Citatepedia^®.com

There is no affectation and hypocrisy in Mozart.

quote by Yehudi Menuhin
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Hypocrisy

Hypocrisy

I wanted to sit and write today-but I did not know what to say.
Then a thought came to me. Why don’t I write about hypocrisy?
The hypocrisy of man leaves you to wonder.
Will this country make another blunder?
Will we continue in this Arab war where we are despised/
Will we choose to live a lie?
They say Americans shed their blood for you and me.
We all know its hypocrisy.
Men in uniform no longer fight the world wars.
People who want to hide what they are Moreover, what they say and do is because of me and you. Our service members and women still use our uniforms with pride
It is something that we can’t deny.
I could see it in my mind-the older politician telling the younger one.
“Let the road take its course” we are the trainers and they are the horse.
They will go where we lead them-that is why we are leaders.
The politicians of all nations should hide their heads in shame.
They search for all that they can gain.
They all try to line their pockets
They’ll pull your eyeballs from their sockets.
Then you cannot see all their hidden hypocrisies.
People will believe for a short period
While it weighs on their mind.
They have to tell the politicians that they will not follow
Like sheep to a slaughter so they could make a quarter.
We must tell them that we are tired as can be-living in hypocrisy.

poem by Louis Rams
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

That Music Extraordinaire, Mozart

That music extraordinaire, Mozart,
Who from his tender days, played with desire
Musical from the bottom of his heart.

Sweet notes from his music he did impart
That captivated audience to admire
That music extraordinaire, Mozart,

Whose tones can set an emotion to start
With a charm to have their hearts raised on fire
Musical from the bottom of his heart.

With pleasant pace from his great style of art
Is such that shows he was such a live wire,
That music extraordinaire, Mozart,

Whose harmony when heard is nice and smart
Can cheerfully raise hearts to go much higher
Musical from the bottom of his heart.

Joy occurs from such wonders that does chart
In tremendous ways that truly inspire.
That music extraordinaire, Mozart,
Musical from the bottom of his heart.

poem by Obinna Kenechukwu Eruchie
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Amadeus Mozart, con.k-365

What they adore
Is his genius
His music
Soaring to the heavens
Without so much
Effort

Effortlessly magnificent
Amadeus Mozart
And his music
Tossing me
From sea cap to sea cap
In my sea dreams

Piano notes ruffling
Like the windy beach
Waffling to the shore

Piano notes
Trickling
On my window pane
Like a soft rain
Playful
To the vines
On my window pane

What they adore
Is his genius
Soaring to the heavens

I envy him
Amadeus Mozart
His music grows like a river forever flowing

I do not mind if in there I drown
And die with a single note

He died in the sea drinking all the salty notes
Of Amadeus Mozart

Dehydration in the most musical fashion.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Crystal Tears And Blues

There is such a silence in the Vienna Opera
That you can hear even the quietest of Mozart's notes,
As if the city's elite has found its shepherd.
You can't hear the quietest of voices, just humble silence
And the occasional sigh of awe.
Oh, people, he ended up in an unmarked grave,
And look at them kneeling in front of him as if he was a king,
I think to myself while crystal tears
Slide down a dark face on this winter night.
It must be Mozart crying in anguish.
Yet, I'm not so much worried by his bitterness up there,
As by our empty hat down here,
As if ghosts pass us by,
Ghosts of those who threw Mozart into an unmarked grave,
But me and my black friend aren't thinking
Of putting our trumpets into worn-out leather sheaths,
Because the sad ballad warms the heart of the cold winter.
Someone might say that the two of us
Look like we just walked out of a black and white movie,
Not as much due to the color of our skins,
But due to our ancient clothes and music.
In this cold winter's night,
The good old blues wakes the nostalgia
In many walkers,
But there's no coin to sing in the old hat,
Just some black spider starting to weave its silky home.
We're not as worried by the empty hat
And our friend diligently building its new home,
As by the empty bottle.
When winter kisses you, you're bound to cry crystal tears, brother,
And so it's time to stretch our frozen legs,
Find some old hole
Where the poor heal their wounds with liquor
And good old blues.

poem by Walter William Safar
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

A myth about the origin of evil

And satan said:
‘Let there be a lie! ’
And there was a lie.
It hid in the stones
Sliding from above.

And satan said:
‘Let there be hypocrisy! ’
And there was hypocrisy.
It hid in the words
Waiting to speak up.
It covered itself with cobwebs
Spiders to feed.
It hid itself from itself.

