lccmf12

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.

The technicalities of music
evade me,
slip past me like
small children running out
the back door, bitter wind sliding
through the front door,
cracks all empty and unbarred,
the heavy things, the careful things
getting by.

And all the fortes and the
fugues sit next to me, sit beside me
but not within me, not a part
of me that I can candy-floss pull out
and bit-by-bit explain to you,
decipher for you. I do not know
which chord fits best, what the measure
is or how the man with piano-
beat blood presses keys only
three-quarters down, lifts his hands off
rapidly to spin a sound
that I can't tell
is different.

But I am caught up in you saying
that a singer stretches out her syllables
like taffy, hands all gripped and words all
gripped and I am taken with you
saying that small,
intricate changes can be felt as
big events, lofty switches and
that hits a note within me

more, as the violinist cradling
her instrument tucked up
to her chin with such a cautious,
coddling care that you wonder
how do all people not breathe music
clean and effortless
like air.

Schumann's Piano Quartet in E-flat Major---Andante.  

Paris in the riveting spring,

cherry blossoms fluttering above stone-façade buildings,

the air breathes Schumann’s andante.

Street artists who paint to the inspiration of the glistening cello,

wanderers who are as self-effacing as the viola, 

lovers who sing zealously above the Seine like the wide 

violin vibratos.  

On cast iron bridges above undulating waves,

locks guard the past,

timeless love swathes wooden railings,

and footsteps in the form of silvery keys

connect stars.  

A lulling melody

like the city itself,

makes us wistful for the golden days,

aching for amour, 

yet momentarily content.  

And it eases along, Read more »

I have this theory 

that a musician is most 

beautiful

in his or her moments of playing,

most vulnerable to being

loved when the world

momentarily escapes

them

and they live vicariously

through their 

music.

Sophie Shao is a 

warrior 

who raises the hem of her 

ink-pattern dress

inches above her ankles in battle,

a strong-willed woman who

 glows in the blaze.

Jeewon Park, 

the woman with the 

mahogany-tinted

dancing curls, 

is a dancer who Read more »

Bach Gamba Sonata in D Major---Adagio

He is a boy of 10 years, more or less.

The music coddles his spine

as if to straighten it. 

He swings his legs sweetly to the cello.

The adagio makes him restless,

a juxtaposition.

Next to him, a man of 70 or so 

looks at the boy skeptically.

His shoulders drop with a heaving breath,

eyes close.

I wonder if the music lulls him to a blissful

sleep, 

or if the sinews of his heart are tugged.

In the corridor, 

a concert pianist is dazed--

his eyes delineate the back wall,

in conjunction with the ticking metronome.

He hoists himself on the tip of his toes,

drawn by the uplifting blend of the piano 

and cello,

only to fall on the balls of his heels. Read more »

Do you know how to hush a crowd of buzzing people? You play a piano so coolly and so fiercely, still, that it grabs at their words and laces them away, into the keys, a terrific quieting and leveling of a room now still, now poised and listening. Waiting to follow as you lead them sharp and major and minor and through it all, a part of it all. You play a piano with hands that know the instrument as lovers know one another's bodies and as the water pulls at its shorelines, sands all crenellated, all torn and jagged and all edges and yet still the core, still so very whole. Hands that know the instrument intimately, passionately, a tempered sort of seduction and manipulation that's been decades in the making.

Do you know how to hold them there? Keep them listening, I mean. Keep them entwined in your music and your rhythm and keep them nodding their heads along with yours, their wrists and chests and necks feeling your pulse, too. After a performance that was haunting in the best way, gripping in the best way, I can tell you that Frank Glazer knows. I can tell you that 97-year-old Frank Glazer has in him a piano beat that's measured and lined itself up along his own beats, his own rhythm, and that now they are one and are placed on a stage only to show people the sort of concord and companionship that happens when you hold together two lovely things for long enough.

(Granted that one of these things is an extraordinarily gifted man with music in his veins, a man so full of commitment it's bursting at the seams, of course.)

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.

The 2012 Lake Champlain Chamber Music Festival, the fourth year of the 10-day event, was a big success -- good crowds, remarkable music and fantastic conversation with the musicians. My thanks to all the YWP writers who participated. Your words added greatly to the event -- and were enjoyed by musicians and audience alike. 

Nearly a dozen YWP writers participated. You should take a read of what they wrote by clicking the keyword lccmf12.

To see what writers have done in the past,  check out the LCCMF09,  LCCMF10 and LCCMF11 blogs.

