Apr '03 [Home] Masters [Poetry] B The Barrel-Organ ~ Alfred Noyes | I Know the Music ~ Music ~ Wilfred Owen | Ancient Music ~ Ezra Pound | To Music ~ Rainer Maria Rilke | Cuttings ~ Theodore Roethke | The March of the Dead ~ Robert W Service | Music Swims Back to Me ~ Anne Sexton | Peter Quince at the Clavier ~ Mozart, 1935 ~ Wallace Stevens | My Lute Awake ~ Sir Thomas Wyatt A The Old Orange Flute ~ Anonymous | The Composer ~ Wystan Hugh Auden | I Am in Need of Music ~ Elizabeth Bishop | Blue Evening ~ Rupert Brooke | Perplexed Music ~ Elizabeth Barrett Browning | Pied Piper of Hamelin ~ Robert Browning | Listening ~ Music ~ Raymond Carver | Æollian Harp ~ Samuel Coleridge | Music in an Empty House ~ Hugh Sykes Davies | 157 ~ Emily Dickinson | Alexander's Feast ~ John Dryden | Come In ~ Robert Frost | Leporello on Don Giovanni ~ Jack Gilbert | To Music: a Song ~ Robert Herrick | To Autumn ~ John Keats | At a Solemn Music ~ John Milton | |
. | . | . | The Barrel-Organ Alfred Noyes There's a barrel-organ carolling across a golden street In the City as the sun sinks low; And the music's not immortal; but the world has made it sweet And fulfilled it with the sunset glow; And it pulses through the pleasures of the City and the pain That surround the singing organ like a large eternal light; And they've given it a glory and a part to play again In the Symphony that rules the day and night. And now it's marching onward through the realms of old romance, And trolling out a fond familiar tune, And now it's roaring cannon down to fight the King of France, And now it's prattling softly to the moon. And all around the organ there's a sea without a shore Of human joys and wonders and regrets; To remember and to recompense the music evermore For what the cold machinery forgets Yes; as the music changes, Like a prismatic glass, It takes the light and ranges Through all the moods that pass; Dissects the common carnival Of passions and regrets, And gives the world a glimpse of all The colours it forgets. And there La Traviata sighs Another sadder song; And there Il Trovatore cries A tale of deeper wrong; And bolder knights to battle go With sword and shield and lance, Than ever here on earth below Have whirled into—a dance!— Go down to Kew in lilac-time, in lilac-time, in lilac-time; Go down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!) And you shall wander hand in hand with love in summer's wonderland; Go down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!) The cherry-trees are seas of bloom and soft perfume and sweet perfume, The cherry-trees are seas of bloom (and oh, so near to London!) And there they say, when dawn is high and all the world's a blaze of sky The cuckoo, though he's very shy, will sing a song for London. The nightingale is rather rare and yet they say you'll hear him there At Kew, at Kew in lilac-time (and oh, so near to London!) The linnet and the throstle, too, and after dark the long halloo And golden-eyed tu-whit, tu-whoo of owls that ogle London. For Noah hardly knew a bird of any kind that isn't heard At Kew, at Kew in lilac-time (and oh, so near to London!) And when the rose begins to pout and all the chestnut spires are out You'll hear the rest without a doubt, all chorusing for London:— Come down to Kew in lilac-time, in lilac-time, in lilac-time; Come down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!) And you shall wander hand in hand with love in summer's wonderland; Come down to Kew in lilac-time (is isn't far from London!) And then the troubadour begins to thrill the golden street, In the city as the sun sinks low; And in all the gaudy busses there are scores of weary feet Marking time, sweet time, with a dull mechanic beat, And a thousand hearts are plunging to a love they'll never meet, Through the meadows of the sunset, through the poppies and the wheat, In the land where the dead dreams go. Verdi, Verdi, when you wrote Il Trovatore did you dream Of the City when the sun sinks low, Of the organ and the monkey and the many-coloured stream On the Piccadilly pavement, of the myriad eyes that seem To be litten for a moment with a wild Italian gleam As A che la morte parodies the world's eternal theme And pulses with the sunset-glow? There's a thief, perhaps, that listens with a face of frozen stone In the City as the sun sinks low; There's a portly man of business with a balance of his own, There's a clerk and there's a butcher of a soft reposeful tone, And they're all of them returning to the heavens they have known: They are