We're entertainers, not just singers!
quote by David Ruffin
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The Indications
THE indications, and tally of time;
Perfect sanity shows the master among philosophs;
Time, always without flaw, indicates itself in parts;
What always indicates the poet, is the crowd of the pleasant company
of singers, and their words;
The words of the singers are the hours or minutes of the light or
dark--but the words of the maker of poems are the general light
and dark;
The maker of poems settles justice, reality, immortality,
His insight and power encircle things and the human race,
He is the glory and extract thus far, of things, and of the human
race.
The singers do not beget--only the POET begets;
The singers are welcom'd, understood, appear often enough--but rare
has the day been, likewise the spot, of the birth of the maker
of poems, the Answerer, 10
(Not every century, or every five centuries, has contain'd such a
day, for all its names.)
The singers of successive hours of centuries may have ostensible
names, but the name of each of them is one of the singers,
The name of each is, eye-singer, ear-singer, head-singer, sweet-
singer, echo-singer, parlor-singer, love-singer, or something
else.
All this time, and at all times, wait the words of true poems;
The words of true poems do not merely please,
The true poets are not followers of beauty, but the august masters of
beauty;
The greatness of sons is the exuding of the greatness of mothers and
fathers,
The words of poems are the tuft and final applause of science.
Divine instinct, breadth of vision, the law of reason, health,
rudeness of body, withdrawnness,
Gayety, sun-tan, air-sweetness--such are some of the words of
poems. 20
The sailor and traveler underlie the maker of poems, the answerer;
The builder, geometer, chemist, anatomist, phrenologist, artist--all
these underlie the maker of poems, the answerer.
The words of the true poems give you more than poems,
They give you to form for yourself, poems, religions, politics, war,
peace, behavior, histories, essays, romances, and everything
else,
They balance ranks, colors, races, creeds, and the sexes,
They do not seek beauty--they are sought,
Forever touching them, or close upon them, follows beauty, longing,
[...] Read more
poem by Walt Whitman
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Once In Love With Amy
I caught you sir
Having a look at her
As she went strolling by
Now didn't your heart go
Boom,boom,boom,boom,boom
And didn't you sigh a sigh
I warned you sir
Never to dream of her
Just bid such thoughs begone
Or it'll be
Boom,boom,boom,boom,boom,boom,boom
Boom,boom,boom,boom
From then on
For once in love with Amy
Always in love with Amy
Ever and ever fasinated by her
Sets your heart a fire to stay
Once you're kissed by Amy
Tear up your list it's Amy
Ply her with bon-bons, poetry,and flowers
Moon a million hours away
You might be quiet the fickle hearted rover
So care free and bold
Who loves a girl
And later thinks it over
And just quits cold
But once in love with Amy
Alway in love with Amy
Ever and ever sweetly you'll romance her
Trouble is the answer will be
That Amy rather stay in love with me
Da,da,da,da,da,da,da,da,da,da
Ever and ever fasinated by her
(Barry talks) oh I just love this song so much
I want everybody to sing along with me
Once your kissed by Amy
(backround singers)once your kissed by Amy
(Barry)tear up your list it's Amy
(backround singers)tear up your list it's Amy
(Barry) ply her with bon-bon,poetry,and flowers
(backround singers)ply her with bon-bons, poetry,and flowers
(Barry) moon a million hours away
(backround singers)moon a million hours away
(Barry)come on let me take it please
You might be quite the fickle hearted rover
So care free and bold
Who loves a girl and later thinks it over
And just quits cold
(Barry)everybody sing
Once in love with Amy
[...] Read more
song performed by Barry Manilow
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Imagination
Imagine the concert
The concert did not cost a dime
But every soul was there- from the beginning of time.
It was the biggest concert the heavens had ever seen.
The greatest dancers and singers that were ever known.
On the largest television screen it was shown.
You had the crooners, the swooners,
the rockers, the boppers, and the opera singers
All gathered together for one big show.
In heaven- this is the way to go.
It started off with the “tappers” coming on to the stage
All well known in the archives of fame.
