Titania's blog

                    She walked upon her daily tread

               through leaves so crumpled, color fled,

that, as is oft' the case, I find,

it seemed another went behind.

She walked along with double shades:

the crunching and the sunless maids,

and listened to the earth as sleep

preceded where the snow would creep.

Her crunching shadow paused its step

(to watch the mountain range reflect

the sky, as turquoise as the sea),

and, mirrored stillness, so did she.

The leaves have lost their lustre now,

the summer birds have ceased their row,

the time for change of hands has come:

the fall towards rest, the winter from.

She saw another woman go, Read more »

                    Winter teases with frosty nights,

        gardens shrink in October blights,

this month of them all is cruel

to take the leaves and warm air, too.

And yet when sunlight pinks a cloud,

or morning mist calm lakes enshroud,

this month of all is sweet, it seems,

a time for peace--a time for dreams.

And if you feel the wind's cold bite,

then face the sun, still warm and bright.

and if at dusk the color fades,

then watch the sky, alive with shades.

This month of them all is dear,

this month, most, is calm and clear,

as empty trees bring forth to light

the scenes two seasons hid from sight,

and find, each morning, that the grass

has, fairy-touched, turned into glass.

For all these things and more I stay Read more »

I feel the echoes of performers past,

who have sat and bent their heads

to better hear the music.

I feel the pause each person takes—

that extra silence

of an indrawn breath—

as he, too, waits

for the music to come.

Teardrop notes

shivering on the cusp of realization,

long fingers drawing patterns

on the ivory stepping-stones,

pathways of sound.

Morning light and contemplative music warms the air.

Are you afraid to speak,

afraid to beak the spell?

Can you feel the spirits of a thousand audiences

watching from these seats,

conjured by the music?

Words. Taste them on your tongue, like the sweetest fruit or a cool stream to a parched throat. Say one, and listen to it flower in the air, branching into a thousand thousand possibilities, waiting to be discovered.

Books. A homey word, welcoming and dusty, the gate to more words than can ever be counted, the key to the lands that could otherwise never be discovered. Words have the power to briefly show something more, something beyond everyday life, allowing smells and sounds, thoughts, feelings, taste and touch and everything in between to flourish as can never happen anywhere besides in a book.

Bard. It calls to mind a young, handsome man, with a gittern in hand and a song or story on his lips, a medieval court eagerly hanging on his every word. The smell of roasting meat and the sound of an old hunting dog scratching fleas, a soft cough in the background, loud, but not loud enough to break the spell of the tale. You have just participated in the power of words.

An author is the tamer of words, coaxing them to form sentences and release the magic they possess to any who wish to witness it. To set them a tune and watch them dance to it, each step unleashing the power, raw and eager to be caught and set into a page, where black and white disguise something far, far more wonderful.

This is the power of words.

Inspired by the Schumann Piano Quartet in Eb Major, 3rd Movement

This is the scene of goodbye.

Wartime, tragedy,

who knows the cause?

They part,

and the music plays on,

swelling as the distance grows.

She stands alone,

remembering the dances,

the sunsets,

the smile in his eyes:

she remembers sunny days.

For it must be raining

as he trudges away,

bent with the weight of his pack:

the window must run with tears

to match her ashen cheeks.

Their passion is spoken in song,

for this scene needs no words

as she stands and watches

long after he is out of sight.

And then,

slowly and gently,

fade to black.

Inspired by Joan Tower's Cavany Piano Trio

Standing on a cliff

high above the sea,

seagull cries

far below,

teasing wind

pulling at my clothes

as I pause,

a listening statue.

I hear the whispers

of gossiping grasses

and the roaring

of ancient ocean waters.

Here is the history:

here I feel the weight

of centuries,

of battles and shipwrecks

and mysteries unknown.

Here the air carries

silence as well as sound,

silence that lifts you

and pulls you

and fills you

with wordless emotion

as past and future

blends

in timeless sound.

                Growing waves

capped with foam,

the first of the signs

in the deepening gloam;

shattered clouds gather once more,

darkened with hate

and waiting to pour,

grudging the aid

of the scourging wind

who often had played

his malice-filled games.

At last the tempest

lights the sky

with a challenging flash

and rumbling cry—

terrified

the seabirds fly

from the wrath

of the gathering storm.

Elegance bows her head,

accepting the hand

 of trilling Grace.

light-hearted song,

leaping joyfully

Gently, calmly

they step,

central to all eyes.

slowing now,

a new dance.

