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Music

The block of flats loomed towerlike.
Two sweating athletes, human telpher,
Were carrying up narrow stairs,
As though a bell onto a belfry,

As to a stony tableland
The tables of the law, with caution,
A huge and heavy concert-grand,
Above the city's restless ocean.

At last it stands on solid ground,
While deep below the din and clatter
Are damped, as though the town were drowned-
Sunk to the bottom of a legend.

The tenant of the topmost flat
Looks down on earth over the railings,
As if he held it in his hand,
Its lawful ruler, never failing.

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poem by Boris Pasternak
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Liz Phair and Three Beautiful Ladies

On a warm sultry night last August,
I went to a rock concert featuring Liz Phair
And several other female artists.
A male friend of mine couldn’t go with me,
But I didn’t really mind, I love music so much
That I never want to talk or think about anything but the show.

Once I was there, though, I ran into three female friends:
Erica, Diana, and Soha!
I was as nearly as exited to see them as Liz;
If I had been a puppy,
My little tail would have been
Ecstatically wagging!

I was in the front row and toward the end of the show,
I reached my hand toward Liz Phair wanting
To slightly touch her, but she placed a guitar pick
Into my outstretched hand, I thought I might have a heart attack!
My three friends were cheering me on like perfect angels!

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poem by Uriah Hamilton
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Love and loss and love again - a poem for Jenny and her friends

Loss can be good for us,
researchers say (Nolen-Hoeksema
and Davis,2002) – it’s called
Post-Traumatic Growth…

When we ‘lose’ someone
we seldom see these days,
yet always love, we are in some strangely beautiful way
the gainers –

lose someone who, caught a glimpse of
down a school corridor, is like
a mirror in which you’ll see reflected
yourself as nothing but pure love…

and when you meet her then, it’s just as if
you meet love – and a modesty almost uncertain:
as if she had been bestowed the awesome gift
of a part of sun and sunlight, and told,
bestow this wisely…

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poem by Michael Shepherd
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At The Piano

Wanting to cleave clearly in the mind the wooden chopping boards of the house into piano keys,
and the long tables of the dining room into some imagined concert:
Do you hear it?
Yes?
Do you not since then not realize this grand scale?
The poor boy is playing a sonata in his head, yes?
Yes.
Now. (Pushed into agreement as if pushed by birth into an empty room without choice and flowers for wallpaper and a mirror kept blind dark in a drawer)
There was a piano, once, in my head.
And a stage.
And the world surprised by what had been found.
Difficult piece: the left hand flying over the right and the air-pedal stepped through and clean to sustain.
And all the world standing behind kitchen counters and the dinner plates waiting for the imagined overture to complete its applause:
If only there was no need to explain.
If only the real thing was as clear and as audible as once the beautiful music.

* Brown beaver in a stream and the grass green
Small girl on a swing and a bird wing
And because he thinks it’s meant to be spring,
he colors the clear edges

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poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Father And Son

Father:
On these occasions, the feelings surprise,
Spontaneous as rain, and they compel
Explicitness, embarrassed eyes——

Son:
Father, you’re not Polonius, you’re reticent,
But sure. I can already tell
The unction and falsetto of the sentiment
Which gratifies the facile mouth, but springs
From no felt, had, and wholly known things.

Father:
You must let me tell you what you fear
When you wake up from sleep, still drunk with sleep:
You are afraid of time and its slow drip,
Like melting ice, like smoke upon the air
In February’s glittering sunny day.
Your guilt is nameless, because its name is time,
Because its name is death. But you can stop

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poem by Delmore Schwartz
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Victor Should Have Been A Jazz Musician

