tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31805888897344480952024-03-04T23:05:25.103-08:00Danse Macabre 4Adam Henry Carrièrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05446586857201169114noreply@blogger.comBlogger8125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3180588889734448095.post-11849710720806185612007-01-04T01:58:00.000-08:002007-01-08T01:09:20.298-08:00KnowledgeIt don't matter what song<br />Dinah Washington sings, 'cuz<br />her voice makes 'em all<br />torch songs of indigo fire;<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyEf439Yb8YctL6Yu_C15aLRD6Jroz45cVF1WqXfSBpQjO8BvmgiXGb6XuVmxDBdjPhPs0ClDHcRhJlojO-8WiI6tv1-QjCsxwkPwGNQiHZOOG3pbN-OohyphenhyphenXRyTUVtUefg36YrJwrbRNM/s1600-h/Dinah2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5016115091450696466" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyEf439Yb8YctL6Yu_C15aLRD6Jroz45cVF1WqXfSBpQjO8BvmgiXGb6XuVmxDBdjPhPs0ClDHcRhJlojO-8WiI6tv1-QjCsxwkPwGNQiHZOOG3pbN-OohyphenhyphenXRyTUVtUefg36YrJwrbRNM/s200/Dinah2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />when a Sabbath breeze fingers your cheeks,<br />Otis Redding rings even deeper<br />inside the satin holes pocking<br />the thought of another pubescent staircase.<br /><br /><em>No. 59 from </em><strong><span style="color:#33ccff;">Sky</span></strong><em><br />...</em>by<em> <strong><span style="color:#993399;">Adam Henry Carriere</span></strong></em>Adam Henry Carrièrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05446586857201169114noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3180588889734448095.post-78113237213410013752006-12-30T18:54:00.000-08:002007-01-08T00:27:49.259-08:00Elizabethean Poetry<strong><span style="color:#6600cc;"><em>Imreh Plays Bach</em></span></strong><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQvW4ukgHntyRsiMI2pBTrQjh5GJmMJraX1RKYoC1I7ePNdHSfs4DX0-rp44ZmwEjDGb5xziwZFRIuY2aInUN3OjHMbOBrRlUnZWKfDqYPxtph0b8h1jcbDdd0a9cqTctgHme05U7eC2M/s1600-h/Bach+score.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5014454803737504466" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQvW4ukgHntyRsiMI2pBTrQjh5GJmMJraX1RKYoC1I7ePNdHSfs4DX0-rp44ZmwEjDGb5xziwZFRIuY2aInUN3OjHMbOBrRlUnZWKfDqYPxtph0b8h1jcbDdd0a9cqTctgHme05U7eC2M/s200/Bach+score.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Through memory's doors I skip.<br />Knocking fall snow off my shoes<br />I skid across the marble floor.<br />The gym---concert hall tonight---<br />smells like it did forty years ago.<br />Sweaty socks glazed over<br />by pine disinfectant.<br /><br />The audience is small.<br />Once we were many,<br />the town growing, not this worn<br />old woman, her treasures<br />extracted like local mines¹ ores.<br /><br />The lights go down.<br />Imreh takes the stage<br />formed of Danubian delicacy<br />and steel---Rumanian,<br />redhead---redolent of eastern<br />Europe perfume<br />medieval monasteries,<br />minarets.<br /><br />(Her shiny gray strapless top<br />with black velvet flowers and ivy<br />caresses her, silhouettes<br />slender hips,<br />slithers over a long black wool<br />skirt.)<br /><br />She explains chosen variations,<br />inscrutable, immutable<br />Bach.<br />The old Steinway waits<br />as the artist seats herself.<br />Begins.<br />Appasionato.<br /><br />Little girls move in the front row.<br />Feet dangle<br />in snow-damp Mary Janes.<br />Swing in time.<br />Excitement frees heavy coats<br />thrown over chair backs.<br /><br />I am such a girl again;<br />Shirley Temple curls spring<br />stiff from stale beer, above<br />my taffeta redingote,<br />brushing sock tops.<br />My fingers, trained since four,<br />move with<br /><br />Imreh's. Wrapped in the sound blanket<br />I play. In love with music,<br />with life,<br />defending against blizzards<br /><br />Imreh finishes. Her steel butterfly hands<br />flutter to her lap.<br />She stands, receives accolades.<br />Instantly I'm old, yet now immensely<br />renewed in life.<br /><br /><em><strong><span style="color:#6600cc;">Spheres Evolve</span></strong></em><br /><br />An ancient sage, bent<br />under wisdom took<br />his ease beneath a quieting<br />pine. He heard music<br />of celestial spheres,<br />calling wheat to dance<br />on nearby golden hills<br />or dirges or triumphal<br />marches sung in cosmic rhyme.<br />He heard waters cascade<br />through spring, sensed their<br />silence during drought.<br />Every season's song<br />beat in perfect time.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX166iNp1JJGsuQF890tGGguXb3BERVqDi5zZBUyGa2IRXOXq2kfqlOuF6rSwRzj1mlFY6B5KXi6AR3TF3KsWsW2a3PvAxPlXvhA7y7Ytdru-wNbOZ-vSXLPrxvalEocBEliaxeHErJoA/s1600-h/hubble+3.