One cannot bargain with Bartok.
quote by Yehudi Menuhin
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Bargain Store
My life is likened to a bargain store and I may have just what you're looking for
If you don't mind the fact that all the marchandise is used
With a little mending it could be as good as new
Why you take for instance this old broken heart
If you will just replace the missing part
You would be surprised to find how good it really is
Take it and you never wil be sorry that you did
The bargain store is open come inside you can easily afford the price
Love is all you need to purchase all the marchandise
And I can guarantee you'll be completely satisfied
[ guitar ]
Take these old used mem'ries from the past
And these broken dreams and plans that didn't last
I'll trade them for the future I can't use them anymore
I've wasted love but I still have some more
The bargain store is open...
My life is likened to a bargain store...
The bargain store is open come inside the bargain store is open come inside
song performed by Dolly Parton
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Bargain Store
My life is like unto a bargain store
And I may have just what youre lookin for
If you dont mind the fact that all the merchandise is used
But with a little mending it could be as good as new
Why you take for instance this old broken heart
If you will just replace the missing parts
You would be surprised to find how good it really is
Take it and you never will be sorry that you did
The bargain store is open come inside
You can easily afford the price
Love is all you need to purchase all the merchandise
And I will guarantee youll be completely satisfied
Take these old used memories from the past
And these broken dreams and plans that didnt last
Ill trade them for a future, I cant use them anymore
Ive wasted love but I still have some more
The bargain store is open come inside
You can easily afford the price
Love is all you need to purchase all the merchandise
And I can guarantee youll be completely satisfied
My life is like unto a bargain store
And I may have just what youre lookin for
If you dont mind the fact that all the merchandise is used
With a little mendin it could be as good as new
The bargain store is open, come inside
The bargain store is open, come inside
song performed by Dolly Parton
Added by Lucian Velea
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Bargain
Id gladly lose me to find you
Id gladly lose me to find you
Id gladly give up all I had
Id gladly give up all I had
To find you Id suffer anything and be glad
To find you Id suffer anything and be glad
Id pay any price just to get you
Id pay any price just to get you
Id work all my life and I will
Id work all my life and I will
To win you Id stand naked, stoned and stabbed
To win you Id stand naked, stoned and stabbed
Id call that a bargain
Id call that a bargain
The best I ever had
The best I ever had
The best I ever had
The best I ever had
Id gladly lose me to find you
Id gladly lose me to find you
Id gladly give up all I got
Id gladly give up all I got
To catch you Im gonna run and never stop
To catch you Im gonna run and never stop
Id pay any price just to win you
Id pay any price just to win you
Surrender my good life for bad
Surrender my good life for bad
To find you Im gonna drown an unsung man
To find you Im gonna drown an unsung man
Id call that a bargain
Id call that a bargain
The best I ever had
The best I ever had
The best I ever had
The best I ever had
I sit looking round
I sit looking round
I look at my face inm the mirror
I look at my face inm the mirror
I know Im worth nothing without you
I know Im worth nothing without you
And like one and one dont make two
And like one and one dont make two
One and one make one
One and one make one
And Im looking for that free ride to me
And Im looking for that free ride to me
Im looking for you
Im looking for you
[...] Read more
song performed by Who
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IV. Tertium Quid
True, Excellency—as his Highness says,
Though she's not dead yet, she's as good as stretched
Symmetrical beside the other two;
Though he's not judged yet, he's the same as judged,
So do the facts abound and superabound:
And nothing hinders that we lift the case
Out of the shade into the shine, allow
Qualified persons to pronounce at last,
Nay, edge in an authoritative word
Between this rabble's-brabble of dolts and fools
Who make up reasonless unreasoning Rome.
"Now for the Trial!" they roar: "the Trial to test
"The truth, weigh husband and weigh wife alike
"I' the scales of law, make one scale kick the beam!"
Law's a machine from which, to please the mob,
Truth the divinity must needs descend
And clear things at the play's fifth act—aha!