First Bill “Bo jangles” Robinson with Fred Astaire in back.
Then Jean Kelly. Ginger Rodgers,
and Gregory Hines picking up the slack.
Then came the female singers who were all
In the hall of fame, and all well known by their names.
Billie holiday, Lena Horne, Doris Day and Peggy Lee
Judy Garland and Dinah Shore-and lets not forget
The Andrew Sisters- who gave us so much more.
Then out came the male singers who touched the
Hearts of women all around the world
And made all their hair stand up and curl.
Mario Lanza, Frank Sinatra, Perry Como, Dean Martin
Just to name a few, then let us not forget the soul singers
Otis Redding, Sam Cooke, and Nat “king” Cole
Then Marvin Gaye who really put on a show.
OH! This concert was a wonder to behold!
And the greatest one was yet to unfold.
Everyone waited in anticipation
As the angels blew their trumpets
And the harps let out the most beautiful melody.
For behind that big curtain
Walked out our all Mighty King.
All knees bent, and all heads bowed
You couldn’t hear a pin drop
Not a single solitary sound.
He gave the heavens his blessings
As every face lit with delight
And all the way to earth
You could see this glaring light.
[...] Read more
poem by Louis Rams
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Now You're Here (Rock Ballad) :
Now you're here, we're ready to play.
Ready to play for you..
And now you're here, we're ready to sing.
Ready to sing for you..
We are the players, the singers.
We play for your town.
We keep you rockin', a rollin', a movin' around.
We get you movin', a groovin'..Yaahh! feelin' real fine.
We get you screamin', a shoutin'..
We get your hands in the air..
We are the players, the singers.
We play for your town.
We keep you rockin', a rollin', a movin' around.
We are the players, the singers.
And we bring on the sound..
So now you're here, we're ready to play.
Ready to play for you.
And now you're here, we're ready to sing.
Ready to sing for you..
We are the players, the singers.
We play for your town.
We keep you rockin', a rollin', a movin' around.
We get you swingin', a swayin', so join in the crowd.
We get you spinnin', a grinnin', a turnin' around.
We are the players, the singers.
And we play for your town.
So now you've stayed, you've listened to us.
We're so glad we played for you.
And now you've stayed, you've listened to us.
We're so glad we sang this tune..
We're so glad we sang this tune..
Rock-Ballad-By Kim Robin Edwards
Copyright 1987,2009..
ALL rights reserved..
poem by Kim Robin Edwards
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Now, Heart' - Some Of What I Remember When I Listen
A river is a process through time, and the river stages are its momentary parts.
—Willard Van Orman Quine
From early poems,1970s, youthful indiscretions/attempts to vocally/poetically arrive at/derive a worthwhile writer's voice. Some explication might serve or enhance these under serving, undeserving though 'striving-after' poems hidden in old journals understandably unpublished but now so with apologies which are these expiatory explanations. Recently rediscovering these early arrivals, derivative yet aspiring I recognized and reembraced an enduring self maturing, arriving into late middle age:
Obsessed newly by jazz, mad about the many miraculous lady singers, entranced all too easily as youth are wont to be by sorrows and sexual infatuations which feel, emphasis on 'feel', like love, here are two of many 'songs' as tributes and life markers to jazz singers who provided soundtrack and felt expression to my angst and easily inflated/deflated sense of self, of beloved others, and of that new territory, independent life away from parental home and childhood community discovering, blundering into the fray of separate hearts and minds, irresponsible genitals and insouciant jouissance ('juiciness', in French) , discovering then and again and again that like Walt Whitman I 'contain worlds' and many disparate selves poorly formed, most of them collective projections and expectations of who or what I wanted to be, what others wanted and expected me to be, resulting in much confusion, tumult and multitudes of momentary throw-away selves. Thus singers like Bessie Smith and Dinah Washington became anchors, warm contexts and containers, for my daily fragmentation and re-formation.