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5014455744335342306" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX166iNp1JJGsuQF890tGGguXb3BERVqDi5zZBUyGa2IRXOXq2kfqlOuF6rSwRzj1mlFY6B5KXi6AR3TF3KsWsW2a3PvAxPlXvhA7y7Ytdru-wNbOZ-vSXLPrxvalEocBEliaxeHErJoA/s200/hubble+3.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />An august<br />astronomer now lays<br />these wheeled<br />orchestras to rest. Yet<br />no lesser lays<br />beat in his intuition's<br />breast. Lyrics seduce,<br />strum within his heart,<br />reach others<br />whose hearts thrum<br />in synchronicity. Their rhythm<br />drowns anarchy's<br />tin pan cacaphony;<br />peace, at last, is won.<br /><br />...by <strong><em><span style="color:#993399;">Elizabeth I. Riseden</span></em></strong>Adam Henry Carrièrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05446586857201169114noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3180588889734448095.post-10439539203530685692006-12-30T18:45:00.000-08:002006-12-31T02:21:29.037-08:00How to Listen to Music<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih5llTOQU721VgrQpGuSVQkr0ShocPTBvKG5CiRO6dTVNdSm2yzoKUVamCaWsIda0srlLNM5lcxhJsF-nEdpXPF2JKam5jESi3pGspWZL-U7i1vl1r0Sk0lWVfmgubz8gEUXJ7PXCO6B0/s1600-h/salon.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5014477635783650082" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih5llTOQU721VgrQpGuSVQkr0ShocPTBvKG5CiRO6dTVNdSm2yzoKUVamCaWsIda0srlLNM5lcxhJsF-nEdpXPF2JKam5jESi3pGspWZL-U7i1vl1r0Sk0lWVfmgubz8gEUXJ7PXCO6B0/s200/salon.jpg" border="0" /></a><strong>A Beginner’s Guide to Live Chamber Music</strong><br /><br />Welcome! You’ve made one great decision: coming to a concert. Now what? Well, you’re reading the program, another good start. This is a little helper and guide for you in any concert situation, and by no means the only way to enjoy a concert. We thought you might like some tips and observations from a veteranconcertgoer and avid fan of music.<br /><br />Chamber music is very special, and it is a good basis for other sorts of musical events too, perhaps inspiring you to catch your local symphony, church choir or even brass band. These groups have the same sort of interaction that chamber music does, only on a larger level – so things you observe and hear here, are likely to show up in those performances too.<br /><br /><strong>Get Cozy</strong><br />Arriving a little early always helps listening to a concert. Not only being comfortable in your seat and being able to chat with your companionbeforehand, you might meet the people around you. Often audience members are not only quite friendly but they’re there for the music or performer – just like you! Being in the concert hall early also allows you to hear the acoustics (does it echo a little or a lot?) and what sort of set up is on stage: is there an organ you’ll hear? (or perhaps you’ll see a pipe organ and be interested in hearing it at a future event?) Is the hall wooden or modern? Is the décor pleasing?<br /><br /><strong>Quiet Please<br /></strong>As the lights dim and the musicians come on stage, make sure you’ve looked at the program and won’t crumple, rustle or make extraneous noise. Concert halls are designed for sound – so when you make other sounds – the musiciansand other audience members will hear them too! Whispering to a friend or companion can be done between movements or pieces, but it’s more respectful not to talk while the musicians are playing.<br /><br /><strong>Listen, Look, and Learn</strong><br />So as the music starts, my recommendation is to have an open mind. Great music will speak to the mind and heart – and good musicians will pass this along. A pianist, string quartet, even an orchestra or choir will express the melody even though there may be lots of other notes that you are hearing. One easy key is to observe a conductor (not usually found in chamber music!) who will guide the ensemble and the audience in important points: where are they looking, what sort of gestures arethey making? In chamber music, almost always one musician will start the group – it’s really fun to see who that is – because it often changes, even during the middle of a piece. Another great aspect is to see the performers communicating with one another – you’ll often see players smile and look at one another.<br /><br /><strong>Applause Etiquette<br /></strong>Applause comes (generally) after a complete piece of music –a little different from attending a sporting event or speech, where you might cheer or clap after a goal is scored or important point in a speech is made. A good rule of thumb is to clap when the rest of the audience applauds. As for standing ovations, I really believe they should be special, for a moment whenyou are really moved – in over 3,000 performances I’ve heard, perhaps 30 of those did I really believe were once in a lifetime and I had to jump up with excitement.