Hammer into their noddles who was who
And what was what. I tell the simpletons
"Could law be competent to such a feat
"'T were done already: what begins next week
"Is end o' the Trial, last link of a chain
"Whereof the first was forged three years ago
"When law addressed herself to set wrong right,
"And proved so slow in taking the first step
"That ever some new grievance,—tort, retort,
"On one or the other side,—o'ertook i' the game,
"Retarded sentence, till this deed of death
"Is thrown in, as it were, last bale to boat
"Crammed to the edge with cargo—or passengers?
"'Trecentos inseris: ohe, jam satis est!
"'Huc appelle!'—passengers, the word must be."
Long since, the boat was loaded to my eyes.
To hear the rabble and brabble, you'd call the case
Fused and confused past human finding out.
One calls the square round, t' other the round square—
And pardonably in that first surprise
O' the blood that fell and splashed the diagram:
But now we've used our eyes to the violent hue
Can't we look through the crimson and trace lines?
It makes a man despair of history,
Eusebius and the established fact—fig's end!
Oh, give the fools their Trial, rattle away
With the leash of lawyers, two on either side—
One barks, one bites,—Masters Arcangeli
And Spreti,—that's the husband's ultimate hope
Against the Fisc and the other kind of Fisc,
Bound to do barking for the wife: bow—wow!
Why, Excellency, we and his Highness here
Would settle the matter as sufficiently
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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A Requiem For Bartok
A Requiem for Bartok
Viola Concerto
which he never finished
poor and broke in New York
as so many were and still are
he died
there was no dirge
no elegy
no requiem
for a true artist
has no true friend
they called him a genius
a great artist
they even finished writing
his last testament
his Viola Concerto
but nobody knew him
he was alone
in his Hungarian solitude
nobody sang
a dirge
an elegy
not even a requiem
for him
one early spring night
in a Colorado town
far away from New York
I saw a woman on the stage
in the shadow of his light
let her viola sing
what cannot be sung
alone in the midst of the clamor
of symphonic chaos
people sat still
like silent tomb stones
just listened
vacant eyes
she was playing a loving requiem
for Bartok
Suchoon Mo
[...] Read more
poem by Suchoon Mo_
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V. Count Guido Franceschini
Thanks, Sir, but, should it please the reverend Court,
I feel I can stand somehow, half sit down
Without help, make shift to even speak, you see,
Fortified by the sip of … why, 't is wine,
Velletri,—and not vinegar and gall,
So changed and good the times grow! Thanks, kind Sir!
Oh, but one sip's enough! I want my head
To save my neck, there's work awaits me still.
How cautious and considerate … aie, aie, aie,
Nor your fault, sweet Sir! Come, you take to heart
An ordinary matter. Law is law.
Noblemen were exempt, the vulgar thought,
From racking; but, since law thinks otherwise,
I have been put to the rack: all's over now,
And neither wrist—what men style, out of joint:
If any harm be, 't is the shoulder-blade,
The left one, that seems wrong i' the socket,—Sirs,
Much could not happen, I was quick to faint,
Being past my prime of life, and out of health.
In short, I thank you,—yes, and mean the word.
Needs must the Court be slow to understand
How this quite novel form of taking pain,
This getting tortured merely in the flesh,
Amounts to almost an agreeable change
In my case, me fastidious, plied too much
With opposite treatment, used (forgive the joke)
To the rasp-tooth toying with this brain of mine,
And, in and out my heart, the play o' the probe.
Four years have I been operated on
I' the soul, do you see—its tense or tremulous part—
My self-respect, my care for a good name,
Pride in an old one, love of kindred—just
A mother, brothers, sisters, and the like,
That looked up to my face when days were dim,
And fancied they found light there—no one spot,
Foppishly sensitive, but has paid its pang.
That, and not this you now oblige me with,
That was the Vigil-torment, if you please!
The poor old noble House that drew the rags
O' the Franceschini's once superb array
Close round her, hoped to slink unchallenged by,—
Pluck off these! Turn the drapery inside out
And teach the tittering town how scarlet wears!
Show men the lucklessness, the improvidence
Of the easy-natured Count before this Count,
The father I have some slight feeling for,
Who let the world slide, nor foresaw that friends
Then proud to cap and kiss their patron's shoe,
Would, when the purse he left held spider-webs,
Properly push his child to wall one day!
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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Deal With The Preacher
I need love, the kind I've
never known before.