I lived on 3rd street in downtown Chattanooga, a refugee from zealous, politically conservative white evangelicals and the vestigial yet still viral Southern Confederacy. Just a block or two from where Bessie Smith was born, I used to watch from my upstairs porch the steep hilly street's comings and goings with a glimpse of the Tennessee River between tenements across the street, its persistent rich aroma heavy in the air. I imagined Bessie Smith as a little girl playing up and down the street like the kids I saw then - once, two of them gleefully chasing a frighteningly large and confused looking rat.
William—he insisted on 'Willie'—an old man down the street who knew Bessie as a little girl, used to come up to my porch after one day hearing Bessie from my phonograph singing blues onto the always busy but attentive street. One of the first and permanent things I learned from my porch is that a city street has keen, observant eyes, acute ears, omnivorously seeing/hearing everything, indifferently, perhaps, but nothing escapes it, a roving, all-knowing urban Eye of God.
Extremely green and eager as green always is though stutteringly, and without apology, I enjoyed Willie's many stories and back pocket bottles of Old Mr. Boston Apricot Brandy, both of which—story and spirits/spirited story —dissolved or appeared to, age, racial, cultural, and sociological differences, along with those catalysts/cata-lusts, the forever alchemical Bessie and other jazz singers, Billie! Dinah! Ella! Sassy! Lil Ester Phillips! Nina Simone! to name only a few of the sensuous solutio chanteuses resolving sexual confoundaries by Miss-ambiguating sins' plethera with loose lilt and will- o-the-lisp whisper tongues.
One night Willie, much 'in the pocket'—an expression for being well onto tipsy which I've never heard from anyone but him—wanted to dance to a Bessie tune playing, 'Back Water Blues', him recalling nights as a young man in rural Tennessee where he'd worked hard days in oppressive vegetable fields then hit the after hours juke joints for 'colored, twas segregation days, ' he explained, where he would go to drink, dance then dive/delve, as it were, into the sensual mysteries of moist skin, hot breath, mutually open mouths with their commodious moans and mumbles, venial hands, always vital parts, private hearts mutually pounding ancient known rhythms, odors and tastes of gin and those slender, forbidden, now greedily stolen bites in those all too short nights with their damned intrusive dawns.
'Dawnus interuptus, ' I quipped, us both slapping knees, passing the narrative bottle fore and aft hefting moments re-grasped between us, offerings to the equally narrative river, the all-knowing hungry street.
Jumping to his feet, Willie described 'powder dancin'' (pronounced marvelously, 'powdah') which I had never heard of. Talcum powder would be copiously scattered onto the dance floor where couples in stocking or bare feet would ecstatically dance, gliding and sliding sweetly scented, muskily bent toward later glides and slides in the slippery joy of momentary allure and amour on dimmed porches or surrounding woods often enough and gratis upon delicate slabs of moonlight gratuitously dewy providing cushion for Passion's out and in, honoring and dignifying deities of skin wanting more making more skin, headlong Nature's frictional algo-rhythms indelibly scored in every/each his/her yawing yen.
Willie shouted, 'YOU GOT ANY TALC POWDER? ! '
...The jazz us trembled...
'NO! ' I bellowed, curious.
'YOU GOT ANY FLOUR? ! '
Even more curious, 'YEAH! ! '
'GO GIT IT! QUICK! ! '
He grinned an Old Mr. Boston juke-joint night-memories quaff-again grin.
Martha White, a brand of flour sold down South, has never been put to better use. Willie threw handfuls of 'Martha' over the tenement-planked living room floor as I half protested at the mess it (and me and Willie) was and would become. Completely gripped by his present-in-the-past brandy trance, a much younger man now, he suddenly grabbed me, brandied and tranced, too, my long hair flying, and danced me all over the floor the night through with swigs of Old But Now Spry 'n' Sprightly Mr. Boston with pauses to change record albums on the phonograph, 'catching up our breaths, ' he panted.