<br /><br /><strong>Brain Breaks</strong><br />Intermission or a pause in the concert is a great time to get up, discuss the concert, and further check out the program, venue et al. The concert will resume and you’ll see and hear even more great music. Afterwards, stick around if there is a “talkback” and ask the performers a question; or if the artists are available to talk to or sign autographs, go meet them. Almost every great artist I ‘ve met or interviewed enjoys meeting folks after the concert. Let them know how much you liked the concert!<br /><br /><strong>Share the Experience</strong><br />Finally, if you enjoyed the concert, share it with someone else. Bring a friend to the next one, or friends. Music is written by a composer, but needs two elements to be successful: performers and an audience. Performers are just that, they want someone to play for…thank you for being here!<br /><br />...by <strong><em><span style="color:#993399;">John Clare</span></em></strong>Adam Henry Carrièrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05446586857201169114noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3180588889734448095.post-82582833183201034812006-12-30T16:13:00.000-08:002006-12-31T02:26:05.645-08:00Powers, in Double Sonnet Form<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkKBceXHP_E1KdovzhzQKqchGKI7iu8he05Ra83-ymVXj3oUwXDcTIbQgUtAmRvGA-MrlACaSPAQf1RDPjeT4oH7GRYFJf-57uN0TX1ja_TJ2-2Gb3-jE-qzuZ2EKaLr3dGRWD0CMXF7A/s1600-h/musik.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5014464759471696642" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkKBceXHP_E1KdovzhzQKqchGKI7iu8he05Ra83-ymVXj3oUwXDcTIbQgUtAmRvGA-MrlACaSPAQf1RDPjeT4oH7GRYFJf-57uN0TX1ja_TJ2-2Gb3-jE-qzuZ2EKaLr3dGRWD0CMXF7A/s200/musik.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />In this our life, some passages sound low,<br />As if guitar or lute set forth the Theme...<br />At other moments, solo oboe sounds,<br />Or flute or lone voice honestly achieves<br />A clearer statement of It. Then, sometimes,<br />Trumpets, mass'd strings, an orchestra at full,<br />Develops line into a Pattern. Whole,<br />An architect's extension (in the mind)<br />Turns what began into a mighty phrase<br />Of Something Original...Then, we recall<br />Quiet guitar, the oboe, and tunes more<br />As firm theme's golden thread runs through its<br />trace<br />Or grand expression. Thus, betwixt two tiers,<br />We hear the music of our lives play'd out<br />In strife majestic or simplicities...<br />Music has pow'rs, as odors contexted do,<br />Thus t''evoke far more than pure theme's line<br />Or sounds harmonious should draw from mind<br />Or from emotions...Even phrases new,<br />Chords and progressions not from 'standard'<br />themes<br />Can wield this sorcery: opening zones;<br />Teaching dimensions hitherto unknown;<br />Ceding men wonders trapp'd in webs of dreams.<br />Glad bondage this--to trace a wand'rer's path,<br />Find new directions out, new certainties,<br />New shadows, doubts, concatenations--these--<br />Unlook'd for splendors, whose high peaks' heights<br />dash<br />All former norms of wonder into bits:<br />Life is the realm that music dares to plumb;<br />Theme the mind's one most-potent instrument.<br /><br />...by <span style="color:#339999;"><em><strong><span style="color:#993399;">Robert David Michael (Cerello)</span></strong></em> </span>Adam Henry Carrièrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05446586857201169114noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3180588889734448095.post-13707383271248506932006-12-30T15:40:00.000-08:002006-12-31T02:22:20.848-08:00Musical VocabularyPassed along from our friends at <a href="http://www.classicallyhip.blogspot.com">classicallyhip.com</a> where we'd otherwise just lift it ...<br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#009900;">Obbligato</span></strong> - being forced to practice<br /><strong><span style="color:#009900;">Dominant</span></strong> - What parents must be if they expect their children to practice.<br /><strong><span style="color:#009900;">Con Moto</span></strong> - yeah baby, I have a car<br /><strong><span style="color:#009900;">Allegro</span></strong> - a little car<br /><strong><span style="color:#009900;">Metronome</span></strong> - short, city musician who can fit into a Honda Civic<br /><strong><span style="color:#009900;">Lento</span></strong> - the days leading up to Easto<br /><strong><span style="color:#009900;">Largo</span></strong> - beer brewed in Germany or the Florida Keys<br /><strong><span style="color:#009900;">Con Spirito</span></strong> - drunk again<br /><strong><span style="color:#009900;">Tonic</span></strong> - A medicinal drink consumed in great quantity before a performance, and in greater quantity afterwards.