You need it, too, the kind that makes you feel so good, baby.
I want to give, give you all the love you need.
Well, I'm a loner, and that's the way I want to be, Yeah.
Let me say. As the sun climbs across the sky above,
So your smile filled me with a stronger love.
Just as you and I, watchin' the morning sky, oh, yeah.
Somehow I know it's time for me to say goodbye, Yeah, yeah.
Here's why: can't make a deal with the preacher, oh, yeah, yeah.
And I can't make a bargain in heaven, now.
Angel, you came to my window, Angel, you came to my door.
I was a fool and I let you in; I sure ain't no fool anymore!
Yeah, yeah, you better believe me right now baby.
Oh, yeah.
As the sun climbs across the sky above,
So your smile, filled me with a stronger love, mm.
Just as you and I, we're watchin' the morning sky,
And somehow I know, it's time for me to say goodbye.
I can't make a deal with the preacher, you know yeah.
And I can't make a bargain in heaven, yeah, yeah.
Heaven knows me by now.
I can't make a deal, oh no, no, no,
no.
I love you baby, I love you baby.
I can't make a deal, make a deal, make a deal,
Make a deal, make a deal. Yeah, yeah.
You know and I can't make no bargain in heaven,
Listen, I can't make a deal, make a deal, make a deal,
Make a deal, make a deal, oh, oh.
And I can't make no bargain in heaven, oh yeah.
Make a deal...
song performed by Bad Company
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Bargain at Bridge parody Sir Philip SIDNEY - The Bargain
The Bargain at Bridge
My partner holds no trumps,
I’m missing hers,
we’re seven down, and I am in the dumps
for she prefers
to bid as if the world
and she were one.
She goes to town despite the insults hurled, -
we’ve never won.
The points, when counted, lumps
bring to the throat;
(what is the noun that’s harsher far than frumps?) –
the cheques I wrote!
Though dummy should remain
with silent tongue,
with weary crown keen intellects complain,
with faces hung.
My partner holds no trumps, -
she sometimes errs,
or plays the clown with psychic bids, her jumps
lose tricks, pick stirs.
[c] Jonathan Robin 1 August 1991 – Parody Sir Philip SIDNEY 1554_1586 – The Bargain
The Bargain
My true-love hath my heart, and I have his,
By just exchange one for the other given.
I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss:
There never was a bargain better driven.
His heart in me keeps me and him in one;
My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides:
He loves my heart, for once it was his own;
I cherish his because in me it bides.
His heart his wound received from my sight;
[...] Read more
poem by Jonathan Robin
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II. Half-Rome
What, you, Sir, come too? (Just the man I'd meet.)
Be ruled by me and have a care o' the crowd:
This way, while fresh folk go and get their gaze:
I'll tell you like a book and save your shins.
Fie, what a roaring day we've had! Whose fault?
Lorenzo in Lucina,—here's a church
To hold a crowd at need, accommodate
All comers from the Corso! If this crush
Make not its priests ashamed of what they show
For temple-room, don't prick them to draw purse
And down with bricks and mortar, eke us out
The beggarly transept with its bit of apse
Into a decent space for Christian ease,
Why, to-day's lucky pearl is cast to swine.
Listen and estimate the luck they've had!
(The right man, and I hold him.)
Sir, do you see,
They laid both bodies in the church, this morn
The first thing, on the chancel two steps up,
Behind the little marble balustrade;
Disposed them, Pietro the old murdered fool
To the right of the altar, and his wretched wife
On the other side. In trying to count stabs,
People supposed Violante showed the most,
Till somebody explained us that mistake;
His wounds had been dealt out indifferent where,
But she took all her stabbings in the face,
Since punished thus solely for honour's sake,
Honoris causâ, that's the proper term.
A delicacy there is, our gallants hold,
When you avenge your honour and only then,
That you disfigure the subject, fray the face,
Not just take life and end, in clownish guise.
It was Violante gave the first offence,
Got therefore the conspicuous punishment:
While Pietro, who helped merely, his mere death
Answered the purpose, so his face went free.