Next morning (more likely early afternoon) , Willie long gone, I awakened sprawled on the penitent porch—a cool concrete floor my sinner's bench—sweaty and thick as pan gravy, mosquito bitten, marinaded in Tennessee night mists. I staggered into the living room onto the ghostly floor powdery white, 'stroked' with two attached, or close to, sets of foot prints, heel slides and smears, a kind of 'Jackson Pollock meets Tibetan sand painting 'yazzed' yantra'**' with cigarette ashes flicked into the flickering impermanent mix. I've not powder danced since when we drank discovering oral history's joys, opened eager ears and fraternal arms forgetting fears of race and religion, age and expressed/ espressed Desire's multilingual disseminations.
I know that wheat is anciently sacred but now even more so for flour, the sight and feel of it, its unbaked smell, turns me again toward a Chattanooga 3rd street, its compass river swelling like bread nearby bearing witness still for one cannot say too much about rivers—their irreverence of edges scored, spilling themselves, proclaiming natural gods deeper than memory yet dependent upon it for traced they must be in every human activity, no matter the breech, for something there is to teach even deity though it may be wrong to do so, or hearsay to say it or sing, but the song is there for those whose ears are broken onto bottoms from which cry urgencies of Being and between, dutiful banks barely containing the straining Word.
**From Tibetan Buddhism. Visual meditation devices,
Yantras function as revelatory conduits of cosmic truths.
1. To Bessie Smith,3rd Street Chattanooga (circa 1971)
Already the river begins its sweat.
April to September I'll be on the porch
Come sunsets listening to cars in the
Dark and you, remembering the flour
On the floor and me and Willie in
Stocking feet dancing till dawn,
[...] Read more
poem by Warren Falcon
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Judgement Day
(Ohhhh, yeah yeah yeah yeah)
[Chorus: singers]
You can turn your back and then walk away
(You can turn your back and then walk away)
Soon be comin the judgement day
(Ahh, soon there be comin the judgement day)
[Xzibit - starts over Chorus]
Yes, uhh, breathe with me
C'mon.. listen, yo
I know you're fed up, feel like you can't get up
Have faith, stay strong, keep your head up
Yo, it only gets worse; we in a world
where your status and your bank account determine your worth
There's no time to rehearse, the clock been tickin
cause we all started dyin at birth, I speak the truth and it hurts
It felt like I was dyin of thirst
'til I was blessed with my voice, I move mountains with verse
The worst thing you ever seen in your life, "The Passion of Christ"
Pregnant chicks buyin rock, hittin the pipe
It ain't like I ain't tried to tell ya; misery love company
Keepin the wrong company brings failure
Cause people use people like paraphenalia
With a scam, with a scheme, with a dream to sell ya
But I ain't got nothin but love for all my soldiers and thugs
To all of my women, we gotta keep livin, c'mon
[Chorus: singers]
You can turn your back and then walk away
(Ohh, don't turn your back and then walk away y'all)
Soon be comin the judgement day
(Soon there be comin judgement day)
[Xzibit - starts over Chorus]
Yeah! C'mon
Mr. X to the Z had to raise the stakes
Had to touch my people like T.D. Jakes
On the ground like a nigga flippin crumbs to cake
I won't stop like an eighteen wheeler with no brakes
Bein dipped in her-on so each CD's weight
Niggaz be fake, they speak what they can't create (create)
You won't, see me break, I'm built for a tough frame
One-eighty-five and I'm still on huff
I was only 15, tryin to pass that rock
Never got caught, just sat down, collected my thoughts
This is bullshit, I ain't got a plane or a boat
I'm just another nigga sellin some coke, y'know?
Had to grab life right by the throat, murder I wrote
My callin for ballin wasn't pedalin dope
It was oversea convoys, bangin out cuts
No police or government agency lockin me up, so what?
