Mount Edgcumbe
Here the descendants of Bosworth Field
built their Eden from forest, bracken, heath;
bred partridge, pheasant, boar and deer,
then cast their shadow of darkening fear,
stretched out their hands
and filled their woods with death.
Built Tudor house and Tudor fort,
enclosed the land with Tudor thought.
Four hundred years from that to this
carefully constructed wilderness.
No man-traps now to stumble on,
the deer remain, the boars are long since gone.
The Tudor rides are proletarian walks
where we can wander where the next road forks,
through oak and elm and beech and ash,
through hyacinths and primulas,
daffodils and camellias.
Down to where Lady Emma’s Cottage
slumbers in quiet decay.
But as for Lady Emma,
she has “left and gone away”.
poem by Brian Taylor
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The Autocrat for J.T.Ellison
History tells us Henry Tudor
was a kind man but much cruder.
Than any head of state to day.
He was the king and had his way.
He frequented the public stews
though people then held different views
Though Henry Tudor didn’t care
Nobody was brave enough to dare
to tell the king what he should do.
Athough there must have been a few
Who thought it inappropriate
behaviour for a head of state.
So what they thought was left unsaid
for critics often wound up dead.
03/11/2009
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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King Richard The Third
(1452—1485)
He was the last king of the House of York and last of the
Plantagenet dynasty. His deafeat at the battle of Bosworth
Field was the decisive battle of the War of the Roses.When
his brother Edward IV died in 1483, Richard was named Lord
Protector of the realm for Edward's son and successor, the
12-year-old King Edward V.The young king and his brother
were murdered in the Tower of London, on the orders of
Richard.
Shakespeare falsified Richard's memory
Appeasing his Tudor monarch's royal line
Claiming him unfit to be king, a bloody tyrant
With crown stolen on bloody Bosworth Field.
Richard was not born before his time
Hunchback, withered hand, dragging foot
But was of pleasing appearance, tall, strong
No withered hand, hunchback nor deformed limb.
He was a goodly king for his own dark times
Reigning two years, a brave warrior of the rose
Brother of a king, uncle to two young princes
Murdered, smothered in the Tower of London.
Betrayed by Baron Stanley on Bosworth Field
The turncoat traitor for the Tudor cause
Leading his Welsh army bringing King Richard down
Butchered, and buried naked in a farmer's dung heap.
poem by Colin Ian Jeffery
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I persist in performing.
quote by David Tudor
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A rumor without a leg to stand on will get around some other way.
quote by John Tudor
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Grasp Pluck A Flower
If my hand
were to reach out
grasp pluck a flower
to symbolize
a life concept,
what flower
would it be?
Be it possible
token taken
would achieve
immortality?
What value
the token?
What matter
the choice?
To be immortalized
dramatically in a play
the choice of a flower
scene in a churchyard!
Really, image an apocryphal
scene in the Temple Garden?
What flower do you choose?
With a life's struggle bursting
out from between the two lines,
English blood will slay English blood
in a series of deadly dynastic civil wars
fought in several, spasmodic battles
for a prize, for the throne of England.
How choose you? What say you now?
Be it the white rose? Be it the red rose?
Be ye for the White Rose of York?
Be ye for the Red Rose of Lancaster?
Your decision bore thirty years of war
for the pick of different coloured roses;
at the Temple Church, the banner of a
white boar, or red dragon to die under.
Was the choice of a rose of importance;
after the last battle was won? Henry VII
will combine the white and red roses; into
single red and white Tudor Rose; to found
the House of Tudor; to rule England and Wales;
for 117 years; to end these; Wars Of The Roses.
In beautiful images of nature,
framed also in cultural images,
so much may be achieved, in golden years,
saved, from wise lesson values of the past.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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I am perfectly willing for my music to exist with somebody else's taste.
quote by David Tudor
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Loudspeakers should be made to be destroyed and... disposable.
quote by David Tudor
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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In following their line through, and those of Plantagenet and Tudor, there is but little to soothe the mind.
quote by Charlotte Smith
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Performing is very much like cooking: putting it all together, raising the temperature.
quote by David Tudor
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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If you put yourself in a situation of unpredictability and then find that it's completely possible to accept it, then you become an observer.
quote by David Tudor
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I've never been able to arouse any interest in myself for digitally produced sound, and so the computer turns me off.
quote by David Tudor
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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All the fundamental concepts which make up the kind of people we are today had their modern conception in the Tudor and Stuart periods. For us, that's the milk in the coconut.
quote by Louis Booker Wright
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I've always felt that there's a point where a piece seems to be alive, that is, living. And that's the point where I know the composition is finished.
quote by David Tudor
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The basic notion was the idea that the loudspeaker should have a voice which was unique and not just an instrument of reproduction, but an instrument unto itself.
quote by David Tudor
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Most electronic equipment uses the principle of amplification. You need filters, modulators and mixing equipment which have gain stages. By piling these components up, I was able to work without any sound generators and I made several pieces in that manner.
quote by David Tudor
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Their hive [Stupul lor]
Their small hive, on glen below,
Is defended all around
By three poplars full of snow,
Rising from the snowy ground.