crammed and jammed in busses and—they're each of them alone In the land where the dead dreams go. There's a labourer that listens to the voices of the dead In the City as the sun sinks low; And his hand begins to tremble and his face is rather red As he sees a loafer watching him and—there he turns his head And stares into the sunset where his April love is fled, For he hears her softly singing and his lonely soul is led Through the land where the dead dreams go There's a barrel-organ carolling across a golden street In the City as the sun sinks low; Though the music's only Verdi there's a world to make it sweet Just as yonder yellow sunset where the earth and heaven meet Mellows all the sooty City! Hark, a hundred thousand feet Are marching on to glory through the poppies and the wheat In the land where the dead dreams go. So it's Jeremiah, Jeremiah, What have you to say When you meet the garland girls Tripping on their way? All around my gala hat I wear a wreath of roses (A long and lonely year it is I've waited for the May!) If any one should ask you, The reason why I wear it is— My own love, my true love is coming home to-day. And it's buy a bunch of violets for the lady (It's lilac-time in London; it's lilac-time in London!) Buy a bunch of violets for the lady; While the sky burns blue above: On the other side the street you'll find it shady (It's lilac-time in London; it's lilac-time in London!) But buy a bunch of violets for the lady, And tell her she's your own true love. There's a barrel-organ carolling across a golden street In the City as the sun sinks glittering and slow; And the music's not immortal; but the world has made it sweet And enriched it with the harmonies that make a song complete In the deeper heavens of music where the night and morning meet, As it dies into the sunset glow; And it pulses through the pleasures of the City and the pain That surround the singing organ like a large eternal light, And they've given it a glory and a part to play again In the Symphony that rules the day and night. And there, as the music changes, The song runs round again; Once more it turns and ranges Through all its joy and pain: Dissects the common carnival Of passions and regrets; And the wheeling world remembers all The wheeling song forgets. Once more La Traviata sighs Another sadder song: Once more Il Trovatore cries A tale of deeper wrong; Once more the knights to battle go With sword and shield and lance Till once, once more, the shattered foe Has whirled into—a dance! Come down to Kew in lilac-time, in lilac-time, in lilac-time; Come down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!) And you shall wander hand in hand with Love in summer's wonderland, Come down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!) ~ . ~ I Know the Music Wilfred Owen All sounds have been as music to my listening: Pacific lamentations of slow bells, The crunch of boots on blue snow rosy-glistening, Shuffle of autumn leaves; and all farewells: Bugles that sadden all the evening air, And country bells clamouring their last appeals Before the music of the evening prayer; Bridges, sonorous under carriage wheels. Gurgle of sluicing surge through hollow rocks, The gluttonous lapping of the waves on weeds, Whisper of grass; the myriad-tinkling flocks, The warbling drawl of flutes and shepherds' reeds. The orchestral noises of October nights Blowing symphonetic storms Of startled clarions Drums, rumbling and rolling thunderous and ( ). Thrilling of throstles in the keen blue dawn, Bees fumbling and fuming over sainfoin-fields. (From Poems (1920)) ~ . Music Wilfred Owen I have been urged by earnest violins And drunk their mellow sorrows to the slake Of all my sorrows and my thirsting sins. My heart has beaten for a brave drum's sake. Huge chords have wrought me mighty: I have hurled Thuds of gods' thunder. And with old winds pondered Over the curse of this chaotic world,— With low lost winds that maundered as they wandered. I have been gay with trivial fifes that laugh; And songs more sweet than possible things are sweet; And gongs, and oboes. Yet I guessed not half Life's symphony till I had made hearts beat, And touched Love's body into trembling cries, And blown my love's lips into laughs and sighs. (From Poems (1920)) ~ . ~ Ancient Music Ezra Pound Winter is icummen in, Lhude sing Goddamm. Raineth drop and staineth slop, And how the wind doth ramm! Sing: Goddamm. Skiddeth bus and sloppeth us, An ague hath my ham. Freezeth river, turneth liver, Damn you, sing: Goddamm. Goddamm, Goddamm, 'tis why I am, Goddamm, So 'gainst the winter's balm. Sing goddamm, damm, sing Goddamm. Sing goddamm, sing goddamm, DAMM. ~ . ~ To Music Rainer Maria Rilke Music: breathing of statues. Perhaps: silence of paintings. You language where all language ends. You time standing vertically on the motion of mortal hearts. Feelings for whom? O you the transformation of feelings into what?