And satan said:
‘Let there be poison! ’
And there was poison.
The devils waving their swords
Spilled it from a stormy breath.
It layered on the earth
To run with its currents.
It hid within the blood.

And satan said:
‘Let there be hatred! ’
And there was hatred.
It spilled all around
Like blood that cannot clot.
It walked in tigers’ paws
And hid itself in the end
Under the cold mossy north.

And satan said:
‘Let there be a human! ’
And there was a human.
He hid in the hypocrisy and lie
The poison of hatred fed him like milk.
A pirate wrapped in his sails.
And there was a human
In beasts he hid.

And satan said:
‘Let him think I am not! ’
But it was not the way he said.
There was a lie in the beginning of his word.

Written in 1989 reconstructed in 2012.

©Miroslava Odalovic

poem by Miroslava Odalovic
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Fake People

All the time
I look in your eyes
But what I see
And what you say to me
Are two totally different things
You pretend you put on a façade
I only wish you knew that I'm not
The only one who sees it as odd
Fake people
The things they do are oh so evil
Because of their own insecurities
They try to pass on to you their idiosyncrasies
Thinking they are your friends you let them into your lives
But then they turn around and about you tell nothing but lies
Jealousy is such an ugly thing
Almost as ugly as hypocrisy
Fake people
The things they do are oh so evil
Fake people
Fake people
So now I must ask who are your friends
Are they really what they seem to be
Or are they just trying to hide from you their envy
Do your friends really have your back
Or is it that that's where by them you've been stabbed
I once had a friend
One I thought would be there for me till the end
Then one day my happiness ended and theirs began
And when I needed someone to lean on
Behind me did no one stand
Fake people
The things they do are oh so evil
Because of their own insecurities
They try to pass on to you their idiosyncrasies
Thinking they are your friends you let them into your lives
But then they turn around and about you tell nothing but lies
Jealousy is such an ugly thing
Almost as ugly as hypocrisy
Fake people
The things they do are oh so evil
Fake people
Fake people
Be careful who you let know your business
'Cause in the end
Rumors about you they could be spreadin'
Don't put your trust in people who don't trust you
There's no telling what they're liable to say or do
Grow smarter with each experience
And you'll see true friends
Are the friends who are their with and for you till the end

[...] Read more

poem by Dionne K. Kelly
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

The Child Of The Islands - Winter

I.

ERE the Night cometh! On how many graves
Rests, at this hour, their first cold winter's snow!
Wild o'er the earth the sleety tempest raves;
Silent, our Lost Ones slumber on below;
Never to share again the genial glow
Of Christmas gladness round the circled hearth;
Never returning festivals to know,
Or holidays that mark some loved one's birth,
Or children's joyous songs, and loud delighted mirth.
II.

The frozen tombs are sheeted with one pall,--
One shroud for every churchyard, crisp and bright,--
One foldless mantle, softly covering all
With its unwrinkled width of spotless white.
There, through the grey dim day and starlit night,
It rests, on rich and poor, and young and old,--
Veiling dear eyes,--whose warm homne-cheering light
Our pining hearts can never more behold,--
With an unlifting veil,--that falleth blank and cold.
III.

The Spring shall melt that snow,--but kindly eyes
Return not with the Sun's returning powers,--
Nor to the clay-cold cheek, that buried lies,
The living blooms that flush perennial flowers,--
Nor, with the song-birds, vocal in the bowers,
The sweet familiar tones! In silence drear
We pass our days,--and oft in midnight hours
Call madly on their names who cannot hear,--
Names graven on the tombs of the departed year!
IV.

There lies the tender Mother, in whose heart
So many claimed an interest and a share!
Humbly and piously she did her part
In every task of love and household care:
And mournfully, with sad abstracted air,
The Father-Widower, on his Christmas Eve,
Strokes down his youngest child's long silken hair,
And, as the gathering sobs his bosom heave,
Goes from that orphaned group, unseen to weep and grieve.
V.