Moonlight casts her torch

to show the way,

lost in thought of parting Sunset.

Quickening again,

righteous phrase.

Now truly it has begun:

the dancers join the lovers

and laughter catches in bending trees.

Ending now,

Silence takes her bow.

My day with Frank Glazer was full of smiles when he was speaking, and delight when he was playing. From the moment I met him, I marveled at the energy and life that can be in one person.

     I was introduced to Mr. Glazer at the Lake Champlain Chamber Music Festival, where I was blogging for the Young Writers Project: sitting in on rehearsals, attending concerts, and writing poems and prose inspired by what I saw and heard. He is the uncle of the founder of YWP, and I had heard many things about his piano playing long before that day. But when I slipped into the concert hall and sat amid the hush and beauty of the Pathétique second movement, I heard for myself the sheer love and joy that he puts into every piece he plays.

     After that rehearsal, I asked him how he kept his love for music fresh. I was especially interested in his answer because, as a piano student, I have encountered that problem. He told me that he played many different pieces, all of different textures—not only romantic, for instance—and strove to never take his moods out on his pieces: “If you are lethargic when you begin to practice Mozart, don’t impose your lethargy onto his music, but let his music wake you up!” Read more »

       Golden sandals flutter,

hovering,

perching,

softening sound with pecks of pedal.

Glittering reflections spark

in the shadows,

flaming trails

of passionate sound.

Pendulum patterns

smooth the stage

as energy pools

for resounding chords.

Her feet

touch

the ground.

This poem was inspired by Frank Glazer's pre-concert rehearsal

I feel the echoes of performers past,

who have sat and bent their heads

to better hear the music.

I feel the pause each person takes—

that extra silence

of an indrawn breath—

as he, too, waits

for the music to come.

Teardrop notes

shivering on the cusp of realization,

long fingers drawing patterns

on the ivory stepping-stones,

pathways of sound.

Morning light and contemplative music warms the air.

Are you afraid to speak,

afraid to beak the spell?

Can you feel the spirits of a thousand audiences

watching from these seats,

conjured by the music?

This poem was inspired by Frank Glazer's performance of Chopin's Ballade No.1 in g minor

And so the story has started.

Listen if you dare, my children,

for it is not for the faint-hearted.

Maidens shall weep

and heroes shall fight,

and tempests shall rage

in the dead of the night.

And when all seems calm,

and the gods of the morning

have brought on the dawn,

the battle shall start

with the fanfare of kings,

but the doves of peace

shall at last be released

to fly on ivory wings.

This poem was inspired by Frank Glazer's performance of Chopin's Mazurka in A minor, Opus 17 No. 4

Aching chords,

so simple,

so quiet,

so painful.

Extensions and modulations

drawing out each moment,

changing moods with each touch.

This poem was inspired by Frank Glazer's performance of Beethoven's Pathétique Sonata

Gentle voices,

gentle like birds’ wings,

dancing tones

so full of life,

trilling, falling, racing.

Do you see their smiles?

Do you see their eyes

closed in contemplation

or raised to take it all in?

Picture this

and you are there—

all the love that can be held

in a single note,

softly flowing

once more

into dancing tones.

I first learned about the Young Writers Project nearly three years ago, the first year that it joined the Lake Champlain Chamber Music Festival. Encouraged by my sister, who had been a member on the site for a few months, I joined YWP and wrote my first poems on the site throughout a week immersed in music from Schubert to Bach, Dvorak to Mendelssohn. It was an amazing and unique experience, meeting and interviewing professional musicians and listening to the behind-the-scenes rehearsals (which never fail to be as interesting as the performances themselves). I wrote non-stop for that entire week, pouring out ideas and filling a hitherto-empty blog with pages of poem and prose. It was the first time any of my work had been published, and now it was not only being published on the walls of the concert hall, but also printed in newspapers and read at the breakfast table by the very musicians I was writing about.

I have returned each year to the music festival, each year meeting new musicians and hearing new music. Of all the moments on YWP, this one, the first, I remember the best. It connected two artistic ideas and turned it into an unforgettable time.

Kilkarkee Fair.mp3

One day as I travelled to Kilkarkee Fair
I stopped in a town, I’m forgetting just where,
and there I set eyes on a lassie so fine
I swore on the instant that I’d make her mine.