And a special thanks to all the musicians who not only performed at world-class level but showed remarkable courtesy and interest in all the writers who participated.

geoff

Curved yet with edges

Sitting above the celllo

A majestic head

                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.

No rest for the weary souls

Only stands the test of time

From Grandfather clock, a chime

Death fines them a heavy toll

Chorus:

Silent breath to hold the peace

Strong hands to steady the blow

A wailing cry breaks silence

Pandora’s evils alone know

The brothers: preaching sermon

The sisters: a stone cold tear

And the child will wonder

Why beloved ones aren’t here

Chorus:

Silent breath to hold the peace

Strong hands to steady the blow

A wailing cry breaks silence

Pandora’s evils alone know*

Still, the morning sky is blue

And birds trill a fluty tune

Their lovely bright rhapsody

To heavenly births anew

Bridge:

Too many people have died

To let pass one death more

In many futile wars

Or on the turning tides.

When the weary souls have gone

The world spinning, spinning on

Like a child’s plastic top

Fueled by love and hate along

Chorus:

Silent breath to hold the peace

Strong hands to steady the blow

A wailing cry breaks silence

Pandora’s evils alone know*

-Voice in the wilderness

Running                                  running                        running            slowing           to a STOP

His body gushing with adrenaline

                        As his heart goes a-thumpa-thump-a-thumpa-thump     a   thump          a    thump                           a thump

Slowing calming back to the smooth lake surface

His heart   s    l    o    w    s   to the drippings of amber syrup, yet he still catches the odd syncopated rasps of his breath

                                    Striving to gather the air, like water to a man in the desert     Read more »

Before tonight, I never loved the bass.  

On this summer evening, 

its ground-shaking existence 

pulls me off of my feet.  

While the others are like 

sweet honey 

amalgamating into heart-wrenching harmonies, 

the bassist has a fury he channels in every 

stroke of the bow, 

a dominating march that contrasts with the glide of the violin.  

There is a permanent furrow in his brow---

he expresses the zeal of the music, 

leaves a scathing imprint on Mozart’s score.  

Even his final smile is tinted with the ferocity of his playing, 

disparate from Soovin’s heartening beam,

but the bassist with the fiery passion

moves the listener in his own

unparalleled

ways.  

A lavender mist trails Jeewon on the low stage, remnants of her waterfall dress.  She walks to her island, a recluse, a wanderer, a forager who finds life in ivory keys.  The first note lingers in the air.  There is a ubiquitous sense of anticipation in the audience; it is an aching feeling, quite in its literal sense.  It brings to mind the clichéd “butterflies” from infantile days, the sensation that would arise from the illusion of “love,” yet it is more eloquent in this hall.  The next note hovers over a ledge, teased by gravity; the audience hears its evanescent cry.  Jeewon begins to reveal more of her story, tormenting the listener with her deceiving twists.  She channels a sort of anger that seeps through her fingertips.  The page turner is but an mirage on this island, a self-effacing keeper of time.  She nods emphatically as he moves on with time, her given approval for the future.  Yet, as the end advances, she ends abruptly, striking the audience with the swift silence.  The daisy she holds is a paradox; she is dissonance rather than a daisy.  But in the moments of acknowledgement, she is her own resolution, an impromptu finale that fulfills the story.  

Poem 1: Just the kind of poem that gives you a little window perspective of a person; sort of a introduction :)

I am from red boots

on a sunny day;

the bare wetness of my arms

in the rain

I am from aching hands,

and silver fingers

that hold the page steady

Read more »

This is the first interview piece I've ever done, so I would really appreciate feedback.

If you’ve been in much contact with musicians, you’ve undoubtedly met people who live their music; who say playing music is their passion. It is a rare thing, however, to meet someone whose passion is not just to live and play their music, but to completely understand it-to live inside it, so to speak. I had the good fortune of meeting one of these rare people recently. His name is Frank Glazer, and he is a professional pianist and teacher. He is ninety seven years old.

I walked into the Elly Long that afternoon to the not uncommon sound of someone playing the piano. As I began to watch the rehearsal, I was struck by the ease with which he moved between composers and styles, and his seeming mastery of every one. I’ve always thought it difficult to switch right from a Baroque piece to a Romantic one, but Frank jumped from Bach to Schubert while retaining the style and nuances of both composers completely.This is almost certainly due, in part, to the fact that he has no favorite composer. He says he’s not the type to pick favorites and never has been. 

