music poems

Travels – A Poem by Sunil Sharma

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I will take you to where moon is
Or, other some such place where
You hear the Amazon singing at her tenor full.
The Niagara falling falling falling like tumbling $
Or:
The ancient Nile being travelled by a young Cleopatra and Antony
And recoded by the Bard for the King’s Men, 1607.
I will take you to the spot where a sensitive Keats first heard
The nightingale and composed his immortal paean
To the humble bird, a source of inspiration for others.
Come with me; fly to the orbiting lands imagined/real/imagined.
It interlinks —
The creative imagination-language-context
Called Poesy, now poetry by the stiff purists insisting on
Colloquial speech and modern terminology.
Call it any name, dear poetry creates something new
And, handcuffs us subtly
Both you and I
In this strange mental journey.

More at http://www.drsunilsharma.in/.

Aryabhata's Predicament – A Poem by Richard William Kirkpatrick-Thorne

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The Oaf Is On A See-Saw,
Flipping His Wallet Up InTo The Air,
Swinging It On A Chain,
Catching Stares As He Jerks Them Towards His Gapeing Face,
His Eyes Pointy And Dumb,
He Sits Tight And Fat… Rideing Each Bump Like Its His First,
While He Borrows A Friend To Dive The Totter Up And To Shake The
Teeter Down…
…
Droplets Of Noon Sweat Arc Into The Marshmellow Sky,
It Is Business Class All The Way,
To Hell With Milk Money Like Molasses And Jackie Onassis,
There Is A Genuine Cause For Concern Among The Marble-Jetters
As The Rusty Stress Of Congress Begins To Squeal,
An Orbital Leverage Was Once What Held The Playground Up,
But As Greasy As The Bolt Could Be… EveryThing Falls…
…
To Bullets And Ballads,
Stomping Chubby Feet Minute After Minute,
Chomping-Simple Machine Wired For The Suspension Of Polarity,
Jaw-Slacking Pulley System To Link The Mind To Its Beauty-Sleep,
With One Thumb In A Thimble And One Pot To Watch Boil Over…
…
Keeping An Ear On The Music… The Borrowed Friend Now Disengages From
The Tired Game,
Bored Of Dieing… Now To The Swings He Saunters Sullenly…
…
The Alpha Male Saddles Up,
To Put The Program To The Test And Check Breaking Points,
His Mother’s God Put Fuzz On His Cheeks… Youth Fizzing Right Below
His Nose,
It Is Done So He Remembers His Turn On The Ladder,
And He Grips The Bar And Heaves Up…
…
…
The Oaf Smiles And Sits Drooling… For A Split Second… Before He
Releases Tension,
Giving His Best Attempt To Rub Out The Metal’s Curve,
Though It May Take Several Attempts For The New Guy To Come Down,
And He Will Eventually Admit Defeat… From Some Niche Near Sun-Dogs
And Space-Trash,
But Not Before A Shadowy Recession Hits The Land,
And EveryBody Notices How Heavy Buddha Got On The Ride Home.

More at http://rwkt.blogspot.ca/2014/10/aryabhatas-predicament.html.

John Cage Has Died | Rose Mary Boehm

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He would like to be remembered
as an empty book left open
for the wind,
as a tone-less symphony
waking the listeners
to their very lives,
as a poem never written,
never read.

As a silent presence
on a stage that has
been taken down
last year.

John Cage died a disappointed
inventor of aleatoric music for
which he invented a string instrument
that had to be played by one tall person
with four hands.

More at http://rosemaryboehm.weebly.com/.

Music | Jenny Middleton

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Slashed as paint ripping wild the canvas
of its confines you woke the room,
your music a stringed surge reverberating
the grey.
Around the round words your lips move
as delicate as geraniums drift,
as electric panthers wag
the tangle of minted night.
owning us more than angels
and the very lyric breath
of each plucked, pink note
is a danced destiny.

More at https://www.jmiddletonpoems.com/.

Belting It Out | Mary Bone

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Belting it out from the byway.
I was fresh from the highway.
I was winding down
from a great sound.
Music was all around.
I was so glad I came to town.
The lady sings the blues.
People were tapping suede shoes-
to an incredible beat.

Flow Within | Gopal Lahiri

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Mid-night drummer
A nervous laugh

Soprano in plush voice
Robust baritone

Burst of cluster chords
Sputtered quavers

Percussive sound
Cluster chords

River flowing
Musical odessey

Repeated notes
A gossamer touch

Rhythm of love
Resonate endlessly.

More at https://gopallahiri.blogspot.com.

Michael Jackson | Ciarán Parkes

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In a dream Michael Jackson
is playing a concert in the town I live in
or a dream version of that town, beside a river
that doesn’t quite exist. Earlier, a priest

had preached a sermon, not quite condemning
Jackson from the pulpit, but talking about him
in such a way that no right thinking person
would be going to his concert. I watch him,

somehow from above, begin to sing
to an empty field in which there’s only
a sleeping homeless man and dog. The river
flows in front of him, makes the edge

of the stage he’s standing on. The light
is that light which sometimes comes in dreams,
brighter than normal light, as if it’s shining
from another world, in this case, from the one

outside the half closed curtains where the sun
is all set to wake me up but there’s still time
to see him realize the audience aren’t coming
and see how little it means to him. He sings

Don’t Stop ‘til You Get Enough or maybe one
of his mellow, mid-seventies hits like One
Day in Your Life or You’ve Got a Friend. His voice
the kind of voice you only hear in dreams

but, for him, just how he always sings
or how he always used to sing, back then. By now
a few odd people have started wandering in
to dance and sing along. The homeless man

and his dog have finally woken up and I’m
just about to, still half asleep, still listening
to Jackson in his blaze of sunlight, singing.

(First published in Autumn Sky Poetry Daily)

ShoeHorn – A Poem by Richard William Kirkpatrick-Thorne

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It Was A Trick Of The Light,
To The Wounded Winding Of Springs,
So She Could Lift Her Eyes To The Rift,
Where Mortality Could Be Feasted UpOn,
And With The Rotateing Of Erasure,
Mouths Could Construct Epitaphs In The Corner…
…
Of That Room… A ChamberLess Embryo For A SexLess Sliver,
A ReVerseing Labyrinth Singing To ItSelf For A Body Politic,
Rolling InTo ItSelf To UnCorner And Be Juggled InTo Orbit With Plaster
Cherubs,
As Fertility Dug Deep To Bury The Clock’s Incessant Throne,
Ruleing InTo HerSelf To UnCover Another Jungle…
…
Ignorance Biteing Worth… Pleaseing Richer Ballistics,
A Stoned ForEver Swept Under The Rug To Keep Her Hands Flushed,
Insectile But Not ALone,
Cruelty Granting OnTo Its Union… A Yesterday’s Cutting Through…
…
For Stained Glass…
…
…
Coloring The Faces Of All Those Who Sit BeSide Her,
UpOn Arbor And Brow…
…
…
…
If It Is Good For The Noose,
Then It Be As Good For The Sander.

More at http://rwkt.blogspot.ca.

The First Flute | Jenny Middleton

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Even amongst the mires and marshes
at our beginnings we envied the birds
their song grown sweet amid the tawny thorns
of survival. Schemes were lit and fires
laid smoke to climb through the roast heat of bones
and blister of wings until the remains
displayed their hollow, fleshless tunnel caves
here the first enchantments lifted from lips,
swift fingers coaxed the perforated pieces
of death to a fresh flight of flurried dance
now strumming soul soft from our stereos.

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