Unity of Source
That’s what she called it;
surprised that, as musician,
knowing how a piece of music
sets out from, and finally returns to
some chosen ‘key’ based on a single note:
which remains in mind of the composer
and the listener alike; calling back, after
the great adventure, to your loving home;
she, finding that poems, too,
maintain that sound, somewhere in mind – of
what the poem’s about; and whence it started;
which guides each word that’s chosen;
where it shall return to rest..
You hear this (even if you know
nothing about music..) in Mozart’s playful sounds:
as if each day, he packs a rucksack with a snack,
sets out for hills and mountains, clouds,
the tinkling streams, bird cries, goats clambering and
bleating; maybe hears a village band
practising down there below; smiles;
perhaps clouds gather; lightning flashes,
thunder rolls; for that is life..
then, as the shadows of the evening mountains
begin to creep towards the city streets,
follows the streams that skip beside him down the hillside,
paths appearing now, by goats and men more worn;
knowing that, at the end,
his home will still be where it was
that morning after breakfast…
Sometimes, when no-one’s listening but myself,
I sit at the piano, and play the ‘Mozart game’ –
strike a keynote chord; then close my eyes or turn away,
put a finger on an unknown note,
say, around two octaves above that; then
listen as a melody unfurls from inner ear; perhaps
an intermediate harmony assists; and
finally, return to that loved home; now refreshed,
shining-eyed; content; and needing only rest…
Unity of source..
you hear it now?
how much we know of this,
yet scarcely knew we knew..
*
for Elizabeth
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Related quotes
Amadeus Mozart, con.k-365
What they adore
Is his genius
His music
Soaring to the heavens
Without so much
Effort
Effortlessly magnificent
Amadeus Mozart
And his music
Tossing me
From sea cap to sea cap
In my sea dreams
Piano notes ruffling
Like the windy beach
Waffling to the shore
Piano notes
Trickling
On my window pane
Like a soft rain
Playful
To the vines
On my window pane
What they adore
Is his genius
Soaring to the heavens
I envy him
Amadeus Mozart
His music grows like a river forever flowing
I do not mind if in there I drown
And die with a single note
He died in the sea drinking all the salty notes
Of Amadeus Mozart
Dehydration in the most musical fashion.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A blank page for the Self
‘About the Self, dear seeker,
nothing can be said..’
say the bright-eyed sages with
a chuckle and a wink;
a chuckle and a wink..
granting, later, that if you
can spare the timeless time,
you could start listing (for your self-same self)
that which Self is not..
well I’m not satisfied with that..
I’m going to start a list
for you yourself to add to,
of those times when… so, so nearly…
you almost, almost, saw yourself -
(when of course, not looking for yourself…)
as you passed that mirror in the cloakroom,
the shopwindow that’s been newly washed;
looked into the rockpool,
in your childhood’s waking dream..
when you hear – not the first note,
but the second, of some Mozart piece:
and something tells you that the mind
that knew what chord must follow from the first
has heard, has known, its self;
the moment that the playful wind
makes plastic bag into a jellyfish;
just as you see a kite tail-twisting over the rooftops;
before you wonder whether there’s a string;
just as a taste you never met before
meets several places in your mouth at once;
the moment that the scent of summer field
is sweeter to the nose than any flower;
these, like messages to say,
you’ll never catch me; but you’ll know
that I’m around..
And now I’ll leave the remainder of this page
for you to add to; or to rest blank,
as the remainder that is perfect evermore;
or for you to gaze some moments at…
contented; asking nothing
when there’s nothing left to ask;
knowing that you know your present self..
and need to know no more right now;
yet know that there, beyond,
is where all stillness smiles.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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A tribute to the BBC 'Young Musician of 2008
This is what love
sounds like. This
is how you know
the heart is only ever one.
This boy, he’s twelve years old,
he’s standing on the platform
in the huge hall. He’s simply
waiting to play himself to you.
The trombone is now a few inches
shorter than he is. When he started,
it was bigger than he was.
He begins to play, Can this sweetness
have come from this contraption?
If Pythagoras was lecturing tonight
on music, measure, the harmony of spheres,
he’d have brought his tape measure
in case we needed proof.
If giraffes could sing,
they would sing to this trombone,
knowing themselves beautiful like it,
knowing that they both know
where music comes from.
How far it goes.
The sound says,
purity sounds like this. Listen.
The sound says,
did you know that innocence
can contain the whole of wisdom?
Listen.
The sound says,
did you know that experience
can know itself in music?
Listen.
The sound says,
I am music. This
Is what music is. I am
all music in this moment.
If tears were joys, they
would sound like this.
If joys were tears, they
would both sound like this.
The sound says,
I was made for this.