[Chorus: singers]
You can turn your back and then walk away
[...] Read more
song performed by Xzibit
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Those Great Entertainers Of Ghana
Those great entertainers of Ghana to their drumming they dance and sing
Music, song and dance an integral part of their culture with them 'tis a natural thing
Compared to them I feel quite ordinary as if my feet are tied to the ground
They sing, dance and drum with a passion in them talent seem to abound
They bring to this great Southern Country their culture from so far away
In these simple lines I do thank them for bringing great joy to my day
So dark and so handsome and lively their whole beings are bubbling and bright
They dance, sing and drum with a passion in the Australian warm sunlight
A long way from tropical Ghana to this sunny Southern Land
They bring their joyful culture with them this marvellous African band
This town that is not known for culture is becoming more multicultural of late
A World without cultural borders is a thing that we should celebrate
And these great entertainers of Ghana they have brought great joy to my day
And I'll retain fond memories of them what better of them can I say.
poem by Francis Duggan
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I have the background singers of Ray Charles, the background singers of Smokey Robinson, and the background singers of Barry White and I built a choir around that.
quote by Della Reese
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Zoom
Uhh, i come from nothin
Come up, i come from nothin
To get it crankin right here
Right here?
Turma-turmoil, torment and turmoil
Uh ooh
We been in bondage for years
For how long?
Trapped up in the ghetto
Yea that's true
Dang, i got a dream though
Fiction
Tryin to make my own progress
That's fictionary
[e-40]
Zoom!
Even though the streets mob filthy, lights burned out (out)
Dopefiends die with antennas in they mouth
Niggaz are starvin, some of my niggaz is havin they cash
Niggaz is ballin, parkin they car, all on the grass
Livin it up to the fullest platinum colored jew-els and organized glass
Not none of that old fake ass costume jewelry, that looks like brass
I'm lookin out the window while you play nintendo
You drive a navigator, i drive a pinto
I was there, nothin polite, me and my fools
The ghetto, field mice and rat drippings up in my shoes
A rebel, without a pause, commodes n stars
No toilet tissue, dirty doodoo stains up in my draws
[singers]
Ooh zoom, i like, to fly far away from here
Where my mind flows on, it's fresh and clear
And i, found a love, that i long to see
And people, who be, who they want to beeee, ho!
[e-40]
I never had, lobster in my life (or what?)
Or teriyaki steaks, just sardines and spam and cornflakes
Pacific bell done put me on restriction once again
I can't call out, but you can call in
Can barely think straight, barely keep focus
My crackhead cousin spent the night (what we got) now we got roaches
(damn!) here lies my property, no composure
Six months behind on my mortgage, house under fo'closure
Momma ain't feelin too good, she diabetic
Scared of needles hospitals ambulance paramedics
And i'm the oldest of fo', sleepin on the flo'
Watchin tv channels we used to borrow cable from next do'
[singers]
Ooh zoom, i like, to fly far away from here
Where my mind flows on, it's fresh and clear
And i, found a love, that i long to see
[...] Read more
song performed by E-40
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Turn, O Libertad
TURN, O Libertad, for the war is over,
(From it and all henceforth expanding, doubting no more, resolute,
sweeping the world,)
Turn from lands retrospective, recording proofs of the past;
From the singers that sing the trailing glories of the past;
From the chants of the feudal world--the triumphs of kings, slavery,
caste;
Turn to the world, the triumphs reserv'd and to come--give up that
backward world;
Leave to the singers of hitherto--give them the trailing past;
But what remains, remains for singers for you--wars to come are for
you;
(Lo! how the wars of the past have duly inured to you--and the wars
of the present also inure:)
--Then turn, and be not alarm'd, O Libertad--turn your undying
face, 10
To where the future, greater than all the past,
Is swiftly, surely preparing for you.
poem by Walt Whitman
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Art For Freedom!
Music and dance give relaxation and relief!
Wind and river dance and go forever free;
If we also dance to music we too feel free!
Painting, sculpture, poetry and music make us
Fresh and new inducing forgetfulness of the past!
Lyrical poetry makes us sing and dance to be free;
Its new version is pop song we hear everywhere!
Musicians, singers and dancers are best entertainers
Moving the world by their melodious tune memorable;
Oscar and Grammy awards are their worthy honours!
Lovers of freedom, birds sing and do all jobs joyously
From the morning till evening nonstop everyday ever!
