Chi dirige I concerti?
For how many years I have directed concerts
of insight, ideal, of a sleep that kindly applies,
a white sun awakes in an even music concept,
shadow of myself to wonder on my soul's incise?
A memory stream, an odd decoy is convening,
invites a one-dimensional call of my destiny,
an allusion the falls cloudy drops ascending,
a forced stream simmers, my blood flows veiny.
A monody morning awakens the cypress trees,
my village that has no inhabitants to gather,
without smoke the hearths, of distant bliss,
the foliage dithers as my concerts tunes alter..
poem by Giorgio Veneto
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Related quotes
I have very eclectic taste in music, but when it comes to going to concerts, I like going to rock concerts.
quote by Fran Drescher
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Fish And Shadow
The salmon-trout drifts in the stream,
The soul of the salmon-trout floats over the stream
Like a little wafer of light.
The salmon moves in the sun-shot, bright shallow sea. . . .
As light as the shadow of the fish
that falls through the water,
She came into the large room by the stair,
Yawning a little she came with the sleep still upon her.
'I am just from bed. The sleep is still in my eyes.
'Come. I have had a long dream.'
And I: That wood?
'And two springs have passed us.'
'Not so far, no, not so far now,
There is a place but no one else knows it
A field in a valley . . .
Qu'ieu sui avinen,
Ieu lo sai,'
She must speak of the time
Of Arnaut de Mareuil, I thought, 'qu'ieu sui avinen.’
Light as the shadow of the fish
That falls through the pale green water.
poem by Ezra Pound
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When we did concerts, we wanted them to be theatrical events - collaborations with designers, choreographers, and directors - because we thought traditional rock concerts were boring.
quote by Neil Tennant
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Talking about the all night concerts, I did some of the first all night concerts back in the 60's with this little harmonium, and I also had saxophone taped delays.
quote by Terry Riley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Petals
Life is a stream
On which we strew
Petal by petal the flower of our heart;
The end lost in dream,
They float past our view,
We only watch their glad, early start.
Freighted with hope,
Crimsoned with joy,
We scatter the leaves of our opening rose;
Their widening scope,
Their distant employ,
We never shall know. And the stream as it flows
Sweeps them away,
Each one is gone
Ever beyond into infinite ways.
We alone stay
While years hurry on,
The flower fared forth, though its fragrance still stays.
poem by Amy Lowell
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I've been to too many Dead concerts. There've been smokin' holes where my memory used to be.
Alter ego (popular poetry)
A friend of all the times
In high and low
In need
Joy and sorrow
A company
A true copy of me
He is no one but my loveable shadow
I always talk with him
Good and bad
A terrible
Fight
Always goes
Over wrong and right
You should not have a shadow
Of doubt
He is no one but my beloved alter ego
I always feel cool and calm
In seclusion and find a
Bliss
In solitude
And I never feel the heat of
Loneliness
When
I am Far away from sound and din
In the sweet stream
Sometimes quick sometimes slow
Thousand boats I start to row
poem by Abdul Wahab
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Niambo
You're a wind that passed by
Gentle to the skin; playful to the hair
Touch a shoulder; dry a tear
Ease a sorrow then you fly
You're a calm river carrying a dream
From stream to distant mountain, all seem
Palpable to reach; inspirable to attain
You're a song, a music no one dislikes
The lyrics and tunes regardless of voice
You're played, sung, or even hummed,
You're anything for anybody's aspiration
A place of one's wish, in a desert or plain
You're the sky where all my longings lie
You're a shadow of truth and fiction
An art of illusionist's abstraction
Now judged by many interpretations
You're a house, a home of my soul
A room of my heart, a door of my mind
A keeper of my feelings, so here you hear
Me and you or you and I…all in one
poem by Efren Petalver Carranza
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The Colour of Ecstasy
The room is blank, a canvas white
Tranquil and serene and bright
In the mirror I stare numbly and gently I sigh
Its quiet but for whispering in the cubicle nearby
And murmuring of music and excitement distant
The effect of the pill I just took: instant
Colours! Colours everywhere,
What can one do but cry and despair?
The colours are swirling in and around,
Making that familiar swirling sound
Whirr, whirr flows the green,
Into the rapid yellow stream,
They swirl so loud I want to scream:
Stop! Stop swirling! Curse you!
But they never do
Suddenly euphoria in my head,
- Brain cells dead
Unmatched feeling of power
- Blood is sour
The attainable feeling of bliss
- Turns to abyss
What can one do but cry in despair?
Not a single colour anywhere
poem by Paul Savio Hearn
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The Mighty Stream Slows
THE MIGHTY STREAM SLOWS
The mighty stream slows
The Lines lose their force
Poetry is a forced effort again
And the Music no longer has any meaning.
Poems are prose
And nothing that one does
Can really write them
Again.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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When recordings replaced concerts as the dominant mode of hearing music, our conception of the nature of performance and of music itself was altered.
quote by Charles Rosen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I was taken to concerts when I was six, seven years old, and sat in a box throughout the whole evening.
quote by Kitty Carlisle
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Journeys end
The stream meanders to and fro.
Here where the cattle come to drink
the yellow cowslips gaily grow.
The weeping willows stooping low
adorn the banks on either side.
The stream continues in its flow.
Past meadows where the cattle graze
and fields where corn is ripening
but here and there red poppies blaze.