  Read more »

The man onstage is not the only one

moving

A woman

taps the waltz beat on her thigh

a boy

moves his feet at the same petal beats

Uncontrollably

hands tap patters

fingers play along

heads nod in time

the audience and performer

move

as one

Think yourself not the audience

but a boat

in the sea of the music

rocking in 3:4 time with the waves

Departing slowly

and being

deposited gently

on the shore

only the man onstage

can see

*****

Can't decide if these are two different poems or contrasting halves of one poem. Thoughts?

If I could pay a chamber group to play Gabriella Smith’s “Brandenburg Interstices” in the morning when I wake up, my alarm clock would already be in a recycling center somewhere, being smushed into paint cans or lamp shades. Unfortunately the world is not a wish granting factory, and I do not have that luxury. I did have the luxury of hearing the piece performed. The man sitting in front of me jumped when the musicians first set free the potential energy of harmony waiting patiently in their strings into quivering, escalating, and yes, slightly clashy sound waves that filled the room with a kind of unadulterated power. Needless to say, the piece did not disappoint. Brandenburg Interstices is a medley of classic and modern, of the familiar and the brand new. The tempo of the movements flow from a quick pace, like a train going by, to a slow and reflective lull. But Brandenburg Interstices is one of the pieces that, somewhere along the line, grows a heart, a heart that pulsates through the entire piece, filling every note with a soul. Many listeners noticed the creative and unconventional sounds Gabriella Smith incorporated into the piece, such as pops on the keys of the flute and long wails on the violin that one man said were akin to humpback whale calls. Another said that it sounded like birds calling to one another. I thought they sounded like fireworks. Read more »

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.

Like a crimson silk thread

freed from a gypsygirl's dress,

the music dances.

The beat of fingertips

across the ebony board

like her bare feet on the rough wood floor.

The gypsygirl toys with the metronome,

teasing it to follow,

pulling it til it breaks

or at least gives in.

She dances with the music,

through the music,

across the notes and

scratched auburn wood of the fiddle

(whose notes dance likewise through the speakers

into the pale white room).

Pure walls now covered with

crimson silk thread and

bare feet;

across the room,

a man taps his feet in time with the gypsygirl.

inspired by The Art of the Violin, a documentary on great violinists.

To be both burdened and unburdened

by prodigious talent at the age of seven

is a thing entirely unimaginable to me.

Music conjuring and music releasing,

with a single stroke of a bow

the same vast emotion,

stretching taut the skin of

the tiny musician,

til music spilled from his

fingers and arms and soul,

cascading.

Wondering for a moment

if it is worth it to be burdened

in exchange for freedom

when the dance begins,

notes coaxed through the fingerboard

and through chattering speakers.

It is immediately understood that

this weight has had no effect on

Menuhin's youthful fingers,

if it even exists at all.

Inspired by Frank Glazer's performance of Bach's Toccata.

Two brothers dance side by side
shuffle-shuffling left and right
there's a song in their hearts telling them 
reach for the sky
so they let go of their doubts and begin the climb

The two set out with the wind at their backs
the sun urging them on as they follow the path
but halfway up the path loses its way 
the first brother pulls ahead and the second falls away
never do they truly part
but the clouds close over them and 
they can't remember
why they started
their fiery motivation
reduced to glowing ember
and they plod along so slowly now

As suddenly as they began, they appear in a clearing
it seems they're rewarded for their persevering
the second brother, who'd fallen behind
tips his face up and looks toward the sky
the clouds pass and the wood gets lighter
to his delight the path keeps winding higher
summit in sight, they take off at a run
greying cloudy spirits ignited with sun
and in their haste, they trip over one another
it's brother over brother over brother over brother
they become a rolling boil of scrabbling limbs
a race to the finish that neither will win

  Read more »

When I grow old

I want to be a concert hall

Always carrying music

filling my insides

bouncing out

of the windows of my soul.

My eyes will begin

to argue with my brain

and the two will grow slowly estranged

My ears will forget high pitches

lose their grasp on distant sounds

My voice will grow heavy

laden down with years of use

staggering slowly under the weight.

Still-

As long as my hands remain nimble

As long as my fingers can still move the keys

The music will spill out of my soul and cry out-

I am here!

I am alive!

The violin sits

surrounded by cobalt velour

it seems to whisper with promise

the bridge

dusted with rosin as though a flurry of snow had quickly passed

the strings 

taut and ruler straight

the wood

swirling red and brown

like brick and mud

the scroll

like a head

controlling and beautiful 

hand crafted to perfection

The violin sits

surrounded by cobalt velour

it seems to whisper with promise