Feeling his loneliness the more this day
Because SHE kept it with such gentle joy,
Scarce can he brook to see his children play,
Remembering how her love it did employ

[...] Read more

poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

The revolutionary Mozart is the Mozart of his last eight years.

quote by Wolfgang Hildesheimer
Added by Lucian Velea
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

I owe very, very much to Mozart; and if one studies, for instance, the way in which I write for string quartet, then one cannot deny that I have learned this directly from Mozart. And I am proud of it!

quote by Arnold Schoenberg
Added by Lucian Velea
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Mozart’s Grave

Where lies Mozart? Tradition shows
A likely spot: so much, no more:
No words of his own time disclose
When crossed He to the Further Shore,
Though later ages, roused to shame,
On tardy tomb have carved his name.

The sexton asked, ``What may this be?''
``A Kapellmeister.'' ``Pass it in:
This common grave to all is free,
And for one more is room within.
It fills the fosse. Now tread it down,
With pauper, lunatic, and clown.''

Yet had he wizarded with sound
Electors, Cardinals, and Kings,
While there welled forth from source profound
The flow of silvery-sounding springs,
Music of tenderness and mirth,
One with his very soul at birth.

And they? Where are they now? The bust,
The elaborately carven tomb,
Whose scrolls, begrimed by age and dust,
None care to stoop and scan for whom,
Are all remaining to express
Their monumental nothingness.

Mitre, and coronet, and Crown,
Gaze into space that heeds them not,
Unmeaning pomp of dead renown,
Medley of Monarchs long forgot,
Who from the nations' ghastly strife
Won immortality-for life.

Once, on Nile's bank an artist raised
A temple at the King's command,
And on it name august emblazed.
But when a flood submerged the land,
His name was washed away, and lo!
The artist's own stood out below.

Thus vanish ostentatious lives,
But, through all time, belov'd Mozart,
Your magic memory survives,
Part of the universal heart:
In joy a sympathetic strain,
In sorrow, soother of our pain.

The Potentates on whom men gaze,

[...] Read more

poem by Alfred Austin
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

The Cremona Violin

Part First

Frau Concert-Meister Altgelt shut the door.
A storm was rising, heavy gusts of wind
Swirled through the trees, and scattered leaves before
Her on the clean, flagged path. The sky behind
The distant town was black, and sharp defined
Against it shone the lines of roofs and towers,
Superimposed and flat like cardboard flowers.

A pasted city on a purple ground,
Picked out with luminous paint, it seemed. The cloud
Split on an edge of lightning, and a sound
Of rivers full and rushing boomed through bowed,
Tossed, hissing branches. Thunder rumbled loud
Beyond the town fast swallowing into gloom.
Frau Altgelt closed the windows of each room.

She bustled round to shake by constant moving
The strange, weird atmosphere. She stirred the fire,
She twitched the supper-cloth as though improving
Its careful setting, then her own attire
Came in for notice, tiptoeing higher and higher
She peered into the wall-glass, now adjusting
A straying lock, or else a ribbon thrusting

This way or that to suit her. At last sitting,
Or rather plumping down upon a chair,
She took her work, the stocking she was knitting,
And watched the rain upon the window glare
In white, bright drops. Through the black glass a flare
Of lightning squirmed about her needles. 'Oh!'
She cried. 'What can be keeping Theodore so!'

A roll of thunder set the casements clapping.
Frau Altgelt flung her work aside and ran,
Pulled open the house door, with kerchief flapping
She stood and gazed along the street. A man
Flung back the garden-gate and nearly ran
Her down as she stood in the door. 'Why, Dear,
What in the name of patience brings you here?

Quick, Lotta, shut the door, my violin
I fear is wetted. Now, Dear, bring a light.
This clasp is very much too worn and thin.
I'll take the other fiddle out to-night
If it still rains. Tut! Tut! my child, you're quite
Clumsy. Here, help me, hold the case while I -
Give me the candle. No, the inside's dry.

[...] Read more

poem by Amy Lowell
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Friends Within The Darkness

I can remember starving in a
small room in a strange city
shades pulled down, listening to
classical music
I was young I was so young it hurt like a knife
inside
because there was no alternative except to hide as long
as possible--
not in self-pity but with dismay at my limited chance:
trying to connect.

the old composers -- Mozart, Bach, Beethoven,
Brahms were the only ones who spoke to me and
they were dead.

finally, starved and beaten, I had to go into
the streets to be interviewed for low-paying and
monotonous
jobs
by strange men behind desks
men without eyes men without faces
who would take away my hours
break them
piss on them.

now I work for the editors the readers the
critics

but still hang around and drink with
Mozart, Bach, Brahms and the
Bee
some buddies
some men
sometimes all we need to be able to continue alone
are the dead
rattling the walls
that close us in.

