Songs without Words

The air is crumpling down
Folded fingerjoints caught in a turbulent roll
The scent of crackling fireplaces wrapping around pudgy geese
And the slick sheen of well-combed grass with that good old-fashioned dew

Sneakers plodding through lifeless leaves
Grumbles of idle cars dreaming of another age
A gust of wind rattling the percussive windchimes on a nearby tree
The sky, pale, and the stream caught undressed

Thoughts scattered and dampened
Reluctantly haunting the horizons of barren groves
What stories come and come to be forgotten
In the infertile glow of autumn mornings

azure balloon
take me to my loft
the sunset is my scarf unraveled

I long to partake
in the splendor of the soaring parade
and already, nightfall’s chime strikes –

azure balloon
I must return home

drape over me the translucent aurora gowns
and pierce my lobes with Leonids

to my bosom, clip the medallion of the seven sisters
to my ankles, tie the tinkling bells of distant novae

and do not forget to lead me to the basin
where I may douse my locks
with the cascades of celestial waterfalls

azure balloon
then accompany me
the diva of whim and wonder
as I sing again that song I sing
the anthem of dreams and passions and horrors

darkness sweeps over tender minds
and all hearts fall under my spell

There are severe formatting errors in the version below. Please use this link to see it in its appropriate form. A literal rendering of the poem’s source memory is located at the bottom of this entry.

Singing hair, speaking hair,
the shouting tongue, a lapper and a kisser
but now taking it easy
rolling, blowing as if whispering
“elephant”
laughing

An electric phantasm, but
elusive phantasmagoria
Deeply verdant threads on a velvety specimen of sweater
dyeing the waves
the old-fashioned way:
brush, brush, sweeping the blue out of the blue-green tincture
the purest cerulean-indigo emigrating
to paint white cotton into warm and worn denim –
a subtle approach under the chorus of heavy airs and salts

Ridges in the wooden planks
miniaturized onto shy fingers that seek like-minded accomplices
for a carefree warming spree
a palm of pink, unfolding its wings into a balmy resort
of dunes and layered sands
and a few palms of green

Interleaving destinies hobble along together
wriggling their noses and ears
Smudges on affectionate blushes
adorned with spots and pimples
unwinding with a taut stretch
and wholesome breaths laden with serpentine mirages
Condensing with a cognate gaze
Sprinkles of a yearning blossom of desire
under the chorus of heavy airs and salts

free yourself

I decided to lift my years-long ban on writing “sonnets.”

This sonnet is a 7/7 sonnet (14-syllable lines with no meter, but divided always into 7 and 7). The rhyme scheme (abba cddc effe gg) is easier than last time, but the catch is that a and b, c and d, and e and f have to sound highly similar. Additionally, the rhyme must, if the word is over one syllable, extend one letter beyond that syllable (ie, kettle and mettle rhyme, but not kettle and battle), and if the word is one syllable, the entire syllable must be rhymed. As a result, there are some funky words in here :). I was kind of screwed the moment I typed “keys.” But whatever! Read and enjoy, critique or whatever =P.

Shadow’s Pianist

The shadow of your fingers, cast over the Piano keys,
In the midst of pallid Night – gray walls and gray tapestries,
You deign to touch – no sound made! (terror of Night’s Ministries)
Do not quiver, do not fret; fingers savage as monkeys.

You are wizard of the room; toes itch to press the pedal,
Take a deep breath with eyes closed; imagine spectral petals,
Wavering in resonance, diplomacy like nettles,
Emotions clashing throughout, as reason daren’t meddle.

Before the Song is Silence – the Daughter drowns the Father,
Sound is tragic comedy, elusively moving hither,
Then bang! ring! ripping through air – pull of bow, strum of zither!
Resistance falls to its knees: the air won’t even bother … .

Songstress cloaked in tendrils’ shroud, your tips rain down as dancers,
My heart screams forth with questions – and melodies … for answers … .

Ignore me.
Someone stole my cushion,
So my butt hurts.

The ringing in my ears makes me numb
But I want to pretend that the pain
(In my rear)
Is all that troubles my heart.

* * *

Hmm, just a little experiment in my ‘test tube’ ;).  Not actually reflective of how I feel, btw.

We are supposed to write a choral piece.  I think this will be interesting, because .. I know how I would like the choir to sound, yet I do not know how to execute the music.  Well, I shall be bothering Melike a lot about this, I suppose … .  Haha!  Professor Harbison gave a guest lecture on Monday all about ways to properly write contemporary music for people to sing, and contrasting that to instrumental music.  I think I learned a lot (about cues, continuity of lines, placement of rests, etc.), and hopefully I can apply it.  Probably, if I can sing the lines in-key in the context of other parts being played, then it should be okay.

For a text, I have selected something rather non-standard, I think.  I briefly considered Biblical passages and French poetry and the like, but I couldn’t help but feel a gut instinct that I had to write a song from a haiku.  The haiku I intend on using is this one by the famous Basho:

Moromoro no
Kokoro yanagi ni
Makasubeshi

I’ll write more about what I see in it later~~

This is an idea that has been on the back burner for some time: a sort of epic play, I guess – you know, the old-fashioned type where there are heroes and journeys and all sorts of powerful images, all delivered through verse (and possibly song). I’ve especially been inspired recently by the sorts of scenes I saw in Curse of the Golden Flower and Dr. Zhivago.

When I was younger, I always had these ideas for scripts. I guess it was sort of natural, since I tend to envision all of my writing as acted-out scenes on the vast and mutable stage within my mind. It has thus been constraining to me, in a way, to always try to depict out this stage in rigid prose, when really what I want to share is a fluid dialogue with freer interpretation and scenery you can actually see.

So without further ado, here is my humble attempt at the first two scenes of my epic-styled play. Please do not be too harsh on it, but C&C is always welcome!

Read here

* written based on a short line by a friend long ago: “I closed my eyes and drank death” *

thirst
symphonic wind

i closed my
ey es)

and drank death,
lips
pressed against the enchanted rim
of obsidian luxury!

fingers thrashed:
swallow * violently, passionately

a moment’s infernal rage
ey es( open
– everything ! –
fleeting twinkle,

and then the ground,
hardened,
tongue —- …
collapsing

aftertaste

my lunch was a city

here is my meal: turkey, carrots, stuffing.
i am the general; she is the pilot;
‘gravy?’ she asks.
‘only on the turkey,’ i reply.
down rains the thick liquid
spreading along the slabs of meat
and then the box shuts closed.

i later reopen the box:
the turkey is soaked; the carrots are soaked; the stuffing is soaked;
a bomb knows no friends but death.