Where Are My Songs?
Where are my songs?
I can't write them anymore.
My head can't hear them,
not like before.
They came so easy.
I heard them in my ear.
I thought about you
and all the notes were clear.
But now those notes
just don't seem to flow.
They've escaped into dissonance
and where did they go?
They went away in a flash
just like you.
Now that they're gone
there's nothing I can do.
I'll have to be inspired
in another way.
I'll listen for some new notes
on every single day.
And when they appear
I'll know that I am free.
Never again will I lose them
like you lost me.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Unforgettable In Your Ear
There are notes in music
that take you high.
And notes that take you low.
When you listen to the notes of music
you never know where you'll go.
Within one song the notes you hear
affect how you will feel.
A plaintive melody might make you sad
or remind you of your pain.
But all of that can change in a minute
as you feel your emotions drain.
Uplifting notes can bring to you
a few moments of ecstatic peace.
Each inspiring strain can take you where
you are able to release
whatever it was that was troubling you,
erase it for a minute or two.
These notes are magic and so is life.
They're there and then they're not.
They're a gift to you from composers
that plant a forget-me-not.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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The Source
There in the fringe of trees between
the upper field and the edge of the one
below it that runs above the valley
one time I heard in the early
days of summer the clear ringing
six notes that I knew were the opening
of the Fingal's Cave Overture
I heard them again and again that year
and the next summer and the year
afterward those six descending
notes the same for all the changing
in my own life since the last time
I had heard them fall past me from
the bright air in the morning of a bird
and I believed that what I had heard
would always be there if I came again
to be overtaken by that season
in that place after the winter
and I would wonder again whether
Mendelssohn really had heard them somewhere
far to the north that many years ago
looking up from his youth to listen to
those six notes of an ancestor
spilling over from a presence neither
water nor human that led to the cave
in his mind the fluted cliffs and the wave
going out and the falling water
he thought those notes could be the music for
Mendelssohn is gone and Fingal is gone
all but his name for a cave and for one
piece of music and the black-capped warbler
as we called that bird that I remember
singing there those notes descending
from the age of the ice dripping
I have not heard again this year can it
be gone then will I not hear it
from now on will the overture begin
for a time and all those who listen
feel that falling in them but as always
without knowing what they recognize
poem by William Stanley Merwin
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Notes
Primate, elemental, spontaneous and emotional;
The point of drunkeness is what i see around me,
But i do have my notes for you.
This is like the quasi-mystical secrets cilts,
And there arose the fear of the society;
But you have to cry for help when being cheated!
With others living in a turquoise-roofed temples,
Because the notes of this world are not always equal.
Geomancy and physiognomy with the notes,
But be very conscious of the parallels like the mandates of the heavens! !
For they are armed to the teeth and i am only around with my ink,
But i do have the notes about this world for you only to learn from.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Divine Bird
i would skp the best musical concert
to listen one more time to this morning bird
it makes me regret for not having been
a bird watcher and getting to know the name
of every bird and how every bird makes sure
they shine their best in voice rather than feathers
for feathers are just for a show of form but the
voice how well they have cultivated themselves
with the bountiful freedoms strewn below their wings
it was only two mornings ago, i first heard him
sing in among the many trees lining the boulevard
outside my condominium, the Crescent Court
the enchanting haunting notes of his song shocked
me into wondering whether it was really a bird that
sang those pristine notes, notes that seemed to have
streamed out of the sacred sanctum of God, so many
diverse notes, so well handled, they sounded
like a song written by the Divine for one special bird
one most holy entree to the dawn of a new day
i prayed to the Divine to allow me hear that bird
again, a bird that has sung his way into my my poem,
a bird probably from another realm where birds could
understand the workings of the heavens better than men
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Same Words They Heard
It is said.
And said again.
The more of it that is heard...
Less of it is understood.
Although those sitting in the back,
Claim they are taking notes.
And wish to have what has been said,
Repeated.
Even though the notes they take...
Are the same words they heard,
Before they were issued pads and pens.
They now want to show others...
How effectively they can use them,
To their advantage.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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No Fun Without Challenges!
I am a bird, flying in the sky,
Singing the beautiful notes,
That my vocal cord can spell,
Up near the cloud, it is cool,
Singing the songs of love,
Travel on the whitish cotton shroud,
Expressing my thought,
Without fear and freight,
Hearing me singing,
Someone wanted me,
To sing in his courtyard,
Ordered his subordinates,
To catch and clip my wings,
To put me in a cage,
For his own entertainment,
When I lose my freedom,
I forget all the notes,
Just shut my beaks,
Open only to eat.
poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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The Veery
THE MOONBEAMS over Arno’s vale in silver flood were pouring,
When first I heard the nightingale a long-lost love deploring.
So passionate, so full of pain, it sounded strange and eerie;
I longed to hear a simpler strain,—the wood-notes of the veery.
The laverock sings a bonny lay above the Scottish heather;
It sprinkles down from far away like light and love together;
He drops the golden notes to greet his brooding mate, his dearie;
I only know one song more sweet,—the vespers of the veery.
