Music
The neighbour sits in his window and plays the flute.
From my bed I can hear him,
And the round notes flutter and tap about the room,
And hit against each other,
Blurring to unexpected chords.
It is very beautiful,
With the little flute-notes all about me,
In the darkness.
In the daytime,
The neighbour eats bread and onions with one hand
And copies music with the other.
He is fat and has a bald head,
So I do not look at him,
But run quickly past his window.
There is always the sky to look at,
Or the water in the well!
But when night comes and he plays his flute,
I think of him as a young man,
With gold seals hanging from his watch,
And a blue coat with silver buttons.
As I lie in my bed
The flute-notes push against my ears and lips,
And I go to sleep, dreaming.
poem by Amy Lowell
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Related quotes
Flute Lads!
I flute the up and down of sun,
I flute the pallid moon,
I flute the rivers deep and wide
And down the merry tide.
I leave the rose so red
And pluck the lily white;
I flute upon my bed
And play into the night.
If I could flute forever
And play a merry tune,
Then I would know no sorrow
In April, May, and June.
So up and down the golden sun
And up the pallid moon,
Flute my lovely lads, flute,
In April, May, and June.
poem by Samuel Hardman
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In the spirit of Rumi - 27
‘O My Beloved –
I lose myself in the world’s distracting multiplicity,
yet cannot find the One in my restless mind –
I am in a desert place, a place of desolation… ’
My Beloved said
see the reeds, gently swaying like swooning dervishes
on the river bank, their feet in the water –
a man could sit for hours and watch them –
are they not beautiful?
See now the reed-flute, so carefully crafted,
waiting there to sound out sadness, love and joy –
is it not beautiful?
See the musician – how his eyes shine
with the music in his soul!
Is he not beautiful?
Hear the music that he plays –
telling its stories of life and death, of heaven and earth –
is it not beautiful?
Now watch him as he plays
the music which is himself
on the flute made from the willing reed –
am I not the One you hear in this?
I am beautiful in My Oneness;
I am beautiful in My multiplicity;
Is there a greater miracle than this?
And you, the witness of all this in Me –
is there a greater miracle than yourself?
poem by Michael Shepherd
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For me it's the instrument. If I want to think of a flute and the state of the arts I hear a vibrato; I don't know what a flute is unless the person plays it for me.
quote by Morton Feldman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The young man plays the flute, the middle aged man plays the harpsichord, the old man plays the organ.
Hey! I am so restless - Original by Rabindranath Tagore
Hey! I am so restless
I long for the Farthest!
Days go by one by one
I look through the window
To see if He has come –
I want His touch so very much!
O the Farthest, the huge Farthest
Your flute’s music makes me impressed
So I forget I have no wing
And this small earth is my address!
I am absent-minded!
O the huge Farthest
I am indifferent as if I am dead!
In the sunny idle day
Trees make sound and shadows play!
The sky seems like your blue eyes!
If you could come here to stay!
O the Farthest, the huge Farthest
Your flute’s music makes me impressed
So I forget my room is locked
It’s of no use to try my best!
poem by Asif Andalib
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Cocosuma
This is music for painful eyes And numb arms Trickles of
Electric guitar Flowing Cascading And then Caught By a flute
At the bottom A basin And both Join together In unexpected Harmony
The voice Of a beautiful Girl singing In between Mixing
intertwiningAs I take all the notes In my hands And wash All the music
In my face Like a Face towel
i am refreshed, Holy God, i am refreshed, i am feeling that
The pain Is gone.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Now I've been three days
Now I've been three days
In the place where I am staying,
I've taken up new ways—
Land-owning and flute playing.
There's an orchard ground
Seen, that set me sighing.
Should I give ten pounds,
It is mine for the buying.
With the door set wide,
I could sit there playing,
Send the magic notes
Through the gully straying.
Since the roof is sound
And the trees are growing,
I will give ten pounds,
All my gold bestowing.
Now I've been three days
In the place where I am staying,
I've taken up new ways—
Land-owning and flute playing.
poem by Lesbia Harford
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There was an Old Man with a flute,
A serpent ran into his boot;
But he played day and night,
Till the serpent took flight,
And avoided that man with a flute.
by Edward Lear from A Book of Nonsense (1846)
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Japa-yajna
Carrier wave; sine curve; you see it
on the heartscan lifescreen
in the intensive care ward
as if with no regard for you
it’s self-sufficient; sufficient to the self;
the same curve that the flute’s note makes onscreen,
pure as Krishna’s smile; his lips
making breath into sound
hear that, hear that which
runs day and night; repetition
that always never does repeat
and only when you’re still
will you know with Krishna
the sound of inner sacrifice
that never ends and yet
so pure it’s given beyond sought;
flute’s sound beyond all sound;
how still the room is now.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Spring Night in Lo-yang Hearing a Flute
In what house, the jade flute that sends these dark notes drifting,
scattering on the spring wind that fills Lo-yang?