I went to a concert, to see nina, simone,
The concert was over, there was still a band playing, the rap up,
The booguh played with his hands, I close my eyes, and look at him,
Victor should have been a jazz musician,
I said to myself, victor should have been a jazz musician,
I looked at his face, and I saw victor, looked at his smile, and I saw victor,
I looked at his hair, and thought,
Victor should have been a jazz musician,
Victor should have been a jazz musician,
And the people dancing on the floor, dancing on the floor, were so high,
You should have seen victor smile, you should have seen victor smile,
As they danced all the while all around on the floor, and he laughed,
Victor should have been a jazz musician,
Oh, victor should have been a jazz musician,
He was playing so nice, the jazz musician,
Ah, ah,
Hes living in a fast beat, in a city thats hot,
Telling all the latinos and puerto ricans, victor seems happy, but he doesnt even know himself, hes gotta look inside to know his first love,
Victor was a jazz musician, he was playing so nice, victor was a jazz musician, (? ) victor was a jazz musician,
Victor loves his music, he loves his music, somewhere, he plays his music, somewhere,

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song performed by Grace Jones
Added by Lucian Velea
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No Hooch

(tlc parody of the song no scrubs)
Not available for purchase
A hooch is a girl that thinks shes all that
And also known as a hoochie
Trynna get money from all these guys
Cuz she gots a big bootie so (no)
Im not captain saber hoe
Im not giving you none of my dough
Dont wanna give you nothin (no)
So girl dont waste my time
Chorus:
I dont want no hooch
A hoochie get knocked in the head with
The boot from me
Hanging at the backstage at every concert
Givin up the punanie for free
I dont want no hooch
A hoochie get knocked in the head with
The boot from me
Hangin at the backstage at every concert

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song performed by TLC
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Brigs of Ayr (Shorter version)

Inscribed to John Ballantine, Esq., Ayr.

The simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough,
Learning his tuneful trade from ev'ry bough;
The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush,
Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green thorn bush;
The soaring lark, the perching red-breast shrill,
Or deep-ton'd plovers grey, wild-whistling o'er the hill;
Shall he-nurst in the peasant's lowly shed,
To hardy independence bravely bred,
By early poverty to hardship steel'd.
And train'd to arms in stern Misfortune's field —
Shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes,
The servile, mercenary Swiss of rhymes?
Or labour hard the panegyric close,
With all the venal soul of dedicating prose?
No! though his artless strains he rudely sings,
And throws his hand uncouthly o'er the strings,
He glows with all the spirit of the Bard,
Fame, honest fame, his great, his dear reward.

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poem by Robert Burns (1786)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Brigs of Ayr (Full version)

Inscribed to John Ballantine, Esq., Ayr.

Sir, think not with a mercenary view
Some servile Sycophant approaches you.
To you my Muse would sing these simple lays,
To you my heart its grateful homage pays,
I feel the weight of all your kindness past,
But thank you not as wishing it to last;
Scorn'd be the wretch whose earth-born grov'lling soul
Would in his ledger-hopes his Friends enroll.
Tho' I, a lowly, nameless, rustic Bard,
Who ne'er must hope your goodness to reward,
Yet man to man, Sir, let us fairly meet,
And like masonic Level, equal greet.
How poor the balance! ev'n what Monarch's plan,
Between two noble creatures such as Man.
That to your Friendship I am strongly tied
I still shall own it, Sir, with grateful pride,
When haply roaring seas between us tumble wide.

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poem by Robert Burns (1786)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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A Poem On The Last Day - Book II

Now man awakes, and from his silent bed,
Where he has slept for ages, lifts his head;
Shakes off the slumber of ten thousand years,
And on the borders of new worlds appears.
Whate'er the bold, the rash adventure cost,
In wide Eternity I dare be lost.

The Muse is wont in narrow bounds to sing,
To teach the swain, or celebrate the king.
I grasp the whole, no more to parts confined,
I lift my voice, and sing to human kind:
I sing to men and angels; angels join,
While such the theme, their sacred songs with mine.

Again the trumpet's intermitted sound
Rolls the wide circuit of creation round,
An universal concourse to prepare
Of all that ever breathed the vital air;
In some wide field, which active whirlwinds sweep,
Drive cities, forests, mountains to the deep,

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poem by Edward Young
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