We fancied even, free as you please, that face
Showed itself still intolerably wronged;
Was wrinkled over with resentment yet,
Nor calm at all, as murdered faces use,
Once the worst ended: an indignant air
O' the head there was—'t is said the body turned
Round and away, rolled from Violante's side
Where they had laid it loving-husband-like.
If so, if corpses can be sensitive,
Why did not he roll right down altar-step,
Roll on through nave, roll fairly out of church,
Deprive Lorenzo of the spectacle,
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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III. The Other Half-Rome
Another day that finds her living yet,
Little Pompilia, with the patient brow
And lamentable smile on those poor lips,
And, under the white hospital-array,
A flower-like body, to frighten at a bruise
You'd think, yet now, stabbed through and through again,
Alive i' the ruins. 'T is a miracle.
It seems that, when her husband struck her first,
She prayed Madonna just that she might live
So long as to confess and be absolved;
And whether it was that, all her sad life long
Never before successful in a prayer,
This prayer rose with authority too dread,—
Or whether, because earth was hell to her,
By compensation, when the blackness broke
She got one glimpse of quiet and the cool blue,
To show her for a moment such things were,—
Or else,—as the Augustinian Brother thinks,
The friar who took confession from her lip,—
When a probationary soul that moved
From nobleness to nobleness, as she,
Over the rough way of the world, succumbs,
Bloodies its last thorn with unflinching foot,
The angels love to do their work betimes,
Staunch some wounds here nor leave so much for God.
Who knows? However it be, confessed, absolved,
She lies, with overplus of life beside
To speak and right herself from first to last,
Right the friend also, lamb-pure, lion-brave,
Care for the boy's concerns, to save the son
From the sire, her two-weeks' infant orphaned thus,
And—with best smile of all reserved for him—
Pardon that sire and husband from the heart.
A miracle, so tell your Molinists!
There she lies in the long white lazar-house.
Rome has besieged, these two days, never doubt,
Saint Anna's where she waits her death, to hear
Though but the chink o' the bell, turn o' the hinge
When the reluctant wicket opes at last,
Lets in, on now this and now that pretence,
Too many by half,—complain the men of art,—
For a patient in such plight. The lawyers first
Paid the due visit—justice must be done;
They took her witness, why the murder was.
Then the priests followed properly,—a soul
To shrive; 't was Brother Celestine's own right,
The same who noises thus her gifts abroad.
But many more, who found they were old friends,
Pushed in to have their stare and take their talk
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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Default
Shocked!
As I was
To hear an unknown known voice
Inviting me to message
After 5 or 6 rings,
And charging me for the privilege
Into the bargain,
I understood why.
When setting up a similar facility
I thought it rudeness
To butt in on a person's expectations
Well before they had been lowered
By excess rings
And charge them for the rudeness
Into the bargain.
I made the facility wait for 13 rings
And told the privileged few,
Thus giving them good time to think,
'To say or not to say? ',
To save, into the bargain.
poem by Douglas Scotney
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Tale XIV
THE STRUGGLES OF CONSCIENCE.
A serious Toyman in the city dwelt,
Who much concern for his religion felt;
Reading, he changed his tenets, read again,
And various questions could with skill maintain;
Papist and Quaker if we set aside,
He had the road of every traveller tried;
There walk'd a while, and on a sudden turn'd
Into some by-way he had just discern'd:
He had a nephew, Fulham: --Fulham went
His Uncle's way, with every turn content;
He saw his pious kinsman's watchful care,
And thought such anxious pains his own might spare,
And he the truth obtain'd, without the toil, might
share.
In fact, young Fulham, though he little read,
Perceived his uncle was by fancy led;
And smiled to see the constant care he took,
Collating creed with creed, and book with book.
At length the senior fix'd; I pass the sect
He call'd a Church, 'twas precious and elect;
Yet the seed fell not in the richest soil,
For few disciples paid the preacher's toil;
All in an attic room were wont to meet,
These few disciples, at their pastor's feet;
With these went Fulham, who, discreet and grave,
Follow'd the light his worthy uncle gave;
Till a warm Preacher found the way t'impart
Awakening feelings to his torpid heart:
Some weighty truths, and of unpleasant kind,
Sank, though resisted, in his struggling mind:
He wish'd to fly them, but, compell'd to stay,
Truth to the waking Conscience found her way;
For though the Youth was call'd a prudent lad,
And prudent was, yet serious faults he had -
Who now reflected--'Much am I surprised;
I find these notions cannot be despised:
No! there is something I perceive at last,
Although my uncle cannot hold it fast;
Though I the strictness of these men reject,
Yet I determine to be circumspect:
This man alarms me, and I must begin
To look more closely to the things within:
These sons of zeal have I derided long,
But now begin to think the laugher's wrong!
