, I see thee now;
Thy pure young face, thy noble mien,
Thy truthful eyes, thy radiant brow;
All childlike, lovely, and serene;
Rapt in harmonious visions proud,
Scarce conscious of the audient crowd.
I heard thee when the instrument,
Possessed and quickened by thy soul,
Impassioned and intelligent,
Responded to thy full control
With all the treasures of its dower,
Its sweetest and its grandest power.
I saw and heard with such delight
As rarely charms our lower sphere
Blind Handel would not miss his sight,
Thy beauty voiced thus in his ear;
Beethoven in that face would see
His glorious unheard harmony.
poem by James Thomson
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What you ask?
A punctuation mark… Molten in wax
A shimmering flirtation within the night!
A 'dog's cock 'a flower like Devils Flax
With its yellow and orange tongue—alight!
In the Qin dynasty— the first made of whale fat.
(221-206 BC) . What you ask? O the simple earliest candle.
'And, peddled to princes not any wharf rat'
Used to compose; by George Frederick Handel.
It was an interjection a big 'bang'
Can you imagine their exclamation? !
When White ivory keys scented of ylang-ylang
Went; splat, splat, splat in golden summation.
A dazzling feat was their interjections
Now we have light let's answer many more questions.
............................... ...............
A 'dog's cock' and 'bang' are also names for a punctuation mark!
poem by Mark Heathcote
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One layer was certainly 17th century. The 18th century in him is obvious. There was the 19th century, and a large slice, of course, of the 20th century; and another, curious layer which may possibly have been the 21st.
quote by Clement Attlee
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The blues are like the fugue in 18th century. It's probably the music that belongs most to our time.
quote by Michael Tippett
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Flodleiet ligger udtørret
Flodleiet ligger udtørret
og bruges som Landevei;
Der er Marked og Handel, Disken
en Steen kun og Andet ei.
Der sælges Traad, stegte Snegle,
Vand, Jernkram, Cactussens Frugt;
Rundt om de udbrændte Bjerge
danne en Ramme smukt.
Bønder, bevæbned' med Bøsser,
og hver i Bæltet en Kniv,
Ride de vildkaade Muuldyr;
Der er en Færdsel, et Liv.
Pludseligt Bjergegnen skrækkes,
o hvilket Skybrud af Regn!
Alt i et Nu staaer forvandlet,
Fjeldstrømmen bryder hvert Hegn;
Alle flygte, Flodleiet
rummer ikke sin Flod,
Svulmende møllevands-voldsom,
raa, kaad i Overmod;
Cactus og Palmer den river
med sig i vildkaade Hast,
Dog ikke min Erindring,
den holder Billedet fast.
poem by Hans Christian Andersen
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The Courtship of the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo
I
On the Coast of Coromandel
Where the early pumpkins blow,
In the middle of the woods
Lived the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò.
Two old chairs, and half a candle,--
One old jug without a handle,--
These were all his worldly goods:
In the middle of the woods,
These were all the worldly goods,
Of the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò,
Of the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò.
II
Once, among the Bong-trees walking
Where the early pumpkins blow,
To a little heap of stones
Came the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò.
There he heard a Lady talking,
To some milk-white Hens of Dorking,--
''Tis the lady Jingly Jones!
'On that little heap of stones
'Sits the Lady Jingly Jones!'
Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò,
Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò.
III
'Lady Jingly! Lady Jingly!
'Sitting where the pumpkins blow,
'Will you come and be my wife?'
Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò.
'I am tired of living singly,--
'On this coast so wild and shingly,--
'I'm a-weary of my life:
'If you'll come and be my wife,
'Quite serene would be my life!'--
Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò,
Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò.
IV
'On this Coast of Coromandel,
'Shrimps and watercresses grow,
'Prawns are plentiful and cheap,'
Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò.
'You shall have my chairs and candle,
'And my jug without a handle!--
'Gaze upon the rolling deep
('Fish is plentiful and cheap)
'As the sea, my love is deep!'
Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò,
Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò.
V
Lady Jingly answered sadly,
And her tears began to flow,--
'Your proposal comes too late,
'Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò!
'I would be your wife most gladly!'
(Here she twirled her fingers madly,)
'But in England I've a mate!
'Yes! you've asked me far too late,
'For in England I've a mate,
'Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò!
'Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò!'
VI
'Mr. Jones -- (his name is Handel,--
'Handel Jones, Esquire, & Co.)
'Dorking fowls delights to send,
'Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò!
'Keep, oh! keep your chairs and candle,
'And your jug without a handle,--
'I can merely be your friend!
'-- Should my Jones more Dorkings send,
'I will give you three, my friend!
'Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò!
'Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò!'
VII
'Though you've such a tiny body,
'And your head so large doth grow,--
'Though your hat may blow away,
'Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò!
'Though you're such a Hoddy Doddy--
'Yet a wish that I could modi-
'fy the words I needs must say!
'Will you please to go away?
'That is all I have to say--
'Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò!
'Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò!'.
VIII
Down the slippery slopes of Myrtle,
Where the early pumpkins blow,
To the calm and silent sea
Fled the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò.
There, beyond the Bay of Gurtle,
Lay a large and lively Turtle,--
'You're the Cove,' he said, 'for me
'On your back beyond the sea,
'Turtle, you shall carry me!'
Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò,
Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò.
IX
Through the silent-roaring ocean
Did the Turtle swiftly go;
Holding fast upon his shell
Rode the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò.
With a sad primæval motion
Towards the sunset isles of Boshen
Still the Turtle bore him well.
Holding fast upon his shell,
'Lady Jingly Jones, farewell!'
Sang the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò,
Sang the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò.
X
From the Coast of Coromandel,
Did that Lady never go;
On that heap of stones she mourns
For the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò.
On that Coast of Coromandel,
In his jug without a handle
Still she weeps, and daily moans;
On that little hep of stones
To her Dorking Hens she moans,
For the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò,
For the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò.
poem by Edward Lear
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I feel that I belong to the 19th century. Some composers' music is very topical. It almost says, 'This is about what I read in newspapers yesterday.' Not mine.
quote by Gordon Getty
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A company of error
It’s fantastic
Everyone joys to watch it
Even all we do are breaking each others heart, crushing each others pride
It’s fantastic
Everyone loves to see it
It seems common sense is out of their head now
We like to cross each others path, we always in hot debate
But it’s fantastic
Everyone eager for more slapstick
We are falling to each others trap, running to each others map
It’s fantastic
Everyone craves for lots cry and weep
And we just have to close up the creep
It’s fantastic
Everyone has a blood of sadistic
It’s so obvious it can make a healthy man got sick
poem by Maria Sudibyo
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