<br /><strong><span style="color:#009900;">Soto Voce</span></strong> - singing while drunk<br /><strong><span style="color:#009900;">Piu Animato</span></strong> - clean out the cat's litter box<br /><strong><span style="color:#009900;">Colla Voce</span></strong> - this shirt is so tight I can't sing<br /><strong><span style="color:#009900;">Improvisation</span></strong> - what you do when the music falls down<br /><strong><span style="color:#009900;">Prelude</span></strong> - warm-up before the clever stuff<br /><strong><span style="color:#009900;">Flats</span></strong> - English apartments<br /><strong><span style="color:#009900;">Chords</span></strong> - things organists play with one finger<br /><span style="color:#009900;"><strong>Discords</strong> </span>- thing that organists play with two fingers<br /><strong><span style="color:#009900;">Suspended Chords</span></strong> - useful for lynching the vocalist<br /><strong><span style="color:#009900;">Time Signatures</span></strong> - things for drummers to ignore<br /><strong><span style="color:#009900;">Melody</span></strong> - an ancient, new almost extinct art in songwriting<br /><strong><span style="color:#009900;">Klavierstuck</span></strong> - A term used by German furniture movers attempting to get a piano through a narrow doorway.<br /><strong><span style="color:#009900;">Music Stand</span></strong> - An intricate device used to hold music. Comes in two sizes- too high or too low - always broken.<br /><strong><span style="color:#009900;">Concert Hall</span></strong> - A place where large audiences gather, for the sole purpose of removing paper wrappings from candy and gum.<br /><strong><span style="color:#009900;">Agogic</span></strong> - playing high enough on an oboe to make the eyes bulge.<br /><strong><span style="color:#009900;">Cadenza</span></strong> - slapping noise on office furniture<br /><strong><span style="color:#009900;">Fandango</span></strong> - grabbing the pull chain on the ceiling fan<br /><strong><span style="color:#009900;">Prima Volta</span></strong> - jump start with a battery<br /><strong><span style="color:#009900;">Refrain</span></strong> - proper technique for playing bagpipes<br /><strong><span style="color:#009900;">Smorzando</span></strong> - with melted chocolate and marshmallowAdam Henry Carrièrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05446586857201169114noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3180588889734448095.post-33819979935274234732006-12-30T15:10:00.000-08:002007-01-09T14:49:36.649-08:00A Musical Memory...<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqG-b8LDjJBE9-sM2oGrk0GklvdFVBWx334Ee7MhWOX_zYxpZTowgCYq0Mqb78sbGuSk_0GyHZh6w9RJhdelIv-Lt3OuhbAyfkUBLIhNlw8-d2Iriz4REgptY1ZggzBJTKFQOG12umWmM/s1600-h/Frankfurt_opera.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5014469178993044242" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqG-b8LDjJBE9-sM2oGrk0GklvdFVBWx334Ee7MhWOX_zYxpZTowgCYq0Mqb78sbGuSk_0GyHZh6w9RJhdelIv-Lt3OuhbAyfkUBLIhNlw8-d2Iriz4REgptY1ZggzBJTKFQOG12umWmM/s200/Frankfurt_opera.jpg" border="0" /></a> In a small town in Wisconsin in the early 1940s, a small girl sits rapt in front of the console radio, building houses out of clothes pins (no Legos then) and listening to the Metropolitan Opera. I was that small girl, seduced into music first by Milton Cross narration of the plots and second by the music itself. That first opera was part of the Ring Cycle and (<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yrfbaXPFHfQ">Melchior</a>) and Traubel were singing the major roles. I had found a secret world.<br /><br />My mother thought that I had lost my mind. "Why are you listening to that screeching?" she'd call from the kitchen. "I like it. I like the story and music." From then for sixty years (until KNPR, the NPR affiliate in Las Vegas, senselessly cancelled the broadcasts in the face of great community opposition) I was transported to the Met on Saturday afternoons during the season. Its loss was oddly devastating - it was only a radio program after all I tried to tell myself. But, of course, it wasn't. It was part of the fabric of my life, as it was for many others, and then it was gone.<br /><br />Now, wonderfully, it's back. Sirius Radio's new Metropolitan Opera channel, broadcasts both live and from the archives, giving us more than we could have dreamed of asking from any other venue.<br /><br />...by <strong><em><span style="color:#6600cc;">Felicia Florine Campbell</span></em></strong>Adam Henry Carrièrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05446586857201169114noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3180588889734448095.post-19565807403312651172006-12-30T14:32:00.000-08:002006-12-31T02:18:13.407-08:00Da Blues...