Titania's blog

 She stands offstage,

viola held gently in hand,

waiting. Read more »

The Set-up

I don’t go to a school for magic. I don’t go to a fancy prep school where vampires may or may not hang out. I don’t even go to a regular old school where, suddenly, strange things start happening.

The first installment of The Lord of the Rings series, that hallowed entity of the fantasy novel, begins its first chapter unexceptionably (following a rather lengthy prologue on the history of hobbits and the finding of the One Ring). In fact, you would almost expect the first sentence—“When Mr. Bilbo Baggins of Bag End announced that he would shortly be celebrating his eleventy-first birthday with a party of special magnificence, there was much talk and excitement in Hobbiton”—to be in a grammar book giving the example of “Basic Sentence Structure”—but it does not lack promise. To begin with a party, as this story does, simultaneously shows off the nature of the characters, and introduces you to them all at once, so you don’t have to go through dreary chance meetings on the road or at the post office. Tolkien, I noticed, though filling his pages with words, filled just as many hypothetical pages with what he didn’t say, or said halfway and left you to take the rest of the way. For instance, he states very clearly that hobbits never fight, are not violent, and are (almost) always good-natured. And yet as the narration that takes place in the Shire floats on, we learn of Brandybuck hobbits, with their “queer ways,” and the Sackville-Bagginses, the grasping, greedy natures of whom leads other hobbits to duck into hedges when they see them coming. From the beginning, you learn not to take the winding words of Tolkien for granted. Read more »

Gershwin.mp3

This is me playing Gershwin's first prelude in B-flat Major.

Chopin.mp3

This is me playing Chopin's Aeolian Harp Etude, in A-flat Major.

If I were to sum up Halloween in a haiku, I wouldn’t say: Read more »

Tall, shades, formal dress,
he cradles his violin
tempting out a song.

UU 4.MP3

Dangerous,
low,
mysterious,
melting
into innocent melody.
If I close my eyes,
I forget my surroundings,
hear only the song
drawn by bows
with such pure beauty.
The danger returns,
pounding heartbeat beneath
sorrowful refrain--
and then it is past,
forgotten,
lost in the soaring
flight of birds
and calming
whisper of wind.

(This is meant to be like a wandering minstrel's song, entertaining for coins)

Hear this poem for a song,
get it while it’s sweet,
it tells a tale of grace and courage
but mostly fingers fleet.

Three performers on the stage,
as one through melody
which tells a tale of summer light
and tranquility.

In this my modern bardic lay
I speak of the Variations
and the beauty they bring,
on piano or string;
soft inspiration.

The figure stood, dark against the sunlight. The harsh heath wind tried unsuccessfully to budge him, biting and nudging like an impatient sheepdog, but the man took no notice. On the other side of the hill, his car sat silently on the dirt track, sad and rusted from long years of use.

It was still early, and though the farmers had undoubtedly been at work below for many hours, alone on the rocky hill, the man could see no other living thing. Read more »

Prologue

Light ahead, dark behind,
Flowers in the wood divine,
Pattering footsteps drawing near,
The owner is as yet unclear.

I

Chestnut hair, a mask-like smile,
Temptation’s kiss—accept the trial!
Surely danger stays at bay
On a sunlit day in early May!

II

Glitter of armor, a high chanticleer,
Excalibur can’t save the fools who won’t hear.
The gasp of a maiden, who’s afraid for her knight,
The face of a man who knows he must fight.

III

High on a hilltop, the laughter is ringing:
Temptation’s slick voice cause the birds to stop singing, Read more »

Feathered flakes of snow adrift,
On the frosted land,
Silencing every echo with
An icy, numbing hand.

A crystal in the window makes
Rainbows shining bright,
While warmth from the old fireplace
Comforts with flickering light.

Birds have long departed,
Though not the stolid crow,
Who croaks atop a barren tree
That whispers of its woe.

Above the silent, frozen land,
Above where fires hiss,
Above the lonesome, lingering crow,
The sun bends down and gives the hills
A gentle, silent kiss.

I watch
and listen,
taking in the flowers,
the audience around me,
the musicians on the stage;
she with the flowing dress,
he with the midnight suit,
and on the piano lies
the music for the song,
with one page bent
like a broken wing,
creased from rapid turning,
so oddly poetic in its imperfection,
among the beauty elsewhere.

Snatches of words
drift by,
cadences not unlike
music
with the roar
of the ocean
made by voices beneath,
swelling and falling,
stopping
in surprise
as the lights soften,
and return to full brilliancy:
the sign for silence.