Listen.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Classical Music
Classical music makes me cry
Each time I hear a piece
My heart wells up with so much joy
Until music cease Chopin, Beethoven, and Mozart too
Make the inner sole want to sing
It makes me happy to hear the notes
To each note my heart wants to cling Classical music has never meant so much
To me until to Europe I went
But now it brings overwhelming joy
Many hours of listening are spent What a wondrous talent the writers did have
Of the Classicals I listen to each day
The joy it brings to many of us
Will last forever each day that it's played.
poem by Sharon Wiseman
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Unheard Music
Unheard Music (Mozart)
The fingers on my left hand move all by themselves
like they are playing piano that produces music
I cannot hear. I watch my fingers play but it makes no
sense so I try to stop by holding them still with my
right hand’s fingers. So I sit like a vicar contemplating
the Sunday sermon, a mild one who hasn’t an arsenal
of fire and brimstone speeches, but would rather talk
about the coming spring. My wife brings me a glass of
water and a pill, fingers rest, but I would liked to have
heard the music they played, for all I know it could
have been music brought to me in a dream by Mozart
who died so young that he can’t believe it yet, and
tries trough, me to play his latest masterpiece.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Only Us
Only us [x3]
It wasnt in the words that kept sticking in their throats
It wasnt with the angels in their quilted coats
These battered wings still kick up dust
Seduced by the noise and the bright things that glisten
I knew all the time I should shut up and listen
And Im finding my way home from the great escape
{chorus:}
The further on I go, oh the less I know
I can find only us breathing
Only us sleeping
Only us dreaming
Only us
I hear you calling me
Yes I hear you calling me
Home from the great escape
Yes I can read you loud and clear
The further on I go, oh the less I know
Friend or foe, theres only us
[chorus]
Im coming home again, home again
And I hear you calling me home again
I am coming home again
Only us [x8]
song performed by by Peter Gabriel
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sure there is music even in the beauty, and the silent note which Cupid strikes, far sweeter than the sound of an instrument. For there is music wherever there is harmony, order and proportion; and thus far we may maintain the music of the spheres; for those well ordered motions, and regular paces, though they give no sound unto the ear, yet to the understanding they strike a note most full of harmony.
quote by Thomas Browne
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Jealous Clouds
The dew of love settles on the blades of grass
In the marshes, the green frogs sleep
While the crickets play their wings like violins
For the hearts of geese to move their feet
And the water streams in content
While the clouds look down on earth
In jealousy clouds want to play
With and on earth's beauty..
They desire the touch of love by the sharp blades of grass
They want to feel the warmth of the frogs sleepy feet on their laps
And listen to the music of the cricket's wings
while they chase the running geese
Jealous clouds want to drink and splash in the azure streams of content
And on earth live in mirth, with the rest of nature's creatures!
O the Jealous Clouds—They can't stuck in heaven they are!
In jealousy they turn gray with sadness and weep
And hide the sun when mad at earth and its light they keep
The jealous clouds roar in thunder to scare our hearts
And tempt us with their purity, dressed in white, soft raiment
The jealous clouds piqued turn vermillion and blush
In admiration of our jealous dreamy eyes…
O jealous clouds how are you jealous of we?
poem by Kevin Michael Murphy
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John Robinson
AIR -- "The Drunkard"
Come listen, friends, and hear a song,
It is a doleful one,
About a young man, dead and gone --
He died far away from home.
John Robinson this young man's name,
His age I cannot tell,
And he was loved by all his friends,
And he was known full well.
His father and mother being dead,
It left him an orphan boy,
When he was with his brother
His health failed him, poor boy.
Kind friends they thought 'twould do him good
To travel for his health;
To California he did go
With his Uncle Zera French.
He was not gone but a short time
When a letter his friends received;
It told how homesick Johnny was,
How he for home did grieve.
It said that he was getting worse,
And his money was nearly gone,
And if he did not soon return
Never more would he see home.
It said, "Dear Brother, will you please
Some money to me send,
For I fear I have not got enough
To bring me back again.
The doctor says I must soon return,
If I wish my home to see,
For if I stay my life is short,
For the air disagrees with me."
His brother Will the letter read,
It made his eyes grow dim.
"Dear brother, he shall soon return,
For I will go and fetch him."
This brother dear was very kind;
With money, he went with haste
For to bring him home again,
But Oh! he went too late.
For he was sick, and very bad --
Poor boy, he thought, no doubt,
If he came home in a smoking car
His money would hold out.
He started to come back alone --
He came one-third the way --
One evening in the car alone
His spirit fled away.
No friend was near to speak to him,
Or hear his dying moan;
How sad, how sad it must have been
To die there all alone;
No loving friends to soothe his brow,
Or ease his weary form;
Poor soul, poor soul is now at rest,
For his soul to heaven has gone.
Telegraph dispatch was sent his friends --
How sad were they to hear --
How their loved one died all alone,
In a car with no one near.
