Softened Sounds
Muted music from the brass horn
drowns out the way the notes were born.
Tinny, not full with rounded tones
sounding to me like quiet moans.
Uncover the flare. Let the horn blare
the way it was meant to be.
If you wish to hear quiet melodies
let the hands play soft ivories.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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A Hand Begins To Talk
A hand begins to talk
a composer's hand
searching for the tit
up a narrow staircase of music full of go
*
This soft piece of a wet-nurse
hangs heavily nutritious down in the morning darkness
all faithful fans drawn towards it with force
this yellow sorcery milk of music
*
Blow horn long morning
a long horn's morning wind
easy tones of air for wings to beat
*
I put on my own music / I dress well in music of mine
my brow is a warming loudspeaker for the music to well out of
a freindly touching bass
poem by Mikael Ejdemyr
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Hernani
Cistercians might crack their sides
With laughter, and exemption get,
At sight of heroes clasping brides,
And hearing--O the horn! the horn!
The horn of their obstructive debt!
But quit the stage, that note applies
For sermons cosmopolitan,
Hernani. Have we filched our prize,
Forgetting . . .? O the horn! the horn!
The horn of the Old Gentleman!
poem by George Meredith
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A Fairy Hunt
Who would hear the fairy horn
Calling all the hounds of Finn
Must be in a lark's nest born
When the moon is very thin.
I who have the gift can hear
Hounds and horn and tally ho,
And the tongue of Bran as clear
As Christmas bells across the snow.
And beside my secret place
Hurries by the fairy fox,
With the moonrise on his face,
Up and down the mossy rocks.
Then the music of a horn
And the flash of scarlet men,
Thick as poppies in the corn
All across the dusky glen.
Oh! the mad delight of chase!
Oh ! the shouting and the cheer !
Many an owl doth leave his place
In the dusty tree to hear.
poem by Francis Ledwidge
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Love Is Like A Big Brass Band
For our first time together I wanted everything to be just right
I prayed for good weather
For we were going to a concert in the park that night
I wanted violins and sweet romantic melodies
But when the band began to play
It didnt turn out quite that way
For there were trumpets and trombones making sad sounds and glad tones
And notes that I will never understand
And there were tin horns and oboes and saxophone solos
Now you know and I know love is like a big brass band
We wasted no time now, we planned a wedding for the first of june
Hear the wedding bells chime now
And see the folks all watching for the bridge and groom
Waiting for violins and sweet romantic melodies
But when we started down the aisle
You should have seen the preacher smile
For there were trumpets and trombones making sad sounds and glad tones
And notes that I will never understand
And there were tin horns and oboes and saxophone solos
Now I know and you know love is like a big brass band
song performed by by Joni Mitchell
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Quiet Zone
When travelling on a train, in the ‘Quiet Zone, ’
Why do people have to use their mobile phones?
Above the train’s rumble, they need to be heard,
So they speak very loud, so you hear every word.
On the window, there’s a picture of a phone, with a cross,
But, on some people, this request, to be quiet, is just lost.
They continue to talk on their phones, despite the sign,
And they seem to think that this behaviour is just fine.
People also sit with their earplugs plugged in;
Their music, loud, so you can still hear the din.
You can hear the annoying, tinny sounding beat.
The object of such a zone, such actions defeat.
The train staff can’t watch every passenger there,
But, this disturbance, to others, doesn’t seem fair.
If you’re sitting there, quietly, attempting to read,
With such interruptions, you will fail to succeed.
But, passengers, nowadays, are too scared to moan:
To point out that, this is, indeed, the ‘Quiet Zone.’
They worry that their reminder may be used as an excuse,
For the other person, to turn round and, at them, hurl abuse.
Passengers should show one another more consideration.
In the ‘Quiet Zone’, there shouldn’t be loud communication.