<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg77uD1Rxwh77fGMWEi3gGMrMpXHnv-pZ4UjuTrIogWXFRZhZNcAxX4ANzkSpPf3mxPFZgY6bhUW2MAl6Lf3qwnRXihAIz6pdofn8SLCLJDpq_wuUuGVInB05AtFAr8kWC26BI3WKSQUmU/s1600-h/Diz.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5014481140476963634" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg77uD1Rxwh77fGMWEi3gGMrMpXHnv-pZ4UjuTrIogWXFRZhZNcAxX4ANzkSpPf3mxPFZgY6bhUW2MAl6Lf3qwnRXihAIz6pdofn8SLCLJDpq_wuUuGVInB05AtFAr8kWC26BI3WKSQUmU/s200/Diz.jpg" border="0" /></a>1) Most Blues begin, "Woke up this morning..."<br /><br />2) "I got a good woman" is a bad way to begin the Blues, unless you stick something nasty in the next line like, "I got a good woman, with the meanest face in town."<br /><br />3) The Blues is simple. After you get the first line right, repeat it. Then find something that rhymes... sort of: "Got a good woman with the meanest face in town. Yes, I got a good woman with the meanest face in town. Got teeth like Margaret Thatcher, and she weigh 500 pound."<br /><br />4) The Blues is not about choice. You stuck in a ditch, you stuck in a ditch--ain't no way out.<br /><br />5) Blues cars: Chevys, Fords, Cadillacs and broken-down trucks. Blues don't travel in Volvos, BMWs, or Sport Utility Vehicles. Most Blues transportation is a Greyhound bus or a southbound train. Jet aircraft and company motor pools ain't even in the running. Walkin' plays a major part in the blues lifestyle. So does fixin' to die.<br /><br />6) Teenagers can't sing the Blues. They ain't fixin' to die yet. Adults sing the Blues. In Blues, "adulthood" means being old enough to get the electric chair if you shoot a man in Memphis.<br /><br />7) Blues can take place in New York City but not in Hawaii or any place in Canada. Hard times in Minneapolis or Seattle is probably just clinical depression. Chicago, St. Louis, and Kansas City are still the best places to have the Blues. You cannot have the blues in any place that don't get rain.<br /><br />8) A man with male pattern baldness ain't the blues. A woman with male pattern baldness is. Breaking your leg cause you were skiing is not the blues. Breaking your leg 'cause a alligator be chompin' on it is.<br /><br />9) You can't have no Blues in a office or a shopping mall. The lighting is wrong. Go outside to the parking lot or sit by the dumpster.<br /><br />10) Good places for the Blues:<br />a. Highway<br />b. Jailhouse<br />c. An empty bed<br />d. Bottom of a whiskey glass<br /><br />11) Bad places for the Blues:<br />a. Nordstrom's<br />b. Gallery openings<br />c. Ivy league institutions<br />d. Golf courses<br /><br />12) No one will believe it's the Blues if you wear a suit, 'less you happen to be a old ethnic person, and you slept in it.<br /><br />13) You have the right to sing the Blues if:<br />a. You older than dirt<br />b. You blind<br />c. You shot a man in Memphis<br />d. You can't be satisfied<br /><br />14) You don't have the right to sing the Blues if:<br />a. You have all your teeth<br />b. You were once blind but now can see<br />c. The man in Memphis lived<br />d. You have a pension fund<br /><br />15) Blues is not a matter of color. It's a matter of bad luck. Tiger Woods cannot sing the blues. Sonny Liston could. Ugly white people also got a leg up on the blues.<br /><br />16) If you ask for water and your darlin' give you gasoline, it's the Blues.<br /><br />17) Other acceptable Blues beverages are:<br />a. Cheap wine<br />b. Whiskey or bourbon<br />c. Muddy water<br />d. Nasty black coffee<br /><br />18) The following are NOT Blues beverages:<br />a. Perrier<br />b. Chardonnay<br />c. Snapple<br />d. Slim Fast<br /><br />19) If death occurs in a cheap motel or a shotgun shack, it's a Blues death. Stabbed in the back by a jealous lover is another Blues way to die. So is the electric chair, substance abuse and dying lonely on a broke-down cot. You can't have a Blues death if you die during a tennis match or while getting liposuction.<br /><br />20) Some Blues names for women:<br />a. Sadie<br />b. Big Mama<br />c. Bessie<br />d. Fat River Dumpling<br /><br />21) Some Blues names for men:<br />a. Joe<br />b. Willie<br />c. Little Willie<br />d. Big Willie<br /><br />22) Persons with names like Michelle, Amber, Debbie, and Heather can't sing the Blues no matter how many men they shoot in Memphis.<br /><br />23) Make your own Blues name Starter Kit:<br />a. name of physical infirmity (Blind, Cripple, Lame, etc.)<br />b. first name (see above) plus name of fruit (Lemon, Lime, Melon, Kiwi, etc.)<br />c. last name of President (Jefferson, Johnson, Fillmore, etc.) e.g.- Blind Lime Jefferson, Jackleg Lemon Johnson or Cripple Kiwi Fillmore, etc. (OK, maybe not 'Kiwi'.)