Tonight if we should hear the willow-breaking song,
who could help but long for the gardens of home?
poem by Li Po, translated by Burton Watson
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Snakes
Open the basket
Listen to the flute play
Open the basket
Listen to the flute play
Toot toot toot play
Snakes in the basket
Lie to lead you astray
Snakes in the basket
Force to make you betray
Your innermost truth hidden away
Now you're falling down to the underground
Slither down to your lair
Hidden in the many trenches of a hopeless war
Those who were sold out by a corporate board
Carry the casket
Never mind the gun spray
Bury the casket
Pawns in someone's gameplay
Shoot shoot shoot obey
Now you're falling down to the underground
Slither down to your lair
Hidden in the many trenches of a hopeless war
Those who were sold out by a corporate board
Listen to the flute play
Listen to the flute play
Listen to the flute play
Subscription to the spreading of lies
Soldier catches a glimpse of his demise deep down inside
Even he knows snakes come in many shapes and sizes
Many shapes and sizes
Snakes have no hands to be tied
Concoction of malicious lies
Deep inside the general despises himself
Listen to the flute play
Another reptile in line
Snakes without grass cannot hide
Now you're falling down to the underground
Slither down to your lair
Hidden in the many trenches of a hopeless war
Those who were sold out by a corporate board
Now you're falling down to the underground
Slither down to your lair
Forked tongues spread the poison with another toxic sting
So much pain their serpentine inhibitions bring
Oh - listen to the flute play
Listen to the flute play
Listen to the flute play
Listen to the flute play
Open the basket
Open the basket
Listen to the flute play
Open the basket
Listen to the flute play
Listen to the flute play
Go ahead
Listen to the flute play
Open the basket
Oh - open the basket
song performed by by No Doubt from Beacon Street Collection
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Music of the porcupine musician
I wanted so much
to stroke his face
that he can see
how the music of the day
sparkle in freshwater
and as the notes
splash and plop
it would contain
the best melodies
but would I
be able to
do that now
that his words
are godless here
scorning lemonade
on trays
organ and accordion
he rattles
and rises
threatening
I know music
it's white and black
ringed pins it is
aardvark holes and tunnels
bark and bulbs
fruits and tubers it is
the flute's breath run out
the guitar's day tunes weary
the violin ceased to play
long before the day
could argue with the night
he started rattling his quills
rising heavy metal without guitar
will he ever know how notes
sparkle in soft water
once the loose long pins
of his comrades start
shooting randomly?
Lord Krishna said
Lord Krishna said once
"Come to me and take no chance"
Listen to the flute
It may dilute
Your hatred
And be never led
By wrong notion
That may break the nations
My flute may sing
Universal brotherhood songs
That may appeal
And make souls to regale
Listen to the music
It may form the basic
There is no hidden magic
It is the only one and unique
I am symbol of love and peace
That can be felt in early breeze
When birds make beautiful and lovely melody
The ears may love to hear to the tune of somebody
Love to hear for few minutes
It may enhance the power and dilute
All irrelevant thoughts in mind
Try for lovely and beautiful world to find
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Mozart Overture
this is quite different from
a trance
the music that curled in my sleep
on that soft blue sofa
foam, cotton, kapok softness
on my head some notes of
a lullaby
some notes getting into
my ears and my nostrils
a deep sleep
inhaling
this overture is quite different
it is the rising from this deep sleep of
kapok,
foamy softness
i rise and
stretch my hands to the ceiling
i wake up and
i hear
the notes come again like
dripping morning rain
from the nipa roof
falling on
some white pebbles
on my pavement
like my tears
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Book1 Prologue
Hearken to the reed-flute, how it complains,
Lamenting its banishment from its home:
'Ever since they tore me from my osier bed,
My plaintive notes have moved men and women to tears.
I burst my breast, striving to give vent to sighs,
And to express the pangs of my yearning for my home.
He who abides far away from his home
Is ever longing for the day he shall return.
My wailing is heard in every throng,
In concert with them that rejoice and them that weep.
Each interprets my notes in harmony with his own feelings,
But not one fathoms the secrets of my heart.
My secrets are not alien from my plaintive notes,
Yet they are not manifest to the sensual eye and ear.
Body is not veiled from soul, neither soul from body,
Yet no man hath ever seen a soul.'