Inspire: (verb) fill someone with the urge to do something, especially to do something creative. ORIGIN: Middle English enspire , from Old French inspirer , from Latin inspirare ‘breath or blow into,’ from in - ‘into’ + spirare ‘breathe.’ The word was originally used of a divine or supernatural being, in the sense [impart a truth or idea to someone.] Read more »

The recurring theme was so heartbreakingly beautiful, I wanted to cry. Coupled with the almost comically dancing melodies, the music left me in wonder that anything could be so fantastically varied, all in one space and time. Surely no man or woman, genius or not, could create such a thing? The cello, with its achingly sad, lovely song; the violin, sweeping through the air in such a way that I catch my breath and yearn to listen forever; the piano rolling thundering chords and notes flowing like a waterfall. Read more »

( before a Dvorak Dumky rehearsal )

The music
as the trio
warms up--
one song,
three musicians,
separate places,
different sounds--
not meant to be together,
but
so beautiful.
It lasts only
a moment before
they stop, and
begin to rehearse
as one.

The contrast
as they walk onstage:
black
with the
rose,
the turquoise,
carrying nothing
or
the cello,
the violin,
held
like a partner
to a dance.
Settling, comforting
the nervous
tremors
of their instruments.

The violinist
plays like
a madman,
his arm
a blur of speed,
the music
shrieking
to escape.

The singer stares
beyond the audience,
her eyes alight
with some
secret knowledge.

The cellist
crouches
over the notes,
nurturing them
and
helping them to fly.

The pianist
forms each precious
note
like a jeweler;
each gem and design
shaped Read more »

No one in the room
but I,
the piano
and the flowers
and the rows of empty seats,
the shining of the stage
and the sunlight through the window.
In the absence of music,
and the absence of hurry,
I am in a place
outside of time,
when words have no meaning,
and when even movement
is slowed.
There is a feeling
of being underwater;
that quietness all around
and the feeling of being perfectly
Alone.
It takes so little
to break the spell,
though for a moment
it resists,
like
a bedewed spiderweb,
and then it snaps:
a person enter.

Time returns.

Sharp horror in song,
Sadness too deep to be real,
Falling to darkness.

I remember the woman
standing in the hall,
a smile on her face;
so human.

But now,
that image doesn't match
with this ethereal being
on the stage, glittering--
beautiful,
her voice like silver gossamer,
filling everything with its brilliance,
twining with the notes of the piano,
the two teasing each other
to greater beauty and sound.

( inspired by Messiaen's premier concert of "For the End of Time," performed in a Nazi prison )

What fateful day,
when time stood still,
and nothingness formed
in an abyss of death.

What fateful day,
when rain fell down,
and music played
in a courtyard of cold,
and guards looked on,
and breath froze in the air.

What fateful day,
so far from now,
so near to tomorrow:
impending doom and falling darkness.

What fateful day,
when sorrow and hope are words
too mild, when the only ones
to hear are those keeping you in
and those fighting to get out. Read more »

( Inspired by the Kurtag Hommage )

He raises the
Stick,
With the cotton
Wrap,
Lets it
Fall
Against the taut
Drum
The vibrations
Shaking
The room,
Resounding
Through the hall,
Echoing
Off the windows
Falling
Into silence.

( Inspired by the Kurtag Hommage )
They sit
In sudden silence;
The silence that
Anticipating fingers make
Between songs,
The silence of
Four musicians
Breathing in,
The silence
Of stretching arms,
The silence
Of softly turned pages,
The silence
Of both before
And after
A storm,
The silence
Never heard in
A concert,
And so
The most special
--And the most fleeting.

With a sharp
Deepening of quiet
As all sound
Disappears,
It is gone.

The lights dim, the rustle of programs chasing each other into silence. There is a moment when the stage lies patiently, empty of people, looking for all the world like an altar to the deity of music, the flowers framing the shimmering piano. Then the applause begins, and the musicians enter. There is a moment as they settle, the applause reluctant to die. Then, when again the hall has filled itself with silence, the music, like fine sand poured into a glass of water, swirls down and around. Read more »

There beside the wall,
Watching the musicians play,
The boy is standing.

The raised piano
Lid--
Reflecting
The intricate
Beauty
Of the interior--
The gold
Bars,
Red
Velveteen cushions,
The lengths
Of strings,
Like
A loom,
Weaving
The bright colors
Of sound,
And beauty,
And emotion
Into the
Ever changing scarf
Of music.

She sat alone
On the stage,
Listening
Intently
To the clicks
And chattering
Of the metronome,
Playing
Notes in
Counterpoint,
Shaking
Her head,
Changing
The setting:
Not quite
Perfect.