Without a sense of place the work is often reduced to a cry of voices in empty rooms, a literature of the self, at its best poetic music; at its worst a thin gruel of the ego.
quote by William Kennedy
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Homemade Music
Homemade music
By: jimmy buffett, michael utley, russell kunkel
1988
I ran into an old friend of mine in miami and I asked her where she had been all these years. she told me she had, died and gone to the suburbs. the next day I read where the japanes
Bought cbs records and figured that somehow these two events had to be related.
I aint no video king
I still have to sing
For my supper each night
You stand on the benches
I play in the trenches
Beneath the big spotlights
Lived in a suitcase for half of my years
I got strange little voices that live in my ears
Hall monster, mall monster
I cant be the old me no more
Chorus:
Homemade music aint on the radio
Homemade music searchin high and low
Homemade music where did all the good songs go
Cookin is a pleasure
Singin is a treasure
That most dont find
There aint no harm in tellin
I likes to eat my melon
Right on down to the rind
I had a hippie girlfriend when I was a kid
She died and went to the suburbs most of em did
Raisin puppies, having yuppies
Where did all the wild ones go
Chorus:
Homemade music aint on the radio
Homemade music jam it in, close the door
Homemade music where did all the good songs go
First there were records then cassettes and cds
Managers and lawyers then came the japanese
But homemade music still making sense to me
(sense to me, sense to me, sense to me)
Chorus:
Homemade music is funky and nice
Homemade music skates on very thin ice
Homemade music is part of my philosophy
Chorus:
Homemade music aint on the radio
Homemade music jam it in, close the door
Homemade music where did all the good songs go
Homemade music, give me my homemade music
Homemade music, should be on the radio
Dont dig that reglar bunk
The neville brothers got the funk
And homemade music should be on the radio
song performed by by Jimmy Buffett
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Place Is Consecrated
This place is consecrated, I am flustered
By you, who works wonders on my essence;
A fluorescent lamp manages tightly to be answered,
By the rooms of graveness, ones with affluence.
The flung lamp recognises us with intelligence,
We are sapient as an appearance of solidity;
Intellectual work or my line of business is an annoyance,
Licking the time, I swallow this alkalinity.
This place is consecrated due to us being pious,
Safety is a flyer of heaven, full of heaven;
The rooms of danger are not too featureless,
Fearful work has happened with a curtain.
poem by Naveed Akram
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As I grew up, I was interested in other areas, too, especially literature. It became a major love of mine. Later, it became a difficult choice for me as to whether to major in music or literature. It wasn't until my 30s that I began a profession in music.
quote by Tom Glazer
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Most recently we've been working in concert situations rather than clubs. because there aren't too many rooms there like Ronnie Scott's, that are pure music rooms, where people come specifically to listen to music.
quote by Chuck Mangione
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Music's Place
Music may not make the world go ‘round
But you will never really be alive
If it doesn't orbit your world
Music exists in every corner of the world
In that sense music doesn't have a place
But everywhere you go there is a place for music
Music is the great connector of the world
One's language is not a barrier for communicating
For music is universal and all instruments get along
Music is not a necessity, unless you are a musician
But life without music is almost unthinkable
On second thought, maybe music does make the world turn
poem by Paul H Nelson
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Almost Poetic
It's almost poetic
The way you speak
It's almost poetic
The way you think
The way you sleep and dream
It's almost poetic
The way I feel for you
It's almost poetic
The way we argue
It's almost poetic
When we say goodbye
Not knowing the next time
We'll see each other
You are the curved line
And I am the dot
That creates the question mark..
And it's almost poetic
If it were not so pathetic.
poem by Jeremy Rascon
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Novims Nightmare
Once I had a dream, that worried me
Like a drunken guillotine
Lingering just above my head
Why, why, why, why?
Why was I born the nine
Cursed repeatedly
Who would know if I should die.
No one needed me
Doo doo doo doo doo
Dark and empty was the place to which Id come
Cold and silent was the house my name was on
Nine rooms and a tomb in every one
Sdark and empty was the place to which Id come
All at once my bones began to change
I was tall and young again,
Sweet as rain falling on the snow
Who, who, who, who?