Anonymous submission.

poem by Charles Bukowski
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Gamblers All

sometimes you climb out of bed in the morning and you think,
I'm not going to make it, but you laugh inside
remembering all the times you've felt that way, and
you walk to the bathroom, do your toilet, see that face
in the mirror, oh my oh my oh my, but you comb your hair anyway,
get into your street clothes, feed the cats, fetch the
newspaper of horror, place it on the coffee table, kiss your
wife goodbye, and then you are backing the car out into life itself,
like millions of others you enter the arena once more.

you are on the freeway threading through traffic now,
moving both towards something and towards nothing at all as you punch
the radio on and get Mozart, which is something, and you will somehow
get through the slow days and the busy days and the dull
days and the hateful days and the rare days, all both so delightful
and so disappointing because
we are all so alike and so different.

you find the turn-off, drive through the most dangerous
part of town, feel momentarily wonderful as Mozart works
his way into your brain and slides down along your bones and
out through your shoes.

it's been a tough fight worth fighting
as we all drive along
betting on another day.

poem by Charles Bukowski
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Mystic Journey: Fire 2

now we find this time on the cusp of day
most enchanting, and pause as dusk rings
the earth in fire, watching the spectral play
of clouds. gray linen cumulus threaten

an angry outburst, but settle for a sullen
squall. caught in the hysterics of a cirrus
clash in stratus, the blue spirit is fleeing
to higher realms of dying day. (miraculous

seven color rainbows tumble into and over
the cumulus cloud below, crowning their tops
with a music of moods from violet laughter
to gamma rage.) finally, attention does focus

on the prelude to purple night. the flame,
whose quick descent signals opening curtain
on an infinite stage of stars, is exiting.
tomorrow an encore, but never the same!

if music is the medium of these spheres
then tchaikovsky* conducts dawning dusk
with pastoral moods to cool burning ears.
hot thunder bursts from surreal clouds

in beethoven's# deafening second movement,
sending the eye scanning the receding cusp
of twilight. in mastery of somber moods
mozart's+ abstract strings chase the ancient

flame across this third and final bar,
his dusk an opera divided into three acts
of earth, air and fire. the evening star,
rising ghostlike, silently on the horizon,

signals the closing. then the kingdom
of night, advancing in legion, for a short
season rules sleepy earth. time ticks
on and, like the sun, we play our part

until last breath. our short scene
done, we close the curtain and dream,
on the edge of night viewing the fire
the first time, in its terrible splendor.

* P.I. Tchaikovsky (1840 - 1893)
# L. van Beethoven (1770 - 1827)
+ W.A. Mozart (1756 - 1791)

poem by Doug Bentley
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Constant Is This Hip Hop And Pop

It is today,
Very constant.
Constant is this hip hop and pop.

And with some added rapping touches...
This phenomenon is not going to stop.
No not very soon.

I'd like to admit I like Tchaikovsky's,
Attitude.
With a little bit of Brahms,
When I'm in that mood.
Move over Beetoven when I'm open to Chopin,
And Mozart too!

I'd like to admit I like Tchaikovsky's,
Attitude.
With a little bit of Brahms,
When I'm in that mood.
Move over Beetoven when I'm open to Chopin,
And Mozart too!

It is today,
Very constant.
Constant is this hip hop and pop.

And with some added rapping touches...
This phenomenon is not going to stop.
No not very soon.

Constant is this hip hop.
And the attitudes.
Constant is this hip hop.
What is one going to do?
Knowing there's no end that stops.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

The Music Poem

We had finished lunch - the routine properly followed

a sunlit southern window
opposite the cool other
outside a summer afternoon
so lunch so finished
in some corner playing
the radio goes unheard
into the carpets infinity
I lay flat peering
flicking the occasional pile
nosing its dry dust
sprawling and wasting just
just passing and just

trying to be good
conjouring an instructed rest
but the sun falls
upon the carpet maze
but the sun falls
sliding over the paintwork
but the sun falls
warming the bare shutters
but the sun falls
mindful through the glass
falling on dad's chair
leaning watching aware unaware
the green leatherette cool
in a short while

in a proto lotus
and a proto ennui
my childhood simple reverie
with my single orbit
sunlit by the room
the house paces memory
moves with all stillness
the architecture being laid
to now known familiar
where am I here
made from it's time
on the outside lane
shaped its enclosed mood
searching it's unknown rooms

but no pose satisfies
the stifled inner motion
as daily rhythm is
the daily rhythm is
'Listen with Mother' sometime