It’s a designated place for those who want to sit and relax;
Not speak loudly or turn their iPod volume up to the max.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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Ghosts Of Cape Horn
All around old cape horn
Ships of the line, ships of the morn
Some who wish theyd never been born
They are the ghosts of cape horn
Fal deral da riddle de rum
With a rim dim diddy
And a rum dum dum
Sailing away at the break of morn
They are the ghosts of cape horn
See them all in sad repair
Demons dance everywhere
Southern gales, tattered sails
And none to tell the tales
Come all of you rustic old sea dogs
Who follow the great southern cross
You were rounding the horn
In the eye of a storm
When ya lost er one day
And you read all yer letters
From oceans away
Then you took them to the bottom of the sea
All around old cape horn
Ships of the line, ships of the morn
Those who wish theyd never been born
They are the ghosts of cape horn
Fal deral da riddle de rum
With a rim dim diddy
And a rum dum dum
Sailing away at the break of morn
They are the ghosts of cape horn
Come all you old sea dogs from devon
Southampton, penzance, and kinsale
You were caught by the chance
Of a sailors last dance
It was not meant to be
And ya read all yer letters
Cried anchor aweigh
Then ya took them to the bottom of the sea
All around old cape horn
Ships of the line, ships of the morn
Those who wish theyd never been born
They are the ghosts of cape horn
Fal deral da riddle de rum
With a rim dim diddy
And a rum dum dum
Sailing away at the break of morn
They are the ghosts of cape horn
song performed by by Gordon Lightfoot
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Every Friday
Every Friday I look like a shit,
Every Friday I look like a shit,
Every Friday I look like a shit,
I loooooooook like a shit.
But every Monday I am like a horn,
But every Monday I am like a horn,
But every Monday I am like a horn,
I aaaaaaaaam like a hoooooooooorn.
I work in the office of intercom,
I work in the office of intercom,
I work in the office of intercom,
Of iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinter cooooooom.
But every Monday I am like a horn,
And every Tuesday I am like a horn,
On Wednesday and Tuesday I am a horn,
I aaaaaaaaaaaam like a hoooooooooooorn.
On every Friday I look like a shit,
My salary is more now a little bit.
But every Monday I am like a horn,
It looks as on Sunday I was born.
On Friday morning I am so glad
That by the evening I’ll look like a fad
Or may be like a dirty pig
Trying the ground to dig, dig, dig.
But…every Monday I am like a horn,
On certain Sunday I was born,
And every Friday I am like a shit.
My life is better........, a little bit.
More or less
It was my sincere confess.
Lol, lol, lol and loooooooool.
On every Friday there is no control.
©Larisa Rzhepishevska
March 16th,2011
poem by Larisa Rzhepishevska
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Soft Sounds
Mute that trumpet.
Mute that horn.
Mute the cryin'
when babies are born.
Maybe they're cryin'
'cause they're here.
Maybe they're cryin'
'cause they remember fear.
Mute that trumpet.
Mute that horn.
The babies need quiet
like before they were born.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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The Three Quiet Gentlemen
There is a quiet gentleman a-motoring in France
(Oh, don’t you hear the honking of a British motor-car?)—
Like any quiet gentleman that you may meet by chance,
Who doesn’t wear a uniform, and doesn’t sport a star.
Another quiet gentleman is sitting by his side
(Oh, do you hear the “shuffling feet” tonight in Gay Paree?)—
The honking of their motor-car, when they go for a ride,
Is louder than the biggest gun that’s made in Germany.
Another quiet gentleman, who’s very like the first
(Oh, don’t you hear the tinkle of the sleigh-bells on the snow?)
Is riding out in Russia now to watch the best and worst.
Oh, hear the bells of Petrograd a-ringing soft and low—
The Christmas bells of Petrograd, that hail the birth of Christ;
The sleigh-bells from the opera that hail the birth of Sin—
While eyes of men are dried in Hell and hearts of men are iced—
Are louder than the loudest blare that’s blaring in Berlin.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Song Of The Harp
Angel play upon your harp.
Play it soft and clear.