This plaint of the flute is fire, not mere air.
Let him who lacks this fire be accounted dead!
'Tis the fire of love that inspires the flute, l
'Tis the ferment of love that possesses the wine.
The flute is the confidant of all unhappy lovers;
Yea, its strains lay bare my inmost secrets.
Who hath seen a poison and an antidote like the flute?
Who hath seen a sympathetic consoler like the flute?
The flute tells the tale of love's bloodstained path,
It recounts the story of Majnun's love toils.
None is privy to these feelings save one distracted,
As ear inclines to the whispers of the tongue.
Through grief my days are as labor and sorrow,
My days move on, hand in hand with anguish.
Yet, though my days vanish thus, 'tis no matter,
Do thou abide, O Incomparable Pure One! 2
But all who are not fishes are soon tired of water;
And they who lack daily bread find the day very long;
So the 'Raw' comprehend not the state of the 'Ripe;' 3
Therefore it behoves me to shorten my discourse.
Arise, O son! burst thy bonds and be free!
How long wilt thou be captive to silver and gold?
Though thou pour the ocean into thy pitcher,
It can hold no more than one day's store.
The pitcher of the desire of the covetous never fills,
The oyster-shell fills not with pearls till it is content;
Only he whose garment is rent by the violence of love
Is wholly pure from covetousness and sin.
Hail to thee, then, O LOVE, sweet madness!
Thou who healest all our infirmities!
Who art the physician of our pride and self-conceit!
Who art our Plato and our Galen!
Love exalts our earthly bodies to heaven,
And makes the very hills to dance with joy!
O Iover, 'twas love that gave life to Mount Sinai, 4
When 'it quaked, and Moses fell down in a swoon.'
Did my Beloved only touch me with his lips,
I too, like the flute, would burst out in melody.
But he who is parted from them that speak his tongue,
Though he possess a hundred voices, is perforce dumb.
When the rose has faded and the garden is withered,
The song of the nightingale is no longer to be heard.
The BELOVED is all in all, the lover only veils Him; 5
The BELOVED is all that lives, the lover a dead thing.
When the lover feels no longer LOVE's quickening,
He becomes like a bird who has lost its wings. Alas!
How can I retain my senses about me,
When the BELOVED shows not the light of His countenance?
LOVE desires that this secret should be revealed,
For if a mirror reflects not, of what use is it?
Knowest thou why thy mirror reflects not?
Because the rust has not been scoured from its face.
If it were purified from all rust and defilement,
It would reflect the shining of the SUN Of GOD.
O friends, ye have now heard this tale,
Which sets forth the very essence of my case.
Chasing The Sounds Of A Remembered Flute
Chasing the sounds of a remembered flute,
And not choosing a route from where to begin...
Can be unsettling for the one undecided,
If it was a piccolo used with an octave higher.
Or if the flute thought heard,
Was not in fact,
A clarinet?
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Nature Plays Music!
Nature plays game using sea, wind, tree, sky
Like fingers playing on the key board of piano!
Dashing waves, thudding waves, hissing waves
Are different notes of music of all Nature knows!
Oozing or howling sound is the music of storms;
Hissing sound of breeze is the music of spring
And many sounds of music produced by nature
Everybody cannot forget along with the smell sure!
Simple harmonic waves are the rhythmic beat music
Every heart and verse of poet has like the ticking time
Or the works of mind nonstop till the end of time here!
Wind passing through flute or saxophone is nice to hear
Like the vocalist produces various rhymes of music
Forming natural base for all songs we enjoy in life forever!
poem by Ramesh T A
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You got to play the flute as a flute, like that. You can't play like a tenor concept on soprano; it sounds wrong. But some guys do it, and they think it's O.K., but not so!
quote by Jerome Richardson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Nightingale Has A Lyre Of Gold
The nightingale has a lyre of gold,
The lark's is a clarion-call,
And the blackbird plays but a boxwood flute,
But I love him best of all.
For his song is all of the joy of life,
And we in the mad, spring weather,
We two have listened till he sang
Our hearts and lips together.
poem by William Ernest Henley
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118
mozart overture
this is quite different from
a trance
the music that curled in my sleep
on that soft blue sofa
foam, cotton, kapok softness
on my head some notes of
a lullaby
some notes getting into
my ears and my nostrils
a deep sleep
inhaling
this overture is quite different
it is the rising from this deep sleep of
kapok,
foamy softness
i rise and
stretch my hands to the ceiling
i wake up and
i hear
the notes come again like
dripping morning rain
from the nipa roof
falling on
some white pebbles
on my pavement
like my tears
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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