The stream now to a river grown
now deep and wide; it gathers strength
Its purpose to itself unknown.
Past cottages which stand alone.
Small villages and market towns
and bridges built of weathered stone.
It has become a thoroughfare
which slices through the city’s heart
With rush and bustle everywhere.
The docks and quays and factories
confine the river in its course.
There is no grass there are no trees.
The river flows on turgidly
until at last it gains release
and flows into the open sea.
But in the distance still the stream
meanders gently to and fro
Where cowslips nod and lovers dream.
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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I run around, I listen to a lot of music, go to a lot of concerts. And when I see someone that gases me, I try to go out of my way to involve them somehow in what I'm doing or get involved in what they're doing.
The Silent Muse
``Why have you silent been so long?''
In tones of mild rebuke you ask.
Know you not, kindly friend, that Song
Is the ``Gay Science,'' not a task?
It is but when it pleaseth God
The blackthorn blows, the acorns fall;
The Muse ignores a mortal's nod,
And will not come to beck and call.
If I, to catch the ear of men,
Should go on singing day by day,
What other, better, were I then,
Than screeching chough or scolding jay?
But save the unseen source be stirred,
The happy numbers will not flow:
Then one is like a songless bird
That crouches in the drifted snow.
Say, did you ever sit and dream,
When summer clouds are white and still,
Beside a slow unsounding stream
That winds below some rustic mill?
The languid current scarcely moves;
At times you almost doubt it flows;
Loitering in shallow sandy grooves,
It makes no music as it goes.
The sluice is down, the mill-race still,
Nor in mid-stream nor water's edge
Comes faintest ripple, tiniest rill,
To stir the flag, or sway the sedge.
Beside the dozing stream you doze,
For nothing wakes in air or sky:
It feels as if Time's eyelids close,
And 'tis the same to live or die;
To be a passive part of all
That rounds Heaven's universal plan,
Of things that soar, of things that crawl,
Of mindless matter, as of man.
When slowly through the noonday sleep
A phantom something seems to stir,
Like waves of dewy light that creep
Along gray chords of gossamer.
At first it is nor sight nor sound,
But feeling only, inward sense
Of motion slowly rising round,
You know not where, you know not whence.
Then, noiseless still, but plain to see,
The languid waters wake and wind;
The wave before now fears to be
O'ertaken by the wave behind.
The race, long pent, from out the mill
Comes rushing, rippling, gleam on gleam;
The runnels rise, the shallows fill,
And deep and happy flows the stream.
The lazy sedges sway and swerve,
The reedmace rocks its heavy head;
Past many a bend, and bay, and curve,
The river revels through its bed.
And as it twists, and curls, and sweels,
From out its leaping heart there come
Sounds sweet as far-off village bells,
Or swarming bee-hive's honeyed hum.
Through quaking grass and waving weed
Rises and falls the river-theme;
Vibrating rush and trembling reed
Are but the harpstrings of the stream.
Once more the gold-ribbed gravel trills
With quavering trebles clear and cool,
Blent with the deeper note that fills
The plunging weir and swirling pool.
Bed, bank and channel, chant and chime,
And fall and freshet, as they run,
Though ignorant of tune and time,
Sing in melodious unison.
And so, if I be shaped to sing
What kindly hearts are pleased to hear,
And blissful were did Nature bring
A rush of music all the year;
Seasons there are it doth not flow,
When Fancy's freshets will not come,
The springs of song seem shrunk and low,
And all my being dry and dumb.
When suddenly from far-off source,
Unseen, unsounding, deep, immense,
Something, with swift resistless force,
Flushes the heart and floods the sense;
And as though Heaven and Earth did drain
Into that deep mysterious spring,
Brims all the windings of the brain;
Then like replenished stream I sing.
The will can not the stream control,
Its currents are divinely sent,
And thought and feeling, mind and soul,
Are rapt in rhythmic ravishment.
And on they flow, when once they start,
To some ordained but unguessed goal,
Through all the channels of the heart,
And all the reaches of the soul.
Then come the wingëd words that skim
The surface of earth's discontent
To soar up to the ether dim,
Faint heard from far-off firmament.
But, till the music stirs and swells
Within my breast, forbearing be;
Nor lightly waken slumbering bells
Above a silent sanctuary!
poem by Alfred Austin
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Bells in the Rain
Sleep falls, with limpid drops of rain,
Upon the steep cliffs of the town.
Sleep falls; men are at peace again
While the small drops fall softly down.
The bright drops ring like bells of glass
Thinned by the wind, and lightly blown;
Sleep cannot fall on peaceful grass
So softly as it falls on stone.
Peace falls unheeded on the dead
Asleep; they have had deep peace to drink;
Upon a live man's bloody head
It falls most tenderly, I think.
poem by Elinor Morton Wylie
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I wanted people to come see my concerts one day. So I set my sights on getting my music out there and getting a record deal.
quote by Sarah Connor
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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All my concerts had no sounds in them; they were completely silent. People had to make up their own music in their minds!
quote by Yoko Ono
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Do you know how many concerts I've done in my whole life, in more than 35 years of performing? Sixty-four.
quote by Carly Simon
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Blanket of fog swells
Blue stream reflects sky and trees
Autumn foliage darts
haiku by Dorothy Holmes (06 June 2008)
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