Nay, my good uncle, by all teachers moved,
Will be preferr'd to him who none approved; -
Better to love amiss than nothing to have loved.'
[...] Read more
poem by George Crabbe
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The Magnificent
SOME wit, handsome form and gen'rous mind;
A triple engine prove in love we find;
By these the strongest fortresses are gained
E'en rocks 'gainst such can never be sustained.
If you've some talents, with a pleasing face,
Your purse-strings open free, and you've the place.
At times, no doubt, without these things, success
Attends the gay gallant, we must confess;
But then, good sense should o'er his actions rule;
At all events, he must not be a fool.
The stingy, women ever will detest;
Words puppies want;--the lib'ral are the best.
A Florentine, MAGNIFICENT by name,
Was what we've just described, in fact and fame;
The title was bestowed upon the knight,
For noble deeds performed by him in fight.
The honour ev'ry way he well deserved;
His upright conduct (whence he never swerved,)
Expensive equipage, and presents made,
Proclaimed him all around what we've pourtrayed.
WITH handsome person and a pleasing mien,
Gallant, a polished air, and soul serene;
A certain fair of noble birth he sought,
Whose conquest, doubtless, brilliant would be thought;
Which in our lover doubly raised desire;
Renown and pleasure lent his bosom fire.
THE jealous husband of the beauteous fair
Was Aldobrandin, whose suspicious care
Resembled more, what frequently is shown
For fav'rites mistresses, than wives alone.
He watched her every step with all his eyes;
A hundred thousand scarcely would suffice;
Indeed, quite useless Cupid these can make;
And Argus oft is subject to mistake:
Repeatedly they're duped, although our wight,
(Who fancied he in ev'ry thing was right,)
Himself so perfectly secure believed,
By gay gallants he ne'er could be deceived.
TO suitors, howsoe'er, he was not blind;
To covet presents, greatly he inclined.
The lover yet had no occasion found,
To drop a word to charms so much renowned;
He thought his passion was not even seen;
And if it had, would things have better been?
What would have followed? what had been the end?
The reader needs no hint to comprehend.
[...] Read more
poem by La Fontaine
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All Metaphor
The problem is metaphoric;
I live inside lines
which only approximate
but do not satisfy.
I'm symbol and artifact
but lack the substance of reality;
I kiss sometimes imitating
how the book says I should.
I talk
imitating
my favorite
movie star.
The difficulty is
I can remember
deciding what kind of personality
I would have at 13;
something low maintenance
I thought;
I'm not naturally effusive;
rather shy
so I decided to be low-key
and mysterious
and attract attention like that.
My look is straight
from the comic book character
I most admired at 10.
Hasn't changed much.
I don't know really how to love
but feel most in love
when I think about it
when I think I have gotten a bargain
in the other person;
you know
getting away with something;
That person is better looking than
me-a bargain
has more friends than me
has more to offer than me;
so me with him
is a bargain.
[...] Read more
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Hudibras: Part 3 - Canto I
THE ARGUMENT
The Knight and Squire resolve, at once,
The one the other to renounce.
They both approach the Lady's Bower;
The Squire t'inform, the Knight to woo her.
She treats them with a Masquerade,
By Furies and Hobgoblins made;
From which the Squire conveys the Knight,
And steals him from himself, by Night.
'Tis true, no lover has that pow'r
T' enforce a desperate amour,
As he that has two strings t' his bow,
And burns for love and money too;
For then he's brave and resolute,
Disdains to render in his suit,
Has all his flames and raptures double,
And hangs or drowns with half the trouble,
While those who sillily pursue,
The simple, downright way, and true,
Make as unlucky applications,
And steer against the stream their passions.