The brother brought his body home
To his friends that loved him best.
He's sleeping in their grave yard now
Let peace be e'er his rest.
poem by Julia A Moore
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I Shall Not Look For You
you are gone
and you leave no note on the bed
i stare outside this room
and sees a field of grass
shadows of mountains
and a sunset
i shall not look for you
i am confident that now you have finally found a home
deep inside yourself you shall sing
and knowing that at last you are happy with yourself
i, too shall move on, close the door and take the walk
on the other side of the fence
it is nighttime and there are stars in the sky
i lay myself on the cold grass and i do not shiver a bit.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I am Home Finally
I am home finally
To live perpetually
where life is lovely
I am home finally
Where there is no boundary
To live happily
I am home finally
Where ecstasy is plenty
To live merrily
I am home finally
After all the adventure
To rest peacefully
poem by Mittur Ramprasad
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Two Points Of View
You, always making promises
Who gets the blame for your mistakes
You, made a game of politics
Now fear and guilt on your face
But I cant feel your pain
And I wont share your shame
All I know is what I feel
Music sets me free
I dont mind walking in the rain
Ooh, tears of heaven soothe my pain
Love is the sound that makes me sing
I love to play a melody
But you cant hear the sound
But you cant, you cant feel the beat
All I know is what I feel
Music sets me free
I dont mind walking in the rain
Ooh, tears of heaven soothe my pain
Love is the sound that makes me sing
I love to play a melody
But you cant hear the sound
But you cant, you cant feel the beat
All I know is what I feel
Music sets me free
Two points of view
Two points of view
Two points of view
One for me, and one for you
But you cant hear the sound
But you cant, you cant feel the beat
All I know is what I feel
Music sets me free
Two points of view
Two points of view
Two points of view
One for me and one for you
Two points of view
Two points of view
song performed by by Santana
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Ill Lead You Home
Words & music: michael w. smith and wayne kirkpatrick
Wandering the road of desperate life
Aimlessly beneath the barren sky
Leave it to me
Ill lead you home
So afraid that you will not be found
It wont be long before your sun goes down
Just leave it to me
Ill lead you home
Chorus:
Hear me calling
Hear me calling
Just leave it to me - Ill lead you home
A troubled mind and a doubters heart
You wonder how you ever got this far
Leave it to me, Ill lead you home
Vultures of darkness ate the crumbs you left
And you got no way to retrace your steps
Just leave it to me
Ill lead you home
Chorus 2:
Hear me calling
Hear me calling
Youre lost and alone
Leave it to me
Ill lead you home
Chorus 2
So let it go and turn it over to
The one who chose to give his life for you
Leave it to me
Ill lead you home
So let it go and turn it over to
The one who chose to give his life for you
Just leave it to me
Ill lead you home
Leave it to me
Ill lead you home
Chorus 2
song performed by by Michael W. Smith
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Echo Of The Night
When silence is persistent
And the shadows lie in wait
When the sun steps aside for the moon
You can hear the music of the night
At the break of dawn its hides
It fears the burning golden light
It favors the moon as its ally
One who isn't blind with pride
As the shadows of the day finally dissipate
And the sun recedes in the mountains
When the moon cast its shadow over the land
Once again comes the music of the night
It seems strange to call it music
When no sound is actually there
But like a choir in a cavern
Its voice echoes throughout the land
When you finally abandon your thoughts
Kneel silently before the land
Its echo can finally reach you
And you can hear the music of the night
poem by Logan Fulk
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Fading
[VERSE 1]
Every single night
As I walk alone
Down the empty streets
That I call my own
The rain is falling lightly
Resting on my head
The streets are cold and empty
The city lights are dead
A thunder clap is heard
In the brooding sky
The lightning flashes past
Lighting up my eyes
I see the broken skyline
Calling me to play
A savage voice is singing
I cant turn away
Through the empty building
To the hollow sound
Echoes in the darkness
Screaming all around
Lingering temptation
Followed close by death
I know your coming nearer
I can feel your breath
[END VERSE 1]
Save Me!
[CHORUS]
Running through the darkness
In an empty room
Running through the shadows
Of my living tomb
The lights are fading faster
Falling into ash
The PHANTOMS are returning
Screaming from my past
The thunder clap is passing
Crumbling away
With the sudden silence
I see the light of day
[END CHORUS]
[VERSE 2]
The light of dawn is coming
Rising in the morn
Giving me a shelter
From this voice of scorn
As the doors they open
I run into the day
The voice of shadow follows
It will not go away
The night of storm is chasing
Running at my heels
I try to awaken
This can not be real
Screaming at the shadows
Make this nightmare stop
I run out of the building
As the rain begins to drop
Finally it is over
Finally I am free
I am in the sunlight
The voice cant follow me
I still hear the whisper
Calling me to play
I will not be taken
So I turn away
[END VERSE 2]
[LAST STANZA OF CHORUS] 2x
song performed by by ZeroHour
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Untitled: Back they Sputter
Back they sputter like the fires of love, the bees to their broken home
Which they're putting together again for dear life, knowing nothing
Of the heart beating under their floorboards, besieged here, seeking
A life of its own. All day their brisk shadows zigzag and flicker
Along a whitewashed gable, trafficking in and out of a hair-crack
Under wooden eaves, where they make a life for themselves that knows
No let-up through hours of exploration and return, their thighs golden
With pollen, their multitudinous eyes stapled to a single purpose:
To make winter safe for their likes, stack-packing the queen's chambers
With sweetness. Later, listen: one warm humming note, their night music.