<br /><br />24) I don't care how tragic your life: if you own even one computer, you cannot sing the blues.<br /><br />...submitted by <strong><em><span style="color:#cc33cc;">John Clare</span></em></strong>Adam Henry Carrièrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05446586857201169114noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3180588889734448095.post-31351552974280624542006-12-30T14:30:00.000-08:002007-09-18T15:19:50.583-07:00The Symphony Shostakovitch Never Wrote<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqnOfJOnsPYZ4qRO0K-_7dOlxgZxZaUdlEfNdUOfk2wvbWlAzB4xRZ0EQ7zQie9Dq3aZ1MB69lchyphenhyphentQ1j2wGj66rIyI78bPONVm4yggAdAFPPWqLkcLcYFEIoB3mBLjVHaVP777D7ZtaU/s1600-h/shosta.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5016118871021916978" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqnOfJOnsPYZ4qRO0K-_7dOlxgZxZaUdlEfNdUOfk2wvbWlAzB4xRZ0EQ7zQie9Dq3aZ1MB69lchyphenhyphentQ1j2wGj66rIyI78bPONVm4yggAdAFPPWqLkcLcYFEIoB3mBLjVHaVP777D7ZtaU/s400/shosta.gif" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />The neatly-gentrified Mtsensk District plaster<br />buckles in all the right grey-painted places;<br />the aged, yellowing windows rise and fall<br />in fashionable decay. A well-upholstered citizen's<br />slum, drawn to exacting state specifications.<br /><br />Local housing authorities recommend the childless<br />to abandon empty ravagings and become a true home.<br />I found a bare mattress with a soft, sagging middle age<br />lying in the center of the room. Upon closer examination,<br />I am pleased to report the womb is uncorrupted<br /><br />by any illusions of hunger. Smart comrades rent<br />their own firesides to eat there nightly.<br />Neither a heart's central heat<br />nor a bloodstream's warm water<br />can find domicile with me; I am no icon.<br /><br />After five doses of vodka prescribed<br />by my black marketeer, I'm a mere after-dark<br />sight for our revolution's children.<br />Aurora's explosions sprawl naked across<br />the wall, dreamlessly, in bourgeois fever<br /><br />trying to silence gunship blades echoing<br />from the Hazarajat right through to my pillows.<br />The unscreened view overlooks the dingy<br />proletarian neighbors, unauthorized residents,<br />and a tinkling factory, where obsolete radio<br /><br />parts are inefficiently manufactured by badly<br />motivated workers who over-scent the local Metro.<br />In the bitter dawn, poverty-stricken May Day<br />hero workers gather round the closed windows<br />of our privileged district, marching<br /><br />to the song of an infant poet, compelling<br />unsympathetic voices to show solidarity.<br />Were the pain of that night katyusha,<br />a great people's victory would be assured.<br />The unclad working class panorama would slam<br /><br />rusted doors on the promised land, ransack<br />determined belief from our official atheism.<br />I invite a young collectivist neighbor to join me<br />in a meal. We feed on each other's secret poetry,<br />drinking the communal smell of our voices<br /><br />in the candle's scarlet; unaligned, our bodies<br />soon form their own brethren ministry.<br />The flat was overheated with the neighbor,<br />our bodies calling for vodka, the floor our towel.<br />He leaves in the morning, but occupies my mind<br /><br />like a liberating people. I evade my soft job<br />and picnic alone in the Gor'kiy, realizing<br />the neighboring fantasy is a careless footfall<br />down a crooked staircase. I know each naked<br />picture is a counter-revolutionary flight<br /><br />of relentlessly westward steps no trial<br />will slow. Somehow my frightened tears remain<br />hidden until I reach my building and find him<br />waiting for me in my mailbox. Our bodies<br />take an exploitive angle under the aristocratic<br /><br />slump in the wall, covered with the newly-unclassified<br />pictorial potpourri depicting the State secret<br />of my love's childhood, from the Masurian Lakes<br />to the Pripet Marshes. We begin to read hundreds<br />of official pages, thousands of approved words,<br /><br />medal-winning chapters of caged images put down<br />on pages torn from the closed eyes of my young<br />neighbor, down on the brown Tajik carpeting.<br />With conspiratorial pride, I lie beside him<br />and gaze up at the colorful Sputniks looming<br /><br />over our conversation. I then lie even more,<br />to the watchers, to the listeners, and to myself,<br />over and over, lying about love in general, and<br />this, my unapproved, underground love, in particular.