Who is he, who am i, and
What laid in between?
How can I say goodbye? no one let me in
Cant see no need for nine no more
Now its too late to open the door.
song performed by by Cat Stevens
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Pure Music
Pure music tells no clichéd tale
concerning God or love or conquering sword;
it is composed in that fair higher scale
of consciousness where facts may be ignored.
Opera is music that’s adulterated
by literature we call scenario and libretto;
like music we should keep our feelings understated,
not trading them like merchants in a Venice ghetto.
Edmund White writes about the way he prefers to write to the accompaniment of music in the NYT, June 18,2001 (“Before as Rendezvous with the muse, First Select the Music”) . He writes:
Unlike fiction, music is not about mothers-in-law or failed marriages. Of course opera and ballet and program music can be narrative but only because they are adulterated by literature, the libretto or scenario.
6/18/01,11/6/09
poem by Gershon Hepner
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The function of literature, through all its mutations, has been to make us aware of the particularity of selves, and the high authority of the self in its quarrel with its society and its culture. Literature is in that sense subversive.
quote by Lionel Trilling
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Every man's work, whether it be literature or music or pictures or architecture or anything else, is always a portrait of himself.
quote by Samuel Butler
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Every man's work, whether it be literature, or music or pictures or architecture or anything else, is always a portrait of himself.
quote by Samuel Butler
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A Pen Gone Dry
Barren fields…empty places
Mind devoid of idea and rhyme
Sterile imagination…featureless faces
Webs in memories, frozen in time
Fingers flaccid, mind unwilling
Heavy lies this heart of mine
Creative forces not fulfilling
Empty flask of poetic wine
Dried up source of poetic spring
Used up store of poetic phrases
Emptied purse with untied string
Like worn out shoes and old frayed laces
Time away… might grow the field
Time away… might fill the empty places
Perhaps time will let the emptiness yield
To imagination…and full featured faces
Now...inkwell empty
Tear in eye
Pristine paper
Pen... gone dry...
poem by David Whalen
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Sometimes The Veil So Thin
Sometimes the veil is so thin
I can sense your eyes
Sometimes the veil is so thin
I can feel your smile
We are anointed and appointed
For this time and place
To share our love and your grace
Sometimes the veil is so thin
I can hear what you say
Sometimes the veil is so thin
I don’t think I can wait another day
We are anointed and appointed
For this time and place
To share our love and your grace
Sometimes the veil so thin
I can feel the truth for miles
Sometimes the veil so thin
There can be no denial
We are anointed and appointed
For this time and place
To share our love and your grace
poem by Brian Kilpatrick
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Your Own Worst Enemy
Its your own worst enemy
Ringing the bell on the door
And the person inside says nobodys home
So your own worst enemy peeks inside
And sees you softly weeping as some music fills the room
And the song they play
Is that guy with the messed up face
Going, precious and few are the moments that you
And your own worst enemy share
Full bottle in front of me
Time to roll up my sleeves
And get to work
And after many glasses of work
I get paid in the brain
And the song they play
Is that guy with the messed up face
Going, precious and few are the moments that you
And your own worst enemy share
And the song they play
Is that guy with the messed up face
Going, precious and few are the moments that you
And your own worst enemy share
Its your own worst enemy
song performed by by They Might Be Giants
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Critical Readers
Critical emptiness I perceive
From some readers
They have no idea of entertainment
Only masters of displaying envious resentment
My words give you no right to talk
And make unnecessary comments that suck
Why such negativity
When all I share with all is my creativity
Critical readers
Before you key in words of condemnation
Into my commentary space
Be sure to be an established Poetic Leader
For if I look into your poetic page
And see only an empty hopeless space
Or a few pieces of poems hanging loosely
All over the place
I will only say, you are an ultimate disgrace!