She sat on the stones on the rim of a well,
and her spun-fire hair past her shoulders it fell.
Her statuesque face was tipped down to the ground
but her eyes they looked up until mine they had found.

I followed her out of the town to the wood,
yet I never could find just the place where she stood,
‘till I settled me down by a pool cool and clear,
exhausted and certain that she was not near.

Then softly and cat-like she stole from the trees
with a beauty so stunning I’d be brought to my knees
(had I not yet been sitting all lost in my dreams,
and watching new starlight spark watery gleams).

She bent down and kissed me and gave me her hand,
she promised me riches as prince of her land,
and soon did I learn that you never say nay
when you’re given a choice by the Queen of the Fey.

Seven years passed in the Court of the Faerie,
and in each passing year I grew ever more wary,
for only so long can a mortal be caught
in the weavings of moonbeams and magic and thought. Read more »

 (This poem was inspired by feeding my chickens, of all things. It was November, and a storm was brewing as I threw the scratch to them, most of which simply blew back on me. The rest of the poem grew with the clouds on the way home).

November storms

of wind, not rain—

things released

are things returned.

Four cloudy steeds traverse the skies

with silver hides Read more »

Miles Davis Quintet 1967 Pee Wee.mp3

That last leaf I told you about?

She lost the bet, she fell,

invisible hands plucked her from her branch.

Remember the pond I described?

The ice has stilled it—

no wind can bother it now,

it can rest for a season.

The colors have given way

to the next step,

the crystaline white, you know. Read more »

(Another poem written at Reuben Jackson's workshop. This was inspired by a clip that Miles Davis later incorporated into a longer song. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YSa5CO2cu-c   )

Winding down for the night

—or morning rather,

with that special grey-white tint

above the alley out back

where the boys rest their

aching lips, fingers still playing Read more »

(This is another poem I wrote at a Reuben Jackson workshop, inspired by the song "La Plus Belle Africaine" by Duke Ellington. Here is the link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=45B6jcabaDg  )

Tribal flavor leads

and misleads,

surprising and random,

until the message is heard

and synchronicity steadies the flow

into the unanimous separation

of each leaping beat Read more »

(This is a poem inspired by "Blackthorn Rose", by Weather Report. I wrote this at a local writing workshop with Reuben Jackson, who also did a workshop at YWP Headquarters. Here is the link to the original piece. It might be neat if YWPers write their own take on it after listening! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=slF5TD7frBA)

Gently caressing

sweet curling dark hair,

deceptive dish of hidden delights, Read more »

(A poem my sister sent me for my sixteenth birthday)

There's sweetness in the air

and crispness in the breeze,

a fire in the foliage,

and whispers of first freeze.

The pumpkins beg to be carved,

the apples to be baked,

the garden to be harvested,

the fallen leaves to be raked. Read more »

How is it possible?

The trills melt from her bow,

effortless,

the bow deceptive

as it glides smoothly,

almost serenely,

while her long fingers step-dance

with frenzied,

precise movements.

  Read more »

I

I watch the six faces, changed and yet the same since the morning’s rehearsal: no crossed legs, no pauses for adjustment, only the gift of music, placed into our minds as though each of us was chosen individually, and this blessing of phrase is intended for only my ears.

     Something in the first movement is like a sunrise, rising full of color to light the bustle and variety of life below—markets and mansions, lords and laymen.

  Read more »

The trick with writing words from music is not creation, but translation. How can I convey the piece in anything but notes? How do I describe something I hear so well to someone who hears only my words?

  Read more »

I love how one thing can change so much: one half-step changes a dangerous, swirling danse macabre into a bright ballroom serenade. One repeated note on a viola echoes a racing heartbeat, and even in the ballroom you cannot relax; you know, in your heart of hearts, that the macabre is not over, that this serenade is instead a masquerade, and midnight approaches. Read more »

Simple, sweet line

passed lightly from one instrument to the next

like a greeting among friends.

Concerted, flowing, coy and coquettish—

a dance of favors.

Poet’s voice—

slow and tranquil—

holds the room in silence—

pleasant and listening—

applause rustles

like a forest in an autumn wind.

  Read more »

And so—

it has begun.

Once more in the hall,

watching this which I have seen from its start,

two years ago on this self-same bench,

watching the familiar people gather.

  Read more »

She stands encircled,

voice dancing with violin,

her love shown in song.

  Read more »