<br />I feel every inch of our joined bodies being<br /><br />faithfully documented by Sinyavsky and Daniel;<br />when my young neighbor finally falls asleep,<br />I chronicle this obscurantist passion of ours<br />in a small notebook autographed by hero-poet<br />Zhenia. The following weekend, we eat unshelled<br /><br />Cuban peanuts and drink post-colonial African beer.<br />We do each other's banned homework between<br />our committee's approved texts. We crash<br />down aging Tsarist staircases to dissent,<br />and crash back up with medal-winning heroism.<br /><br />We rest inside our bedded gulag, a mutual blasphemy<br />one great, unobeyed ukase, our traitorous lie<br />as yet unpunished in any Sibirskoye labor camp.<br />Over morning tea and bread, I muster the courage<br />to send my unclothed chronicles to another<br /><br />confidential friend at one of the State<br />publishing houses. Weeks later, Zhenia himself<br />mails us a precocious reflection of my young<br />neighbor and I. We read the dangerously human<br />verse over and over until our tears overcome us.<br /><br />With Shostakovich candle-lit in the certainty<br />of the background, we intrude in each other's body,<br />spending the Decembrist night in a mutual unlight.<br />Waking, without the poetry of freedom,<br />a distressingly human-like tear<br /><br />fell from my eyes, drowning the sight<br />of my loved one, a brother poet steeped<br />in our mutual mother, this holy Russia.<br />Like a greedy litter, we clamor for her<br />drooping breasts, warm with the blood<br /><br />of anonymous masses, sweet with the milk<br />of our masters, our dirty hands and uneven<br />teeth pulling, sucking and wailing as we<br />maneuver for more. Without our sleeping mother,<br />life is a rocky Baltic crag, a cold memorial<br /><br />wind-swept with the adolescent mysteries<br />of a million Petersburg call-boys. I met<br />one such prostitute, a glorious people's<br />achievement, along one of the Neva's<br />crumbling bridges. Our speculative rapture<br /><br />was realist art, elation enough to arrange<br />the next debased sunset, a falling curtain<br />of scarlet irony we and the State could take<br />enormous pride in. At our bus stop,<br />the exploding babushkas cast icicles at us<br /><br />standing among them, naked in the March frost,<br />dispassionately knowing we so irregular<br />are but a pogrom away from baby Jesus.<br />Our continuing humiliated childhood was a village apart,<br />not on the maps, burned to the ground<br /><br />in some battle no one remembers; its ashes<br />burn my feet as I inspect a gravesite,<br />accompanied by another Komsomol hustler,<br />who was very thorough in his feigned mourning.<br />I think my tears made damp white imprints<br /><br />in the snow, but Komsomol wiped them clean,<br />and progressed to my heart: "Death is still<br />far off," he whispered, making me believe him<br />with committee-scripted words made of kisses,<br />and the even more terrible policies of his body.<br /><br />The early illusion of our beautiful slander<br />took place, down in the Karelian pine needles,<br />unwatched and unremarked on by the passing animals,<br />cryptic time, or police surveillance; back<br />in the city, watching an arrest sidled me with fear.<br /><br />Returning to my neighborless apartment gave me fatigue.<br />That night, less the Boyar, I slept alone, in a tomb<br />of my genetics and the misfortune of my metaphysics.<br />Like those lads I rent, these sensual stretches<br />come and go, withdrawn from the front by bumbling<br /><br />generalship of my warmth; how ashamed one is,<br />alone in a train station lobby with censored<br />newspapers and Kazak cigarettes, counting<br />boys as if they were a marshal's medals,<br />waiting for sealed traina to make me older<br /><br />and better versed. I can imagine the fear,<br />coming to the hero's cemetery to bid adieu<br />to sullen dreams of the wounded.<br />Our envious, old friends, Vulcan's cannon-fodder,<br />twisted needles in the hellish, Teutonic haystack<br /><br />created whole rivers of spilt blood for our uncle,<br />promising drink to the parched livestock on the<br />edge of our Muscovite homeland. I congratulate<br />the kulaks, who now part with us. In their small,<br />untroubled villages, they are famous, but outside,<br /><br />they are the very season of grey<br />that make the passage of depressing hours<br />knock trustfulness from my soul, because<br />my bureau knows, gloomily, they are the next<br />meal for the terrible steel.