poem by Eamon Grennan
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Music Of The Night
In the night the music plays,
I lay alone in the covers hidden from the dark,
I do not turn I do not look, I listen to the music play,
The horror of reality has left its’ mark,
On my soul, on my mind,
I am alone in the truth, in the past.
I know what they have seen, as others are blind,
I know the cast,
Of their play, of their lives,
Yet I still lay here scared, weak,
It is on my knowing that they thrive,
So I am left, weak.
The music plays over the sounds, all their goodbyes
I do not hear them, yet I feel them,
I see their faces, their eyes,
I know they hold onto life by it’s hem,
Trying not to let go, to hold to life,
They hold onto me, my mind,
I am their source of life,
And so I lay, waiting for sleep,
I lay with the nightlights in their small light,
Yet still the darkness is so deep,
For this is the same every day, I fall asleep, to the music of the night.
~This is the truth, this is how I live, this is my night.
poem by Bethany Maxwell
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The Piano Lurched
Contact was sharp…
I jolted from immediacy of senses torn from mind:
Such was I at unawares with you –
To strike with Master’s single chord that pounced and caught me blind –
Piano, how you lurched and rent me through!
Delightful music welcomed me to drift in quasi-syncope:
Soft tranquillo sought to rest my bones –
I glided reaching largo; sang with sweet cantabile, and
Forte let me in to louder tones.
I cried with lacrimoso; squirmed when agitato flared;
My hearing rang when fingers danced the trill.
And so it was, this maestro grand was genius declared –
Acting out in music for the thrill.
Translating pen to piano, this player takes me back thro’ time…
In the chamber, fine composers charm:
I watch the manic hands of Liszt abound with tunes sublime;
Mozart teased my mood with stark alarm.
Then entered Bach to demonstrate his mathematic flare,
Calculating notes supreme of form.
And I – the minion audience – sat wanting in my chair,
Having heard my idols all perform.
Did Darwin’s theory tell at all why Man evolved this way?
Why would music help him to survive?
But scientific muse had veered my thoughts from this display, and
Music called: ‘Just listen - you’re alive! ’
The maestro draws conclusion; lets the piano die a death
To stand as wood, inert just as before –
A pollished casket lined with keys, at calm from naught of breath,
Bade me scream: ‘Bravo! ’ and ‘Hail! Encore! ’
He wakes the box to dance again with noble works of art:
Resurrected; fully primed with zest.
Now even I was back to life with reason in my heart –
Heightened from the pounding in my chest.
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2009
All rights reserved
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poem by Mark R Slaughter
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The Day After The Hurricane
And they return home
after the quick evacuation
home to their homelessness,
home to the loss of their properties
built up for years and decades
now pounded and crumpled by waves.
And they return home,
home to their parks and businesses
bulldozed by giant monsters in the night.
And they return home
home to their ports and shores
finding houses of their neighbors
uprooted and thrown into deep seas.
And they return home,
home to their childhood and memories
recorded in albums and documents
videos, CDs and files in computers
now drowned by waters
and covered by piles of dirt and mud.
And they return home,
home to their own town or city
which once was lighted with much glee.
And here they now return
to this gloom of darkness
with live wires that may soon
explode into big flames of fires.
Such a tragic home coming
from the fury of the Super Power Sandy!
Have mercy, O Lord, on the victims
of this merciless hurricane.
poem by Elizabeth Padillo Olesen
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Music Of The Thunder
Music of the thunder is sweet
To our ears indeed a great treat!
Rhyme and rhythm, you can find and hear
Evanescence of life seen here!
Early in the morning a joy
In the nature's hand a nice toy!
Withered trees, parched land scene of woe
Starved people, dying cattle - oh!
Nature played music of thunder
Accompanied by great wonder!
Streak of lightning, lashings of rain
Swelling of streams and rivers main!
Melody of thunder and rain
Great reliever of farmers' pain!
Sans water the world exists not
All living beings on earth rot!
Thunder hurts me not, nor a threat
Indeed a music - nature's pet!
I love nature, I love thunder
What a great nature-made wonder!
poem by Subbaraman N V
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