Combining song and dance or work and dance they live
Making people learn value of music and dance in life;
This is the way to be happy and gay to live in freedom!
poem by Ramesh T A
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The old jazz singers or old blues singers, you always just saw them kind of sitting down and singing. They weren't worried as much about their voice sounding perfect. They would make the song kind of fit their voice.
quote by Lucinda Williams
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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
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The Mass Of Christ
I
DOWN in the woodlands, where the streamlet runs,
Close to the breezy river, by the dells
Of ferns and flowers that shun the summer suns
But gather round the lizard-haunted wells,
And listen to the birds' sweet syllables —
Down in the woodlands, lying in the shade,
Among the rushes green that shook and gleamed,
I, I whose songs were of my heart's blood made,
Found weary rest from wretchedness, it seemed,
And fell asleep, and as I slept, I dreamed.
II
I dreamed I stood beside a pillar vast
Close to a little open door behind,
Whence the small light there was stole in aghast,
And for a space this troubled all my mind,
To lose the sunlight and the sky and the wind.
For I could know, I felt, how all before,
Though high and wonderful and to be praised,
In heart and soul and mind oppressed me sore.
Nevertheless, I turned, and my face raised,
And on that pageant and its glory gazed.
The pillars, vast as this whereby I stood,
Hedged all the place about and towered up high,
Up, and were lost within a billowy cloud
Of slow blue-wreathing smoke that fragrantly
Rose from below. And a great chaunt and cry
Of multitudinous voices, with sweet notes,
Mingled of music solemn, glad, serene,
Swayed all the air and gave its echoes throats.
And priests and singers various, with proud mien,
Filled all the choir — a strange and wondrous scene.
And men and women and children, in all hues
Of colour and fresh raiment, filled the nave;
And yet it seemed, this vast place did refuse
Room for the mighty army that did crave,
And only to the vanguard harbourage gave.
And, as I gazed and watched them while they knelt
(Their prayers I watched with the incense disappear),
And could not know my thoughts of it, I felt
A touch upon mine arm, and in mine ear
Some words, and turned my face to see and hear.
There was a man beside me. In that light,
Tho' dim, remote, and shadowy, I could see
His face swarthy yet pale, and eyes like night,
With a strange, far sadness, looking at me.
It seemed as if the buffets of some sea
Had beaten on him as he faced it long.
The salty foam, the spittle of its wrath
Had blurred the bruises of its fingers strong,
[...] Read more
poem by Francis William Lauderdale Adams
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The Green Singer
ALL singers have shadows
That follow like fears,
But I know a singer
Who never saw tears;
A gay love—a green love—
Delightsome—divine:
The Spring is that singer—
An old love of mine!
All players have shadows,
And into the play
Old sorrows will saunter—
Old sorrows will stay.
But here is a player
Whose speech is divine:
The Spring is that player—
An old love of mine!
All singers grow heavy:
Their hours as they run
Bite up all the blossoms,
Suck up all the sun;
But I know a singer
Delightsome—divine:
The gay love—the green love—
An old love of mine!
poem by John Shaw Neilson
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Perversion Of Men And Women
There are women obsessed with actors,
Singers and sportsmen of popularity
To such extent of horbouring wishes
Of being impregnated by them.
Most of men are obsessed with heroines,
Dancers and singers with glamour in looks
To an extent of wishing to enjoy them.
Impregnating is not in their agenda.
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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The unconditional judgment
Writers are a few; their readers are much.
These readers aren’t those writers either.
Actors are a few; their viewers are much.
These viewers aren’t those actors at all.
Singers are a few; their listeners are much.
These listeners aren’t those singers too.
Performers are different from audience.
Poets must be read by other than poets.
Then would prevail a good environment,
Where judgment will be unconditional.
26.10.2008.
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Fame Postmortem Intervals
singers poets
are often remembered
for just one
or two songs poems
an interesting fact
is several great
classical poets
had very few poems
or even none
published
during their lives
fame postmortem
singers posers are often
electric fly by nighters
instant one hit wonders
longer lasting new styles
fading shadows
echo early days
flush fame games
history craze slices
poem by Terence George Craddock
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David
My thought, on views of admiration hung,
Intently ravish'd and depriv'd of tongue,
Now darts a while on earth, a while in air,
Here mov'd with praise and mov'd with glory there;
The joys entrancing and the mute surprize
Half fix the blood, and dim the moist'ning eyes;
Pleasure and praise on one another break,
And Exclamation longs at heart to speak;
When thus my Genius, on the work design'd
Awaiting closely, guides the wand'ring mind.