If I listen long enough
maybe I will hear
all the tones that vibrate,
reaching through the spheres.
Angel play upon your harp
sweet music for my ears.
All the sounds that reach our young
are not too heavenly.
Their music is just so much noise,
I know it cannot be
music that an angel plays,
music that is sweet.
All they seem to want is
a steady throbbing beat.
Angel play upon your harp.
Play it night and day.
Maybe they might listen
to the silken tones you play.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Music to Me
Music to me is always you.
Wild chords that surround my heart
that shiver inside me and break apart
into little pieces of solitary tones
that create in me passionate moans.
Music to me will always be you.
Soft lilting melodies that lift me high
and keep me breathless to satisfy
each part of my body and my soul
like the crescendo of a drummer's roll.
Music to me is your sweet touch.
Syncopated rhythms that make me blush
increase my libido and create my purrs.
For whenever the music in me stirs
I feel as if you are here.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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The Man With The Horn
(released as b-side of sussudio single, 1985)
They come from miles around just to hear him play
Hes on the same street corner almost every day
And theres always a crowd wherever he goes
And when he blows his horn, well everybody knows
I only wanna see him play
All the girls n boys they wanna see him play
Nobody else they wanna see him play
And he brings a tear to the eye
Hell make you smile of make you cry
And nobody asks him why
Cos they just wanna see him play
They come from every way, every night
Hes got a band so out there, its outta sight
And the boys in the dancehall are rocking in the aisle
The girls up front - they wanna see him smile
I only wanna see him play
All the girls n boys they wanna see him play
Nobody else they wanna see him play
And he brings a tear to the eye
Hell make you smile of make you cry
Ooh, nobody asks him why
Cos they just wanna see him play
Yeah, hes the man with the horn
Ooh they wanna see him play
Yeah, hes the man with the horn
Ooh they wanna see him play
Yeah, hes the man with the horn
You know they wanna see him, they wanna see him
They wanna, they wanna, they wanna see him play
(play it, don!)
Ah, station to station, coast to coast
Well you can hear all his records on the radio
He makes every evening feel like saturday night
And if youre happy or sad hell make the feeling right
I only wanna see him play
All the girls n boys they wanna see him play
Nobody else they wanna see him play
And he brings a tear to the eye
Hell make you smile of make you cry
Ooh, nobody asks him why
Cos they just wanna see him play
Yes, you know they wanna see him, they wanna see him
Chow, they know they wanna see him, they wanna see him
They wanna, they wanna, they wanna see him play
They wanna see him play, play, play, play
Oh, all the girls and boys wanna see him play
All the girls and boys wanna see him play
All the girls and boys...
song performed by by Phil Collins
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Music Man (The)
hey there mister music man
play your music like you did
last night when i saw you live
on fifth and amsterdam
hey there mister music man
spread your music 'cross the land
i'd follow you from here to there
just like you asked when i was there
but sadly i cant follow through
for my bestfriend is terminal
they say its name is Cancer
hey there mister music man
play your music spread your love,
like you did on 5th and amsterdam
would you come play for my friend
mister music man
play your music play every song you know
play them as you would for all
play them once for a thousand times
we'll put it on live tv
so the whole world can see
hey there mister music man
play your music
spread your love across the land
from here to there
make his last days worthy
as he falls into his dark sleep
hey there mister music man
play your music play your love
spread it far across the land
like the laughter of a baby
in a quiet room
like the laughter of a baby
in a quiet room
like the laughter of a baby
in a quiet room.
poem by David Thomas
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Into The Mystic
We were born before the wind
Also younger than the sun
Ere the bonnie boat was won as we sailed into the mystic
Hark, now hear the sailors cry
Smell the sea and feel the sky
Let your soul and spirit fly into the mystic
And when that fog horn blows I will be coming home
And when that fog horn blows I want to hear it
I dont have to fear it
I want to rock your gypsy soul
Just like way back in the days of old
Then magnificently we will float into the mystic
And when that fog horn blows you know I will be coming home
And when thst fog horn whistle blows I got to hear it
I dont have to fear it
I want to rock your gypsy soul
Just like way back in the days of old
And together we will float into the mystic
Come on girl...
song performed by by Van Morrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Echo
How sweet the answer Echo makes
To music at night,
When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes,
And far away, o'er lawns and lakes,
Goes answering light.
