Poets and Poetry and Music

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There are many deities, muses, nymphae, gods and goddesses, associated with poetry in many culutres. My favorite may be Brighid, the Gaeilge  Goddess in Trinity.
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Song To Brighid — Lisa Theil

Blessed Woman come to me
Woman of the Fires,
Woman of Poetry
Blessed Woman come to me
Woman of Healing,
Woman of Skillful Means

Blessed woman of the land
Guide my heart and guide my hand
Blessed Woman of the streams
Guide my soul and guide my dreams
Blessed Woman come to me
Woman of the fires
Woman of Poetry,

Blessed Woman come to me
Woman of Healing
Woman of Skillful Means.
Blessed Woman of the hills
Heal all wounds and heal all ills
Blessed Woman of the flame
Awaken me to renew again
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Gabhaim Molta Bríghde

Gabhaim Molta Bríghde = I Recommend Brighde   –  Gaeilge = Irish
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Brighid’s Kiss — Triniti

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Eva challenged us with Poets and Poetry as our Music theme for 04.24.2014. I have limited myself to three poets… otherwise you can guess what would happen!!!
For May 1-7, I suggest May Day … and whatever you feel fits within the coming week. To participate all that is necessary is to make your own blog post and let me know via a reply to this page and/or one or more of the other participants —  listed at the bottom of the page, in updates, as their own pages become available.
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WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE     William Shakespeare – Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
“All the world’s a stage,
and all the men and women merely players:
they have their exits and their entrances;
and one man in his time plays many parts…”

As You Like It, Act II, Scene 7, 139–42
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Shakespeare has written and inspired rewriting, music, ballet, movies, and more. Here are just a couple of examples each of different interpretations of tiny bits of his work.
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Romeo and Juliet – Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
Romeo and Juliet by Sergei Prokofiev : Montagues and Capulets Act I, Scene 2.
Corps de ballet de l’Opéra National de Paris…certes, mais avec Monique Loudières (Juliette), Charles Jude (Tybalt) et José Martinez (Paris)

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Montagues and Capulets Live – Epica – The Classical Conspiracy

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Macbeth – Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
PBS Macbeth Trailer

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Wytches’ Brew — Omnia — Alive!

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FEDERICO GARCIA LORCA     Federico García Lorca – Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia  A translated Lorca is the  third book that was in my backpack home, in the Olden Days.
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De Carmen à Federico Garcia Lorca-2_ Juillet — Cannes – Flamenco -

La troupe de Nilda Fernandez au Suquet à Cannes
De Carmen à Federico Garcia Lorca = From Carmen to Federico Garcia Lorca — Galician
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Leonard Cohen is a poet in his own right (write?) but here he translates poetry… song is in English, the poetry he translated is Spanish.
TAKE THIS WALTZ — LEONARD COHEN Y FEDERICO GARCIA LORCA

Leonard Cohen tradujo esta letra al inglés para musicalizarlo con ritmo de vals
Pequeño Vals Vienés (*)
Federico García Lorca

En Viena hay diez muchachas,
un hombro donde solloza la muerte
y un bosque de palomas disecadas.
Hay un fragmento de la mañana
en el museo de la escarcha.
Hay un salón con mil ventanas.
¡Ay, ay, ay, ay!
Toma este vals, este vals,
este vals con la boca cerrada.

En Viena hay cuatro espejos
donde juegan tu boca y los ecos.
Hay una muerte para piano
que pinta de azul a los muchachos.
Hay mendigos por los tejados,
hay frescas guirnaldas de llanto.
¡Ay, ay, ay, ay!
Toma este vals, este vals,
este vals que se muere en mis brazos.

Este vals, este vals, este vals, este vals,
de sí, de muerte y de coñac,
que moja su cola en el mar.
Porque te quiero, te quiero amor mío,
en el desván donde juegan los niños,
soñando viejas luces de Hungría
por los rumores de la tarde tibia,
viendo ovejas y lirios de nieve
por el silencio oscuro de tu frente.
¡Ay, ay, ay, ay!
Toma este vals, este vals,
este vals de quebrada cintura.

Este vals, este vals, este vals, este vals,
de sí, de muerte y de coñac,
que moja su cola en el mar.

En Viena bailaré contigo
con un disfraz que tenga cabeza de río.
¡Mira qué orillas tengo de jacintos!
Dejaré mi boca entre tus piernas,
mi alma en fotografías y azucenas,
y en las ondas oscuras de tu andar.
Quiero amor mío, amor mío, dejar
violín y sepulcro, las cintas del vals.
Quiero amor mío, amor mío, dejar
violín y sepulcro, las cintas del vals.
¡Ay, ay, ay, ay!
Toma este vals, este vals,
este vals del “te quiero siempre”.

Este vals, este vals, este vals, este vals,
de sí, de muerte y de coñac,
que moja su cola en el mar.

