Sunday, December 30, 2007

If all the world were playing holidays

To sport would be as tedious as to work!
(Shakespeare from Henry IV part one if memory serves)

Tomorrow

Your best friend is gone,
your other friend, too.
Now the dream that used to turn in your sleep
sails into the earth's coldest night

What did you say?
Or was it something you did?
It makes no difference---the house of breath collapsing
around your voice, your voice burning, are nothing to worry about.

Tomorrow your friends will come back;
your moist mouth will bloom in the glass of storefronts.
Yes. Yes. Tomorrow they will come back and you
will invent an ending that comes out right.

Mark Strand

Smetena "The Moldau"

You paint on my canvas
swirls in water and air
using violas and cellos.

You hug me warmly
with triangles where
the sun glints.

You jam my senses
like a radio signal
satiating pleasure

WRM

5 comments:

Anonymous said...

Vltara.

Ignorant of the context,
Within the cacophony, the throng,
I detect two discordant voices,
Both powerful, both strong,
Vying for supremacy,
Before uniting in the same song.
A lighthearted peasant melody
Interrupts the laboured theme,
Of the massed mature voices,
Central to the scheme,
Which passes me by.

Cognisant of the context,
I am instantly aware,
Of the musical interpretation
Of a landscape laid bare.
From the confluence of the hot and cold Vltara currents,
As the river seaward wends its mighty way,
Past rocks, villages and castles
Beyond Prague to join the sway
Of the Elbe, Baltic bound.

Comfort I find lacking
In this dour dirge;
Deeply, darkly menacing,
Inharmonious,it hits a nerve;
A cultural disparity, a musical mismatch,
The distinctive Slavonic overtones,
Indigenous of the catch,
Meant of the Moldau.

j

Anonymous said...

A brilliant response j
Ignorance is bliss for me!
I listened to it for years before I even knew the Moldau was a river - I used to think it was a dance.
I always loved it - you too j
wrm

Anonymous said...

The Moldau, heavy silt laden, mature river, typically slavonic, goulash and dumplings compared to, say, Mozart, the youth and vigour of alpine streams and the light crispness of a Viennese millefeuille pastry.

Anonymous said...

still reading, sometimes

Anonymous said...

wow!
g