Some forge their mistresses of stars,
And when the ladies prove averse,
And more untoward to be won
Than by CALIGULA the Moon,
Cry out upon the stars, for doing
Ill offices to cross their wooing;
When only by themselves they're hindred,
For trusting those they made her kindred;
And still, the harsher and hide-bounder
The damsels prove, become the fonder.
For what mad lover ever dy'd
To gain a soft and gentle bride?
Or for a lady tender-hearted,
In purling streams or hemp departed?
Leap'd headlong int' Elysium,
Through th' windows of a dazzling room?
But for some cross, ill-natur'd dame,
The am'rous fly burnt in his flame.
This to the Knight could be no news,
With all mankind so much in use;
Who therefore took the wiser course,
To make the most of his amours,
Resolv'd to try all sorts of ways,
As follows in due time and place
No sooner was the bloody fight,
Between the Wizard, and the Knight,
[...] Read more
poem by Samuel Butler
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I am a seller, Arent you?
I am a seller
A seller of different kind
I sell my dreams
in lieu of better dreams
sometimes to 'time'
sometimes to 'fate'
And sometimes to 'reality'
I am a dream seller
Aren't you?
I am architect
an architect of different kind
I build my dreams
block by block
only to dismantle
sometimes because of 'time'
sometimes because of 'fate'
And sometimes because of 'reality'
I am arcitect
an architect of different kind
Aren't you?
I am a buyer
A buyer of different kind
I bargain for dreams
sometimes with 'time'
sometimes with 'fate'
And sometimes with 'reality'
I am buyer
A buyer of different kind
Aren't you?
Inspite of knowing
ultimately i will sell
I concieve dreams
Inspite of knowing
ultimately i will dismnatle
I build my dreams
Inspite of knowing
ultimately i will fail in bargainig
I bargain for my dreams
because
its better
to sell, dismantle or bargain for
[...] Read more
poem by Anjesh shekhar
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To bargain freedom for security is the devil's bargain. Having made the bargain, one enjoys neither freedom nor security.
quote by Gerry Spence
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The Truckers
THE change of food enjoyment is to man;
In this, t'include the woman is my plan.
I cannot guess why Rome will not allow
Exchange in wedlock, and its leave avow;
Not ev'ry time such wishes might arise,
But, once in life at least, 'twere not unwise;
Perhaps one day we may the boon obtain;
Amen, I say: my sentiments are plain;
The privilege in France may yet arrive
There trucking pleases, and exchanges thrive;
The people love variety, we find;
And such by heav'n was ere for them designed.
ONCE there dwelled, near Rouen, (sapient clime)
Two villagers, whose wives were in their prime,
And rather pleasing in their shape and mien,
For those in whom refinement 's scarcely seen.
Each looker-on conceives, LOVE needs not greet
Such humble wights, as he would prelates treat.
IT happened, howsoe'er, both weary grown,
Of halves that they so long had called their own;
One holyday, with them there chanced to drink
The village lawyer (bred in Satan's sink);
To him, said one of these, with jeering air,
Good mister Oudinet, a strange affair
Is in my head: you've doubtless often made
Variety of contracts; 'tis your trade:
Now, cannot you contrive, by one of these,
That men should barter wives, like goods, at ease?
Our pastor oft his benefice has changed;
Is trucking wives less easily arranged?
It cannot be, for well I recollect,
That Parson Gregory (whom none suspect)
Would always say, or much my mem'ry fails,
My flock 's my wife: love equally prevails;
He changed; let us, good neighbour do the same;
With all my heart, said t'other, that's my aim;
But well thou know'st that mine's the fairest face,
And, Mister Oudinet, since that's the case,
Should he not add, at least, his mule to boot?
My mule? rejoined the first, that will not suit;
In this world ev'ry thing has got its price:
Mine I will change for thine and that 's concise.
Wives are not viewed so near; naught will I add;
Why, neighbour Stephen, dost thou think me mad,
To give my mule to boot?--of mules the king;
Not e'en an ass I'd to the bargain bring;
Change wife for wife, the barter will be fair;
Then each will act with t'other on the square.
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poem by La Fontaine
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Me
if you weren't you, who would you like to be?