Este vals, este vals, este vals, este vals,
de sí, de muerte y de coñac,
que moja su cola en el mar.

Porque te quiero, te quiero amor mío,
en el desván donde juegan los niños,
soñando viejas luces de Hungría
por los rumores de la tarde tibia …
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OMAR KHAYYAM   was my Mother’s favorite collection, and therefor a sweet childhood memory.
Omar Khayyám – Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
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رباعیات عمر خیام
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Illustration by Edmund Joseph Sullivan for Quatrain 51 of Fitzgerald’s First Version.

The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám (Persian: رباعیات عمر خیام‎) is the title that Edward FitzGerald gave to his translation of a selection of poems, originally written in Persian and numbering about a thousand, attributed to Omar Khayyám (1048–1131), Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam – Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
Omar Khayyam Musical Special

Some of the recitations are in French and part of them are Farsi.
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EVA:
BEAR:  http://bearspawprint.wordpress.com/2014/04/24/poets-and-poetry-and-music/
JOHNNY:
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Wheelchair Kamikaze

Wheelchair Kamikaze


Suspended  http://www.wheelchairkamikaze.com/2014/04/suspended.html

Posted: 22 Apr 2014 10:09 PM PDT

A reliable staple of science fiction space adventures is the concept of “suspended animation”, whereby astronauts traveling to far off galaxies are put into a kind of hibernation during which they don’t age or otherwise feel the effects of their long, perilous journeys. Safe in their suspended animation pods, these fictional voyagers are awakened upon reaching their destination, blissfully unaware of the months, years, or decades that have passed since they left their home planet. For all they know, while they were in suspension the world they left may have changed radically, or may no longer even exist. Separated from their previous lives by time and distance, the reanimated travelers now inhabit a new reality, for better or worse (in most pieces of science fiction, it’s usually for worse).

I’ve come to realize that in some ways my illness has had a similar effect on me. As my creeping paralysis has progressed, leaving me less and less able to take part in the ordered chaos of the world at large, I find myself increasingly alienated from the life I once knew, my space in the existence I used to occupy now almost totally erased. I’m still here, of course, part of the world but also apart from it, more spectator of than participant in the game of life. The never ceasing whirl of activity outside of my metaphorical and physical windows continues on, but the threads that once tied me to the self-perpetuating clamor of everyday life have largely been cut, putting me in a sort of conscious state of suspended animation. The gears of the world grind on, but more and more, they grind on without me.

The most tangible examples of this are the changes that have come to the industry in which I once earned my living. I spent 20 years building a career in TV and video production, which culminated in my heading up the DVD Production Department of a huge multinational music/entertainment conglomerate. My group was responsible for the programming and mastering of hundreds of discs, some of which sold hundreds of thousands of copies. When I first started in the position DVDs were such a brand-new technology that most people hadn’t even yet heard of them. Within a few years, though, DVDs exploded, and just as my disease was forcing me to to “retire”, Blu-ray discs had started to emerge as the next generation of consumer media. Now, over seven years later, streaming video (à la Netflix) is all the rage, a development I’d long anticipated  but never got the chance to play a hand in.

The changing landscape of video production and consumer consumption has marched on without me, and the technological infrastructure to which I was a native and used daily to earn my keep has in short course become archaic. If I were to be suddenly cured and tried to reenter the workforce I’d be so far behind the curve that some snot nosed kid just out of college would put my once formidable technological knowledge to absolute shame. As far as my former industry is concerned, I might as well have spent the last seven years on a spaceship in suspended animation. Ground control to Major Marc…

The shock of my diagnosis created a seismic shift in my existence, and that shock reverberates still. You’d think that 11 years after my initial diagnosis, and over 15 years since my first symptoms started cropping up, I’d have somehow gotten used to the idea of my illness and its destructiveness, but no, several times a day I still find myself smacked in the head by the realities of my predicament. This perpetual state of shock has left parts of me petrified, in every sense of the word. Petrified as in scared silly, but also petrified as in unchanged despite the passage of time. I was officially diagnosed at age 39, and now, at 50 years old, parts of the inner me have been left untouched by the intervening years, stuck in a kind of stasis, in much the same state that they were when the disease first took hold. It’s kind of a diabolical case of arrested development; even as my body becomes ever more decrepit, parts of the me encased inside of it have been untouched by the passing years.

Almost all of my old hopes, dreams, and desires stand frozen, as if parts of my very soul have been put on ice (apologies to Eldridge Cleaver). Now, instead of propelling me forward in an effort to fulfill them, those old longings and expectations only serve to put an exclamation point on just how much the disease has cost me. The physical toll is obvious but the psychic not so much, especially with so much effort spent trying to maintain a sense of stability and even contentment in the face of this brutal and ceaseless storm. Will I really never get to have my breath taken away by the artistic splendors of Florence, or purchase some ludicrously luxurious and fast automobile, or get stinking drunk on ouzo while carousing on an idyllic Greek island? While healthy, there was always the hope of erasing old disappointments with new successes, of paving over past mistakes with future achievements, but now those previous failings have been transformed from works in progress into set pieces, dioramas in the museum of my mind.