[...] Read more

poem by Michael Oliver
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

A pencil sketch of Mozart

It’s a snapshot, except
before the age of the camera
yet more of a decisive moment
than any posed painting;

as any photographer,
lighting director, would see,
he’s next to you, could be
round about the fifth row back
of the stalls;

looking so straight ahead
that it doesn’t seem to be
the stage box; and it must surely be
a grand theatre, the lighting’s strong

on his white neck-stock,
his powdered hair, even catching
the lower white of his focussed eye;
he all there, he’s all here, and
attentive as a critic; the opera,
as it surely is, is playing and engages
all his faculties; and yet

there’s an appreciation
holding his lips far from the
childish joke, the poverty, the family deaths,
or even from the unimaginable creation
of music that speaks of something
deep in human hearts, speaks
of something beyond the human heart.

He’s listening to the music
as if he’d never heard it before yet
you can see it’s all inside him, too -
whatever ‘inside’ means
to genius;

it’s Mozart, there beside you
as you sketch him; as the
music you’re not watching
as you watch him and your pencil -

the music is telling you
what life’s about; and more.
Back to the sketch, with all the care you muster -
this will be the record for a thousand years
of watching Mozart listening
to the music of his self.

[...] Read more

poem by Michael Shepherd
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Unity of Source

That’s what she called it;
surprised that, as musician,
knowing how a piece of music
sets out from, and finally returns to
some chosen ‘key’ based on a single note:
which remains in mind of the composer
and the listener alike; calling back, after
the great adventure, to your loving home;

she, finding that poems, too,
maintain that sound, somewhere in mind – of
what the poem’s about; and whence it started;
which guides each word that’s chosen;
where it shall return to rest..

You hear this (even if you know
nothing about music..) in Mozart’s playful sounds:
as if each day, he packs a rucksack with a snack,
sets out for hills and mountains, clouds,
the tinkling streams, bird cries, goats clambering and
bleating; maybe hears a village band
practising down there below; smiles;
perhaps clouds gather; lightning flashes,
thunder rolls; for that is life..

then, as the shadows of the evening mountains
begin to creep towards the city streets,
follows the streams that skip beside him down the hillside,
paths appearing now, by goats and men more worn;
knowing that, at the end,
his home will still be where it was
that morning after breakfast…

Sometimes, when no-one’s listening but myself,
I sit at the piano, and play the ‘Mozart game’ –
strike a keynote chord; then close my eyes or turn away,
put a finger on an unknown note,
say, around two octaves above that; then
listen as a melody unfurls from inner ear; perhaps
an intermediate harmony assists; and
finally, return to that loved home; now refreshed,
shining-eyed; content; and needing only rest…

Unity of source..
you hear it now?
how much we know of this,
yet scarcely knew we knew..

*
for Elizabeth

poem by Michael Shepherd
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Unheard Music

Unheard Music (Mozart)

The fingers on my left hand move all by themselves
like they are playing piano that produces music
I cannot hear. I watch my fingers play but it makes no
sense so I try to stop by holding them still with my
right hand’s fingers. So I sit like a vicar contemplating
the Sunday sermon, a mild one who hasn’t an arsenal
of fire and brimstone speeches, but would rather talk
about the coming spring. My wife brings me a glass of
water and a pill, fingers rest, but I would liked to have
heard the music they played, for all I know it could
have been music brought to me in a dream by Mozart
who died so young that he can’t believe it yet, and
tries trough, me to play his latest masterpiece.

poem by Oskar Hansen
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Genius Michaelangelo Mozart

at the beck and call of mega rich patrons
privilege wealth painting your pride visions
to heights of Sistine Chapel David sculptures

our sight visions we are not time free to paint
our half dreams half truths become ultimate truths
altar where wealth coverts possesses genius
we gift love compassion nobility birthright feelings

this world toys with covert passion visions
artists catalogued buy sell exchange brochures
Mozart gifted music divine to sooth masses
Mozart body discarded into mass grave paupers

our heart beats stripped bare leaf brown ash on winds
sealed in wooden coffin at 35 countless are melodies
unwritten buried in plot with corpse four or five others
a plight poor wooden marker to identify group graves

poem by Terence George Craddock
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!