—: in audible landscape. You stranger: music. You heart-space grown out of us. The deepest space in us, which, rising above us, forces its way out,— holy departure: when the innermost point in us stands, outside, as the most practiced distance, as the other side of the air: pure, boundless, no longer habitable. (Transl. Stephen Mitchell) ~ . ~ Cuttings Theodore Roethke This urge, wrestle, resurrection of dry sticks, Cut stems struggling to put down feet, What saint strained so much, Rose on such lopped limbs to a new life? I can hear, underground, that sucking and sobbing, In my veins, in my bones I feel it— The small waters seeping upward, The tight grains parting at last. When sprouts break out, Slippery as fish, I quail, lean to beginnings, sheath-wet. ~ . ~ The March of the Dead Robert W. Service The cruel war was over — oh, the triumph was so sweet! We watched the troops returning, through our tears; There was triumph, triumph, triumph down the scarlet glittering street, And you scarce could hear the music for the cheers. And you scarce could see the house-tops for the flags that flew between; The bells were pealing madly to the sky; And everyone was shouting for the Soldiers of the Queen, And the glory of an age was passing by. And then there came a shadow, swift and sudden, dark and drear; The bells were silent, not an echo stirred. The flags were drooping sullenly, the men forgot to cheer; We waited, and we never spoke a word. The sky grew darker, darker, till from out the gloomy rack There came a voice that checked the heart with dread: "Tear down, tear down your bunting now, and hang up sable black; They are coming — it's the Army of the Dead." They were coming, they were coming, gaunt and ghastly, sad and slow; They were coming, all the crimson wrecks of pride; With faces seared, and cheeks red smeared, and haunting eyes of woe, And clotted holes the khaki couldn't hide. Oh, the clammy brow of anguish! the livid, foam-flecked lips! The reeling ranks of ruin swept along! The limb that trailed, the hand that failed, the bloody finger tips! And oh, the dreary rhythm of their song! "They left us on the veldt-side, but we felt we couldn't stop On this, our England's crowning festal day; We're the men of Magersfontein, we're the men of Spion Kop, Colenso — we're the men who had to pay. We're the men who paid the blood-price. Shall the grave be all our gain? You owe us. Long and heavy is the score. Then cheer us for our glory now, and cheer us for our pain, And cheer us as ye never cheered before." The folks were white and stricken, and each tongue seemed weighted with lead; Each heart was clutched in hollow hand of ice; And every eye was staring at the horror of the dead, The pity of the men who paid the price. They were come, were come to mock us, in the first flush of our peace; Through writhing lips their teeth were all agleam; They were coming in their thousands — oh, would they never cease! I closed my eyes, and then — it was a dream. There was triumph, triumph, triumph down the scarlet gleaming street; The town was mad; a man was like a boy. A thousand flags were flaming where the sky and city meet; A thousand bells were thundering the joy. There was music, mirth and sunshine; but some eyes shone with regret; And while we stun with cheers our homing braves, O God, in Thy great mercy, let us nevermore forget The graves they left behind, the bitter graves. ~. ~ Music Swims Back to Me Anne Sexton Wait Mister. Which way is home? They turned the light out and the dark is moving in the corner. There are no sign posts in this room, four ladies, over eighty, in diapers every one of them. La la la, Oh music swims back to me and I can feel the tune they played the night they left me in this private institution on a hill. Imagine it. A radio playing and everyone here was crazy. I liked it and danced in a circle. Music pours over the sense and in a funny way music sees more than I. I mean it remembers better; remembers the first night here. It was the strangled cold of November; even the stars were strapped in the sky and that moon too bright forking through the bars to stick me with a