Yes, I dreamed big, and dreams die hard. In fact, I don’t think they ever die at all, but my old dreams now lie fixed behind a set of more humble but – barring any medical breakthroughs – much less achievable desires. To simply stroll through the springtime air, or to hug my wife with two strong arms, or to mindlessly jot down a note with my now-defunct right hand. In my long-ago life I amassed extensive collections of antique cameras and vintage wristwatches, both of which I took much delight in putting to good use. Now they sit gathering dust in boxes, physical remnants of a life suspended, the impulses that lead to my possessing them still existent but now also packed away by the distressing actualities of my stark new reality.

Much like those science-fiction spacemen, I awake to an environment that is resonant with echoes of my past. This new life is often incredibly difficult, to be sure, but the challenges it presents are also opportunities. Though some old friends and acquaintances have drifted away, new ones, fellow travelers on these uncharted waters, have made the journey much less lonely. The loyalty of my wonderful wife alone is reason to have faith in humanity. By extracting me from the hue and cry of my old healthy existence, my disease has afforded me a sense of perspective that informs my  day-to-day existence, and, I hope, might even help some of my comrades both healthy and ill to better navigate their own winding roads.

I’ve learned to not sweat the small things, and that most of what I used to consider gut wrenching problems are in reality small things. As my disease continues its infernal progression, finding contentment in what I have rather than what I once wanted or have lost has become a mechanism of survival. As the Buddha discovered centuries ago, desire, or more accurately attachment to desire, is indeed the root of all suffering. Despite the undeniable hardships within which I find myself stuck, I laugh just about as often as I used to, the sheer absurdity of my situation fodder for more laughter than tears. My mom is dealing with her own sense of suspended animation, courtesy Parkinson’s disease, yet somehow our telephone conversations often find us convulsed in hilarity. We both have more than a touch of the rascal in us, and the juxtaposition of our old pre-suspension hijinks with our new more sedentary and sedate forced existences serve to highlight the farcical nature of our puny little lives. Taking oneself too seriously is perhaps the gravest mistake a person can make.

Don’t get me wrong, despite the lessons learned and perspective gained, there’s virtually nothing I wouldn’t do to regain my health. As my creeping paralysis continues its increasingly destructive march, my tolerance for risk in my search for answers has become almost boundless, but despite my precarious situation there is still satisfaction to be squeezed out of these undeniably frightful circumstances. The old me is indeed in suspended animation, hopefully one day to be roused once again, but there is still life to be lived in this strange new world in which I find myself. It’s certainly not a life I would’ve chosen, but like it or not, it has chosen me. Despairing over my losses is only natural, but giving in to that despair would hand victory to the cosmic pranksters that conspire to make me the butt of their joke. I still have a middle finger capable of being raised, and with that raised finger I’ll continue to poke those pernicious little fuckers right in their beady little eyes. The jokes on them, for although part of me has been put into suspended animation, I’m still full of piss and vinegar…

Symetry of Theft

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Is jealousy of creation a part of  human nature?
Is it innocence to assume that all flowers
Are for the plucking? Is it righteous to
Reach out and take take take take take
Calling the self both messenger and author?
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Is it human nature to pluck the best?
To hunt through the ordered gardens and the wilderness
Gathering the prettiest and the most significant,
Plucking the flowers from their context
And claiming, “Now this is mine.” ?
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Why not take all the best that you can perceive?
Why not take what moves your soul? Take take, take take .
Take what brings some comfort.  Take take take take.
Why should the intensity of your wanting
Not be justification for thieving actions?
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If there is beauty in the wild,
Is that Wildness available for the plucking?
Are there no consequences for your taking taking
Taking taking taking taking taking.
There is always balance in nature.
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There are always consequences.
The flattery of your wanting is insufficient.
The Universe cares not for flattery.
When beauty flows into your heart,
Does that make you the author or the audience?
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You vandalizing thieves who have destroyed
With your careless critical trampling;
You flattering greedy plagiarizing soul cannibals;
You deceive only yourself that you are the art,
Yourself the artist and the gardener.
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You trolling gatherers of art’s life blood,
Think that there is no price to pay. Wrong.
Restitution is always made. Balance is a contract
With the Universe, made before the birth of beauty.
Think on symmetry when you claim what is not yours …
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Da! Da! Da!
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Through all strata of creation balance is maintained.
Bear … 04.23.2014
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April Morning

Every Day Is Earth Day