Yet Love hath echoes truer far,
And far more sweet,
Than e'er beneath the moonlight's star,
Of horn or lute, or soft guitar,
The songs repeat.
'Tis when the sigh, in youth sincere,
And only then --
The sigh that's breathed for one to hear,
Is by that one, that only dear,
Breathed back again!
poem by Thomas Moore
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Man With A Horn
Eddie delange, jenney, lake
Youll always find me near the man with the horn
Find me there from dark until dawn
Cos thats a place where music is born
So fine so sweetly he plays and says it so well
Come lately
Youll find that youre under his spell
So if youre in the mood for music and love
Just forget the stars up above
For my friends youll find
Youll be drawn to the man with the horn
song performed by by Nina Simone
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Flutist
Oh sweet beautiful flutist
Play for me the beautiful melodies of your hearts desire
How softly do the graceful notes come from the instrument of your musical prowess
The sweet melodies that pour from your instrument of the heavens
Oh how they soothe my soul
Oh how they take away my past
Those beautiful sweet melodies from heaven
Oh sweet beautiful flutist
Let me play for you to sweet melodies
For I am not worthy to hear your melodies
The melodies from heaven
poem by Alex Fischer
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The Hunter’s Song
RISE! Sleep no more! ’T is a noble morn:
The dews hang thick on the fringed thorn,
And the frost shrinks back, like a beaten hound,
Under the steaming, steaming ground.
Behold, where the billowy clouds flow by,
And leave us alone in the clear gray sky!
Our horses are ready and steady.—So, ho!
I ’m gone, like a dart from the Tartar’s bow.
Hark, hark!—Who calleth the maiden Morn
From her sleep in the woods and the stubble corn?
The horn,—the horn!
The merry, sweet ring of the hunter’s horn.
Now, thorough the copse, where the fox is found,
And over the stream, at a mighty bound,
And over the high lands, and over the low,
O’er furrows, o’er meadows, the hunters go!
Away!—as a hawk flies full at its prey,
So flieth the hunter, away,—away!
From the burst at the cover till set of sun,
When the red fox dies, and—the day is done!
Hark, hark!—What sound on the wind is borne?
’T is the conquering voice of the hunter’s horn.
The horn,—the horn!
The merry, bold voice of the hunter’s horn.
Sound! Sound the horn! To the hunter good
What ’s the gulley deep or the roaring flood?
Right over he bounds, as the wild stag bounds,
At the heels of his swift, sure, silent hounds.
O, what delight can a mortal lack,
When he once is firm on his horse’s back,
With his stirrups short, and his snaffle strong,
And the blast of the horn for his morning song?
Hark, hark!—Now, home! and dream till morn
Of the bold, sweet sound of the hunter’s horn!
The horn,—the horn!
O, the sound of all sounds is the hunter’s horn!
poem by Barry Cornwall
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Little Horn
Theres an apple in the pussy mouth
Now I am the dinner whore
Theres a tumor in the t.v. mouth
Burn it out before it grows
Someone better get the dog to kick,
Jaws wired shut to save the dick
Out of the bottomless pit comes the little horn
little horn is born
The world spreads its legs for another star
World shows its face for another scar
Dead will dance for what is left
The worms will wait with baited breath
your blind have now become my deaf
So says this little horn
save yourself from this...
(chorus)
song performed by by Marilyn Manson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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There was an Old Man of Cape Horn,
Who wished he had never been born;
So he sat on a chair,
Till he died of despair,
That dolorous Man of Cape Horn.
by Edward Lear from A Book of Nonsense (1846)
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