singing in the head. I have forgotten all the rest. They lock me in this chair at eight a.m. and there are no signs to tell the way, just the radio beating to itself and the song that remembers more than I. Oh, la la la, this music swims back to me. The night I came I danced a circle and was not afraid. Mister? ~. ~ Peter Quince at the Clavier Wallace Stevens I Just as my fingers on these keys Make music, so the self-same sounds On my spirit make a music, too. Music is feeling, then, not sound; And thus it is that what I feel, Here in this room, desiring you, Thinking of your blue-shadowed silk, Is music. It is like the strain Waked in the elders by Susanna; Of a green evening, clear and warm, She bathed in her still garden, while The red-eyed elders, watching, felt The basses of their beings throb In witching chords, and their thin blood Pulse pizzicati of Hosanna. II In the green water, clear and warm, Susanna lay. She searched The touch of springs, And found Concealed imaginings. She sighed, For so much melody. Upon the bank, she stood In the cool Of spent emotions. She felt, among the leaves, The dew Of old devotions. She walked upon the grass, Still quavering. The winds were like her maids, On timid feet, Fetching her woven scarves, Yet wavering. A breath upon her hand Muted the night. She turned — A cymbal crashed, Amid roaring horns. III Soon, with a noise like tambourines, Came her attendant Byzantines. They wondered why Susanna cried Against the elders by her side; And as they whispered, the refrain Was like a willow swept by rain. Anon, their lamps' uplifted flame Revealed Susanna and her shame. And then, the simpering Byzantines Fled, with a noise like tambourines. IV Beauty is momentary in the mind — The fitful tracing of a portal; But in the flesh it is immortal. The body dies; the body's beauty lives. So evenings die, in their green going, A wave, interminably flowing. So gardens die, their meek breath scenting The cowl of winter, done repenting. So maidens die, to the auroral Celebration of a maiden's choral. Susanna's music touched the bawdy strings Of those white elders; but, escaping, Left only Death's ironic scraping. Now, in its immortality, it plays On the clear viol of her memory, And makes a constant sacrament of praise. (From Harmonium (1923)) ~ . Mozart, 1935 Wallace Stevens Poet, be seated at the piano. Play the present, its hoo-hoo-hoo, It's shoo-shoo-shoo-, its ric-a-ric- Its envious cachinnaton. If they throw stones upon the roof While you practice arpeggios, It is because they carry down the stairs A body in rags. Be seated at the piano. The lucid souvenir of the past, The divertimento; The airy dream of the future, The unclouded concerto The snow is falling. Strike the piercing chord. Be thou the voice, Not you. Be thou, be thou The voice of angry fear, The voice of this besieging pain. Be thou that wintry sound As of the great wind howling, By which sorrow is released, Dismissed, absolved In a starry placating. We may return to Mozart. He was young, and we, we are old. The snow is falling And the streets are full of cries. Be seated thou. ~ . ~ My Lute Awake Sir Thomas Wyatt My lute, awake! perform the last Labour, that thou and I shall waste, And end that I have now begun; For when this song is sung and past, My lute, be still, for I have done. As to be heard where ear is none, As lead to grave in marble stone, My song may pierce her heart as soon. Should we then sigh, or sing, or moan? No, no, my lute, for I have done. The rocks do not so cruelly Repulse the waves continually, As she my suit and affection; So that I am past remedy, Whereby my lute and I have done. Proud of the spoil that thou hast got Of simple hearts thorough Love's shot, By whom, unkind, thou hast them won, Think not he hath his bow forgot, Although my lute and I have done. Vengeance shall fall on thy disdain, That makest but game on earnest pain; Think not alone under the sun Unquit to cause thy lovers plain, Although my lute and I have done. Perchance thee lie withered and old, The winter nights, that are so cold, Plaining in vain unto the moon; Thy wishes then dare not be told. Care then who list, for I have done. And then may chance thee to repent The time that thou hast lost and spent, To cause thy lovers sigh and swoon; Then shalt thou know beauty but lent, And wish and want as I have done. Now cease, my lute! this is the last Labour, that thou and I shall waste, And ended is that we begun; Now is this song both sung and past. My lute, be still, for I have done. A |