Paul McCartney Gustav Mahler
Alfred Jarry John Coltrane
Charlie Mingus Claude Debussy
Wordsworth Monet Bach and Blake
Charlie Parker Pierre Bonnard
Leonardo Bessie Smith
Fidel Castro Jackson Pollock
Gaudi Milton Munch and Berg
Belà Bartók Henri Rousseau
Rauschenberg and Jasper Johns
Lukas Cranach Shostakovich
Kropotkin Ringo George and John
William Burroughs Francis Bacon
Dylan Thomas Luther King
H. P. Lovecraft T. S. Eliot
D. H. Lawrence Roland Kirk
Salvatore Giuliano
Andy Warhol Paul Uzanne
Kafka Camus Ensor Rothko
Jacques Prévert and Manfred Mann
Marx Dostoevsky
Bakunin Ray Bradbury
Miles Davis Trotsky
Stravinsky and Poe
Danilo Dolci Napoleon Solo
St John of the Cross and
The Marquis de Sade
Charles Rennie Mackintosh
Rimbaud Claes Oldenburg
Adrian Mitchell and Marcel Duchamp
James Joyce and Hemingway
Hitchcock and Bunuel
Donald McKinlay Thelonius Monk
Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Matthias Grunewald
Philip Jones Grifths and Roger McGough
Guillaume Apollinaire
Cannonball Adderley
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poem by Adrian Henri
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Making Sense Of Sound
SENSE OF SOUND
In Plato’s time fools used to say
there are no rules for music that you play.
Being law-abiding when you write
a piece of music often won’t excite
the fools who will demand of you to break
its laws, while claiming that the word mistake
doe not apply to music. It is pleasure
that’s their bottom line, every measure
composed in any manner the composer
may wish. I do not want to be imposer
of any law that may inhibit your
ability to write, but I feel sure
that ultimately it is only fools
who break in music, as in life, all rules.
In music as in life there’s right and wrong,
and both of them, in order to last long,
must follow norms, as Plato once declared.
a view that by this poet now is shared,
while hoping antinomians are not friendless,
like Wagner making melody that’s endless.
Music is a stock that never should be shorted.
Like any lover that you may have courted,
it follows rules on which you should go long,
avoiding dissonances that sound wrong,
except for all the ones that are resolved
like problems that in life that have been solved.
Only by preventing disappearance
of rules can life-like music reach coherence.
Inspired by Plato, cited in “Making Sense of Sound, ” by James F. Penrose in the WSJ, January 27,2010, reviewing Ruth Katz’s “A Language of Its Own, ” describing a grammar of music that evolved over the centuries without any overt instruction, giving an internal coherence to music and allowing it to adapt to cultural and social change, with a shared understanding between musicians and audiences. Penrose writes;
“Through foolishness they deceived themselves into thinking that there was no right or wrong way in music, that it was to be judged good or bad by the pleasure that it gave.” With these words Plato complained about the “promiscuous cleverness and a spirit of law-breaking” that characterized the music of the time—the fourth century B.C. Even then, it seems, music had a form and structure that guided its composition and performance, for “law-abiding” musicians anyway…. Beethoven, in Mr. Katz’s view, never damaged the system of harmonic tonality and “integrated” form, for all his iconoclasm. But a succession of composers––including Schumann, Liszt and, above all, Wagner––chipped away at coherence by preparing unprepared and unresolved chords, chromatic alterations, and above all modulations into remote keys. With his “unendlische Melodie (infinite melody) and other devices, Wagner savaged traditional musical structures even as he created astonishingly beautiful music. The gulf between past and present widened as the 20th century progressed––but there were pockets of resistance, Ms. Katz observes. Debussy joined the moderns in rebelling against the constraints of harmonic tonality but found coherence in modal forms and in melodic tonality. Composers like Bartok, Ravel and Janacek, though also pushing the boundaries of traditional harmony, appealed to the ear by retaining crucial elements of traditional tonality… [Ms Katz] is hopeful that musical tradition can regain its footing, perhaps by recreating the “abstracting” process that allowed Wesstern music, despite its inability to describe what it does, to beguile and fascinate us for so long.
1/27/10
poem by Gershon Hepner
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