In English gardens, green and bright and full of fruity treasure,
I heard the blackbird with delight repeat his merry measure:
The ballad was a pleasant one, the tune was loud and cheery,
And yet, with every setting sun, I listened for the veery.
But far away, and far away, the tawny thrush is singing;
New England woods, at close of day, with that clear chant are ringing:
And when my light of life is low, and heart and flesh are weary,
I fain would hear, before I go, the wood-notes of the veery.
poem by Henry Van Dyke
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Let's Compare Notes
Let's compare notes.
At one time you had said,
My comments provoked!
And you denounced,
Those words I spoke!
Let's compare notes.
Today you raise the same concerns.
And yet you say to others...
With the same words they have already heard.
But now you have a broader consciousness.
Let's compare notes!
What you say today,
Is 'intended' to provoke.
But you believe there should be an exception...
Since 'you' have been awakened from a deep sleep.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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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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A Little Argument About What We Have Been Doing
these are just notes
of a journey
they are like stones that i
put upon
a boundary
sands that i spread
sometimes
over my body under the sun
these are just markings
of a page
but when you follow each note
each stone
each sand
and which could be so agonizing
and tiresome
then you will begin to see
what others have not yet seen
we shall call these not notes
or marking anymore
who knows, these are all
the lives
we all once had
and as they all tell you
there is no going back
because there is no end
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I wanted to play piano, and that slid quickly into writing - it wasn't enough to play other people's notes: I had to write notes too.
quote by Luc Ferrari
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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
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Piercing Music
Piercing notes attached to the ears
Reside in the inner recesses of the mind;
Once a spectacular moment is heard
The roof of the house is like a garden.
It elaborates and instigates a trial
For the bitter head, a solution to your ease.
When music is so sudden we seem to recline
And take control over the notes so orchestrated.
Let the ears be conditioned to the essence of thought
Engendered by the music we so love and admire
Like the chiming of church bells to celebrate the Lord.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Where All It Started
tribute to an old man
who sings all night long
picking words from unknown
plucking his guitar to tune
melody created, his very own
i listen until i fall asleep
when i wake up i'm on my bed
dreaming of notes in my head
i was sailing one day in hawaii
i heard same guitar; same songs
words from unknown; unending
running poems with native twist
i hum those words i know
now i write them for you
poem by Manonton Dalan
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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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To the Air of Lorelei
I.
Alone on a hillside of heather,
I lay with dark thoughts in my mind,
In the midst of the beautiful weather
I was deaf, I was dumb, I was blind.
I knew not the glories around me,
I counted the world as it seems,
Till a spirit of melody found me,
And taught me in visions and dreams.
II.
For the sound of a chorus of voices
Came gathering up from below,
And I heard how all Nature rejoices,
And moves with a musical flow.
O strange! we are lost in delusion,
Our ways and doings are wrong,
We are drowning, in wilful confusion,
The notes of that wonderful song.
III.
But listen, what harmony holy
Is mingling its notes with our own!
The discord is vanishing slowly,
And melts in that dominant tone.
And they that have heard it can never
Return to confusion again,
Their voices are music for ever,
And join in the mystical strain.
IV.
No mortal can utter the beauty
That dwells in the song that they sing;
They move in the pathway of duty,
They follow the steps of their King.
I would barter the world and its glory,
That vision of joy to prolong,
Or to hear and remember the story
That lies in the heart of their song.
poem by James Clerk Maxwell
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Unknown Bird
Out of the dry days
through the dusty leaves
far across the valley
those few notes never
heard here before
one fluted phrase
floating over its
wandering secret
all at once wells up
somewhere else
and is gone before it
goes on fallen into
its own echo leaving
a hollow through the air
that is dry as before
where is it from
hardly anyone
seems to have noticed it
so far but who now
would have been listening
it is not native here
that may be the one
thing we are sure of
it came from somewhere
else perhaps alone
so keeps on calling for
no one who is here
hoping to be heard
by another of its own
unlikely origin
trying once more the same few
notes that began the song
of an oriole last heard
years ago in another
existence there
it goes again tell
no one it is here
foreign as we are
who are filling the days
with a sound of our own
poem by William Stanley Merwin
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Hear Main Man Told Me
hear main man told me
your praying every time
when you kindness stop
to mow your neighbour’s
grass; give a few dollars
to a forgotten down and out
person bumming a few notes
in a walk past parking lot;
when you take time to passion
listen to any poor lost soul
with a fragmented life blown
apart; when you go donate
your life saving blood free in
your rush lunch hour; when
you stand up alone to defend
that human imperfect person
everyone else is running down;
hear main man also told me
your praying every single time
your heart is moved to take in
a stray homeless lost dog or cat
Inspired by the poem ‘You’re Praying’ by Eric Cockrell. Split Imaging from the poem ‘Time For A Little Praying’ by Terence George Craddock.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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The notes I handle no better than many pianists. But the pauses between the notes--ah, that is where the art resides
quote by Arthur Schnabel
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A poet never takes notes. You never take notes in a love affair.
quote by Robert Frost
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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