Music poems

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To be a great musician you must be a man of moods,
You have to be, to understand sonatas and etudes.
To execute pianos and to fiddle with success,
With sympathy and feeling you must fairly effervesce;
It was so with Paganini, Remenzi and Cho-pang,
And so it was with Peterkin Von Gabriel OLang.

Two Views Of A Cadaver Room

© Sylvia Plath

1
The day she visited the dissecting room
They had four men laid out, black as burnt turkey,
Already half unstrung. A vinegary fume

Wild Dreams Of A New Beginning

© Lawrence Ferlinghetti

There's a breathless hush on the freeway tonight
Beyond the ledges of concrete
restaurants fall into dreams
with candlelight couples

To His Honour the Lieutenant-Governor

© Phillis Wheatley

All-Conquering Death! by thy resistless pow'r,
Hope's tow'ring plumage falls to rise no more!
Of scenes terrestrial how the glories fly,
Forget their splendors, and submit to die!

On Recollection

© Phillis Wheatley

MNEME begin. Inspire, ye sacred nine,
Your vent'rous Afric in her great design.
Mneme, immortal pow'r, I trace thy spring:
Assist my strains, while I thy glories sing:

Goliath Of Gath

© Phillis Wheatley

SAMUEL, Chap. xvii.YE martial pow'rs, and all ye tuneful nine,
Inspire my song, and aid my high design.
The dreadful scenes and toils of war I write,
The ardent warriors, and the fields of fight:

On The Death Of Rev. Mr. George Whitefield

© Phillis Wheatley

HAIL, happy saint, on thine immortal throne,
Possest of glory, life, and bliss unknown;
We hear no more the music of thy tongue,
Thy wonted auditories cease to throng.

To Mæcenas

© Phillis Wheatley

Mæcenas, you, beneath the myrtle shade,
Read o'er what poets sung, and shepherds play'd.
What felt those poets but you feel the same?
Does not your soul possess the sacred flame?
Their noble strains your equal genius shares
In softer language, and diviner airs.

An Hymn To The Evening

© Phillis Wheatley

Soon as the sun forsook the eastern main
The pealing thunder shook the heav'nly plain;
Majestic grandeur! From the zephyr's wing,
Exhales the incense of the blooming spring.
Soft purl the streams, the birds renew their notes,
And through the air their mingled music floats.

The Old Times Were the Best

© James Whitcomb Riley

All about is bright and pleasant
With the sound of song and jest,
Yet a feeling's ever present
That the Old Times were the best.

The Old Guitar

© James Whitcomb Riley

Neglected now is the old guitar
And moldering into decay;
Fretted with many a rift and scar
That the dull dust hides away,
While the spider spins a silver star
In its silent lips to-day.

Conversation Galante

I OBSERVE: Our sentimental friend the moon!
Or possibly (fantastic, I confess)
It may be Prester Johns balloon
Or an old battered lantern hung aloft
To light poor travellers to their distress.
She then: How you digress!

Burbank with a Baedeker: Bleistein with a Cigar

Tra-la-la-la-la-la-lairenil nisi divinum stabile est; caetera fumusthe gondola
stopped, the old palace was there, how charming its grey and pinkgoats and
monkeys, with such hair too!so the countess passed on until she came through the
little park, where Niobe presented her with a cabinet, and so departed.

Four Quartets 3: The Dry Salvages

(The Dry Salvagespresumably les trois sauvagesis a small
group of rocks, with a beacon, off the N.E. coast of Cape Ann,
Massachusetts. Salvages is pronounced to rhyme with assuages.
Groaner: a whistling buoy.)

Four Quartets 2: East Coker

Dawn points, and another day
Prepares for heat and silence. Out at sea the dawn wind
Wrinkles and slides. I am here
Or there, or elsewhere. In my beginning.

The Old Gumbie Cat

I have a Gumbie Cat in mind, her name is Jennyanydots;
Her coat is of the tabby kind, with tiger stripes and leopard spots.
All day she sits upon the stair or on the steps or on the mat;
She sits and sits and sits and sits--and that's what makes a Gumbie Cat!