<br /><br />My traitorous westward letter was a lament<br />for my imprisoned, naked brothers. Like<br />a reminder of a sobbing infant, stripped<br />and always in danger, their sweet light<br />died in the marble hall, under orders,<br /><br />at once, at first light - unfit, unpatriotic,<br />and unrequited, my queer brethren die, lying<br />to the young about youth, lying to the liars<br />about the lie. I've been reading how such pure<br />blood falls apart. All of Moscow believed it,<br /><br />but stayed mute, strange to the demolished<br />church of our lost Israel, our family's<br />wandering pastels lost in the gilt edges<br />of the apostolic icons squirrled away<br />in the rain-soaked timber of the Dnieper,<br /><br />for children who might choose to pray<br />in the post-nuclear future. Despite<br />the danger, Komsomol kept calling me.<br />He kept coming to the Ministry, coming<br />every night in the laughable safety of my arms.<br /><br />As a bad joke cracked over our last cigarette,<br />I asked for every one of my roubles back.<br />Without his usual street-ridden suspicion,<br />Komsomol produced them from his pants. He<br />rolled the notes into an exotic surrogate cigarette,<br /><br />which we smoked after kissing through our laughter.<br />Komsomol wanted a honeymoon, but insisted it be kept<br />secret. Night licked the fires in my heart silent<br />believe me, not every love sprouts love - sometimes,<br />it just comes, like frozen breath on the train<br /><br />coach window as the Finnish frontier was passed,<br />and we made love for the first time,<br />liberated and admitted into each other.<br />Komsomol's young, white body was a laid-back shore<br />that let me sweep over it, wave by wave,<br /><br />with the dark green and grey depths of my uniform<br />surging behind, a grim threat to the sand castles<br />crumbling around the edges near his soul.<br />For troubled weeks, we rustled beneath the quilts<br />of a disappeared comrade's dacha bed, like Gogol,<br /><br />gnawing into the boy until we became one.<br />The subway was really talking now. The saliva<br />had frozen on our lips and made them red;<br />We had put each other's overcoats on,<br />making a bad match. Our fur hats were neither<br /><br />stylish nor very impressive; until the Zil<br />limousine came to fetch us home, back<br />to Dzerzhinsky Square, the crowd's sniggering<br />gave off smoke in its derision. Their subsequent<br />silence made the ensuing poetry of our whispers<br /><br />more expressive, hiding in the black leather<br />luxury of the car. Each of our fingers were cold<br />until we wrapped them up and satisfied the last<br />side street we hadn't explored. Weeks would pass<br />until we could make unofficial love again,<br /><br />on another train, perhaps this time unsealed,<br />to Prague, to read poetry under the Charles Bridge,<br />to feed on each other's appetite against the Hunger Wall.<br />The mere mention of Bohemia reduces Komsomol to a swoon.<br />Light died in the winter we called ours. Something<br /><br />dangerous whispered, 'Give thanks for your tears,'<br />before the daylight fell to pieces. The bellow<br />of roaring tanks masked the cursed saltwater<br />flowing from our bridegroom eyes, our cross<br />of solitudes. In no time at all, the country<br /><br />house was re-assigned to State servants<br />of better record and higher quality.<br />Our feeble hearts were reduced to a provisional strike.<br />The garden's yellow flowers held fast in solidarity,<br />but official censure soon put that to an end.<br /><br />All we had left were the kind ringing of the icicles<br />that were once thrown at us with motherly love,<br />their delicate, dissident chimes our only friend,<br />their carillon lulling us to obedient sleep<br />despite the nonconformity of our frigid bodies.<br /><br />The twentieth century sun bathed luxuriously<br />over our garden ice, making the snow glisten<br />like a collective growing diamonds instead of wheat.<br />Memories of the city disappeared under the skin<br />of the eternal ice and into the gentle white night<br /><br />that walked past our private gulag,<br />making Komsomol whimper in captive despair.<br />What a rude sobering the spring is. Bewitched<br />by solicitous fathers' guiding, their advice<br />leaking like sewage from a clover field.<br /><br />Dwarf birches have begun to blossom<br />through the cracks in our bedroom window.<br />Komsomol is very quiet these days, cast off from<br />his fellows in the cosmopolitan train stations.<br />He still writes a contented poem to me every day,<br /><br />like Osip, hides it in my lunch for safe-keeping.<br />Something about our silent, two-comrade Soviet<br />is brave, yet, we are betrayed. We live, and are alive.<br />We are completely free, but, even together,<br />we are without joy in the falling seasons.<br /><br />...by <strong><span style="color:#993399;"><em>Adam Henry Carriere</em></span></strong>Adam Henry Carrièrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05446586857201169114noreply@blogger.com0