If while thy thanks wou'd in thy lays be wrought,
A bright astonishment involve the thought,
If yet thy temper wou'd attempt to sing,
Another's quill shall imp thy feebler wing;
Behold the name of royal David near,
Behold his musick and his measures here,
Whose harp Devotion in a rapture strung,
And left no state of pious souls unsung.
Him to the wond'ring world but newly shewn,
Celestial poetry pronounc'd her own;
A thousand hopes, on clouds adorn'd with rays,
Bent down their little beauteous forms to gaze;
Fair-blooming Innocence with tender years,
And native Sweetness for the ravish'd ears,
Prepar'd to smile within his early song,
And brought their rivers, groves, and plains along;
Majestick Honour at the palace bred,
Enrob'd in white, embroider'd o'er with red,
Reach'd forth the scepter of her royal state,
His forehead touch'd, and bid his lays be great;
Undaunted Courage deck'd with manly charms,
With waving-azure plumes, and gilded arms,
Displaid the glories, and the toils of fight,
Demanded fame, and call'd him forth to write.
To perfect these the sacred spirit came,
By mild infusion of celestial flame,
And mov'd with dove-like candour in his breast,
And breath'd his graces over all the rest.
Ah! where the daring flights of men aspire
To match his numbers with an equal fire;
In vain they strive to make proud Babel rise,
And with an earth-born labour touch the skies.
While I the glitt'ring page resolve to view,
That will the subject of my lines renew;
The Laurel wreath, my fames imagin'd shade,
Around my beating temples fears to fade;
My fainting fancy trembles on the brink,
And David's God must help or else I sink.
[...] Read more
poem by Thomas Parnell
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Hezekiah
From the bleak Beach and broad expanse of sea,
To lofty Salem, Thought direct thy way;
Mount thy light chariot, move along the plains,
And end thy flight where Hezekiah reigns.
How swiftly thought has pass'd from land to land,
And quite outrun Time's meas'ring glass of sand,
Great Salem's walls appear and I resort
To view the state of Hezekiah's court.
Well may that king a pious verse inspire,
Who cleans'd the temple, who reviv'd the choir,
Pleas'd with the service David fix'd before,
That heav'nly musick might on earth adore.
Deep-rob'd in white, he made the Levites stand
With Cymbals, Harps, and Psaltries in their hand;
He gave the Priests their trumpets, prompt to raise
The tuneful soul, by force of sound to praise.
A skilful master for the song he chose,
The songs were David's these, and Asaph's those.
Then burns their off'ring, all around rejoice,
Each tunes his instrument to join the voice;
The trumpets sounded, and the singers sung,
The People worship'd and the temple rung.
Each while the victim burns presents his heart,
Then the Priest blesses, and the People part.
Hail sacred musick! since you know to draw
The soul to Heav'n, the spirit to the law,
I come to prove thy force, thy warbling string
May tune my soul to write what others sing.
But is this Salem? this the proms'd bliss,
These sighs and groans? what means the realm by this?
What solemn sorrow dwells in ev'ry street?
What fear confounds the downcast looks I meet?
Alas the King! whole nations sink with woe,
When righteous Kings are summon'd hence to go;
The King lies sick, and thus to speak his doom,
The Prophet, grave Isaiah, stalks the room:
Oh Prince thy servant sent from God, believe,
Set all in order for thou can'st not live.
Solemn he said, and sighing left the place,
Deep prints of horror furrow'd ev'ry face,
Within their minds appear eternal glooms,
Black gaping marbles of their monarchs tombs,
A King belov'd deceas'd, his offspring none,
And wars destructive e'er they fix the throne.
Strait to the wall he turn'd with dark despair,
('Twas tow'rds the temple, or for private pray'r,)
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poem by Thomas Parnell
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