The beekeeper left them there
And the winter covered all –
Bringing sadness and despair –
With a nice embroidered shawl.
Yet, inside the cozy hive
All the bees, without delay,
As a single body strive
And work hard, day after day.
For they never toil alone
But together, all the time,
Buzzing on a lively tone
They make honey sweet, sublime.
poem by Tudor Arghezi, translated by Octavian Cocoş
Submitted by Octavian Cocoş
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Our House
IT should be yours, if I could build
The quaint old dwelling I desire,
With books and pictures bravely filled
And chairs beside an open fire,
White-panelled rooms with candles lit-
I lie awake to think of it!
A dial for the sunny hours,
A garden of old-fashioned flowers-
Say marigolds and lavender
And mignonette and fever-few,
And Judas-tree and maidenhair
And candytuft and thyme and rue-
All these for you to wander in.
A Chinese carp (called Mandarin)
Waving a sluggish silver fin
Deep in the moat: so tame he comes
To lip your fingers offering crumbs.
Tall chimneys, like long listening ears,
White shutters, ivy green and thick,
And walls of ruddy Tudor brick
Grown mellow with the passing years.
And windows with small leaded panes,
Broad window-seats for when it rains;
A big blue bowl of pot pourri
And-yes, a Spanish chestnut tree
To coin the autumn's minted gold.
A summer house for drinking tea-
All these (just think!) for you and me.
A staircase of the old black wood
Cut in the days of Robin Hood,
And banisters worn smooth as glass
Down which your hand will lightly pass;
A piano with pale yellow keys
For wistful twilight melodies,
And dusty bottles in a bin-
All these for you to revel in!
But when? Ah well, until that time
We'll habit in this house of rhyme.
poem by Christopher Morley
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Mr. Mine
Notice how he has numbered the blue veins
in my breast. Moreover there are ten freckles.
Now he goes left. Now he goes right.
He is building a city, a city of flesh.
He's an industrialist. He has starved in cellars
and, ladies and gentlemen, he's been broken by iron,
by the blood, by the metal, by the triumphant
iron of his mother's death. But he begins again.
Now he constructs me. He is consumed by the city.
>From the glory of words he has built me up.
>From the wonder of concrete he has molded me.
He has given me six hundred street signs.
The time I was dancing he built a museum.
He built ten blocks when I moved on the bed.
He constructed an overpass when I left.
I gave him flowers and he built an airport.
For traffic lights he handed at red and green
lollipops. Yet in my heart I am go children slow.
poem by Anne Sexton
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How to be a Good American
This snarling mass of cars go past at
Breakneck speed, each one containing
But a single harried drone, who dreams
Of home and rest, but knows that leaving
Work for suburb only means a different
Set of tasks. A brace of children wait
To go to soccer games and tap-dance
Classes. Just as well; the adage holds,
Some half-millennium away from when
Those English zealots came: in idleness,
Evil awaits, so work, so never pause for
Thought. In cash and phony Tudor
Houses is one's worth. One needn't
Read. One needn't understand a thing.
The point is to be moving always in a
Snarling mass.
poem by Lawrence Beck
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Drovers Twain
WHERE was no shadow on the land,
No cloud in heaven's dome,
When, bearded man and beardless boy,
Our hearts alight with morning joy,
Across the hills of Duckmaloi
We drove the cattle home.
The sunrays danced a merry jig
On grass and bracken brown;
And right and left, and left and right,
The magpies piped in sheer delight,
As over creekside flat and height
We drove the cattle down.
With fiery eyes and tossing horns,
And swaying sides and hips,
They moved — red hides and hides of black —
And ever, as they left the track,
We wheeled, and held, and drove them back
With shouts and cracking whips.
There is no joy in all the world
Of such a bloom and blush
As that the charging rider feels
When at some frenzied scrubber's heels,
His stockwhip making curves and wheels,
He thunders through the bush.
Knees gripping hard, he dashes on,
The swift wind in his hair;
Whate'er befall, whate'er betide,
All thought of peril thrust aside,
He feels the glory and the pride
Of those who finely dare.
The moving mob was mountain-reared
And mountain-bred and born,
Their hides of brand and marking clear —
As shy as deer, as swift as deer
Who over heath and highland hear
The huntsman's early horn.
And yet with dog and spur and whip,
Our horses flaked with foam,
The magpies singing all the while,
Through hour and hour and mile and mile,
For all their speed of hoof and guile,
We brought the cattle home.
A score of years has passed away,
Slow filing on, since then;
And Time, who knows no sparing ruth,
And Wisdom, armed with bitter truth,
Have tamed the heart of reckless youth
And greyed the beards of men.
Yet evermore, when cattle low
Across the bracken brown,
I see again that man and boy
As when, alight with morning joy,
Across the hills of Duckmaloi
They drove the cattle down.
poem by Roderic Quinn
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