When I write, I do so to entertain, not to get advise from wannabe Train the Trainers. My poem What is music to you is a fantastic poem to me. If you don't like it, keep your fingers in your pocket.
poem by Sylvia Chidi
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A Walk Within A Dream
I saw a building old as days
With countless rooms laid within
Walls with cracks and ivy rose
From the earth before me
Slowly I entered that place
Air ran heavy, thick to my lungs
With each taken step
I walked the rooms and halls
Some bare stripped of life
Others as though never touched
Some like a memory kept
Where instruments of music
Lay dust covered, silent
Still brought a song to thought
I saw paintings and pictures
Rich in a veil of colour
Like all the seasons held at once
A beauty found, celebrated
Then a sadness felt
In the shadowed halls
Empty with a loneliness
Another room had windows
Where a wind whistled through
I heard a birdsong carried
It passed in a second step
I thought no more of it
I descended and climbed stairs
Became lost and yet found
I knew this place well
However strange it came to me
Yes I knew this place
I felt the walls, ageless
I smelt the air, familiar
The ground beat to a pulse
A rhythm only I knew
On this my first visit
To that building which once rose
I felt at home, comforted
I looked back became held
As though I had never moved
The entrance still behind me
In spite of all the rooms and halls
Which I had walked
In spite of every step I counted
Numberless, countless, endless
I remained unmoved
Yet moved still moved
My eyes closed I felt myself pulled
Away from that old building
The rooms and walls
The cracks and the climbing ivy
That whistling wind
The music and colour
I awoke and thought
Had I walked a dream
Built upon my heart, soul, mind
Had I just walked myself
No answers came
I lay awake lost in thought
poem by Matthew Holloway
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A World That Makes You Wonder
There are people, mainly bosses
who get rid of the best
and replace them with the worst.
Hoping that the worst
are going to perform miracles,
but all they do is drag the firm down.
In education, the worst
are applauded and awarded
for wasting money
that should be used
for furthering education.
Bring it up to higher standards.
Yet if you work hard,
you are chastised for doing so.
The Government will bend over backwards
to help those who never want to work.
However, those who do work hard
normally end up on a minimum wage.
My conclusion to all this is,
well it is very simple.
They lazier you are,
the better thought of you are.
You will get all the praise and benefits.
Work hard and they will just use you
to do the work the lazy ones should do.
4 June 2008
poem by David Harris
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The God Abandons Anthony
When suddenly, at midnight, you hear
an invisible procession going by
with exquisite music, voices,
don't mourn your luck that's failing now,
work gone wrong, your plans
all proving deceptive -- don't mourn them uselessly.
As one long prepared, and graced with courage,
say goodbye to her, the Alexandria that is leaving.
Above all, don't fool yourself, don't say
it was a dream, your ears deceived you:
don't degrade yourself with empty hopes like these.
As one long prepared, and graced with courage,
as is right for you who were given this kind of city,
go firmly to the window
And listen with deep emotion, but not
with whining, the pleas of a coward;
listen -- your final delectation -- to the voices,
to the exquisite music of that strange procession,
and say goodbye to her, to the Alexandria you are losing.
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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The God Abandons Antony
At midnight, when suddenly you hear
an invisible procession going by
with exquisite music, voices,
don't mourn your luck that's failing now,
work gone wrong, your plans
all proving deceptive--don't mourn them uselessly:
as one long prepared, and full of courage,
say goodbye to her, to Alexandria who is leaving.
Above all, don't fool yourself, don't say
it was a dream, your ears deceived you:
don't degrade yourself with empty hopes like these.
As one long prepared, and full of courage,
as is right for you who were given this kind of city,
go firmly to the window
and listen with deep emotion,
but not with the whining, the pleas of a coward;
listen--your final pleasure--to the voices,
to the exquisite music of that strange procession,
and say goodbye to her, to the Alexandria you are losing.
poem by Gaius Valerius Catullus
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Shared Loneliness
A house is empty if you're alone.
Its rooms are too quiet for it's known
loneliness too, just like you.
It echoes with hollowness
and creaks with despair
for the lone figure it houses
has no one to share
its rooms.
It hears the steps of the solitary one.
It hears the sighs that weigh like a ton
on its floors and walls
where the sadness crawls.
It longs to be filled
with conversational tones
filling up its rooms.
The bedroom is lonely
and the living room too.
The kitchen has a setting for one
and only one cup of coffee to brew.
These rooms can house all of the pain
that lonesomeness brings and still remain
loyal to the one who's alone.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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