In songs
I play
the sound peaks.
Pizzicato
-the splash of a pebble
breaking the water’s surface-
then hide from the rushing
sounds
of swelling streams
where,
as in triumphant marches,
I reemerge
marcato –
thrust
and struck.
Category Archives: poetry
Once
At the division
in the clouds,
she gathered the
late harvest,
as light
assembled and
comprehended
before the first frost,
waving at a point below
to handfuls of borne fruit
-not yet ripened.
Radiance jumped into the crevasse,
its purpose met
and bequeathed
to sequent moments.
A cappella Friday: Bars and Feathers
em>Acappella music (without instrumental accompaniment) is particularly enjoyable for me to listen to. As a poet (and an avocational musician), I am drawn to the similarities that poems and acappella music have. Lyrical phrasing, meter, rhyming, assonance, and consonance mean so much to acappella music, because it relies so heavily on the human vocal element.
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It has been a while since I did one of these.
Partly because I hadn’t heard any new inspiring songs recently, neither was I particularly inspired to seek out any songs.
Until today.
I was wondering whether anyone had done an arrangement of Emily Dickinson poems for acappella chorus. Google. What a time waster saver. I found quite a few. And it should come as no surprise, as Ms. Dickinson is arguably the most prolific of American Poets and one of the more emotive poets (and also – to her credit – concise). These characteristics make her writing great fodder for choral literature.
The first one I noticed (and I think that I’ve sung it once) was Let down the Bars, O Death, composed by Samuel Barber, who was responsible for another haunting poem/choral selection that I discussed a while back, Louise Bogan’s To Be Sung on the Water. He wrote this piece during the same summer (1936)** as the string quartet that would eventually become Adagio for Strings.
Let down the Bars, O Death*
Emily Dickinson
Music by Samuel Barber
Let down the Bars, O Death —
The tired Flocks come in
Whose bleating ceases to repeat
Whose wandering is done —
Thine is the stillest night
Thine the securest Fold
Too near Thou art for seeking Thee
Too tender, to be told.
This setting is a simple chorale, with none of Barber’s usual complex counterpoint, but it is effective at letting Dickinson’s text carry the load. Given her gift for emotionally charging phrases, it definitely works with his gift for musical conflict and resolution. The opening of the piece sounds like a call, an invocation that begins hushed, and crescendos to the conclusion, where the opening lines are repeated/declared with emphasis.
The next piece was a bit of a surprise. I have a soft spot for poetry that is light and hopeful (something that is not necessarily plentiful in Dickinson’s canon of writing), so when I happened upon “Hope” is the thing with feathers, I was hooked.
“Hope” is the thing with feathers*
Emily Dickinson
Music by Kenny Potter
“Hope” is the thing with feathers –
That perches in the soul –
And sings the tune without the words –
And never stops – at all –
And sweetest – in the Gale – is heard –
And sore must be the storm –
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm –
I’ve heard it in the chillest land –
And on the strangest Sea –
Yet – never – in Extremity,
It asked a crumb – of me.
There are several different choral arrangements of this poem, but in my opinion, none of them capture the intention of the words like this arrangement by Dr. Kenny Potter of Wingate University. Recently composed in 2011***, this piece allows the underlying message to drive the song, with the opening lines carried through as heartbeat. A carefree melody, which breaks slightly to express the seriousness of the last line (much like Barber in the effective use of chorale style), but then returns to the patter of the “thing with feathers, and sings the tune without the words – and never stops – at all” fading to the end.
I believe he created an earworm.
The video I selected is a combined performance of several pieces. The first one is “Hope” is the thing with feathers. Have a listen. You will be humming this the next day.
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*The Poems of Emily Dickinson Edited by R. W. Franklin (Harvard University Press, 1999)
**G. Schirmer, Octavo 8907
***Published by Santa Barbara Music Publishing (SB.SBMP-1017) 2011
A Passage
All of my most
compelling photographs
have roads in them:
The lonely stretch of highway
to the left of a bittersweet sunset.
after the leaves have
all blown away.
The S-curve in a raceway,
-empty-
then full of revving vehicles
vying for the sweet spot in the turns,
to accelerate into the straightaway
that continues out of view.
The picturesque motorway,
that aligns directly with
an imposing palisade of rock and ice,
only to veer sharply
and begin mounting the range,
passing through the crags
to some apex.
The city’s avenue at dusk after
a spring shower, streetlights
glow off the pavement,
and tail lights pierce the
somberness
as if to punctuate
my transitory presence
in a moment.
A reminder
that I was there and moved on.
and isn’t it a lovely blog….
Occasionally, these award thingies pop up. The ones that ask you to share little known facts about yourself or your blog, and then nominate other blogs to do the same.
I find them interesting as a way of increasing blog fertilization, and making your blog gardens grow. I know all the writers out there see little bits of inspiration in comments, characters, people and blogs. You wouldn’t be a writer if you didn’t seek out a little ‘miracle grow’ every now and then to jump start your own creativity…what they used to call the muse (they still call it that, but in this technological world we live in now, the muse is now pixelated as well as natural, electronic as well as acoustic, and present even in other people’s work and art). I write mostly poetry, with the occasional travelogue or recipe or blah-blah piece thrown in, so a little fertilizer goes a long way with me.
These awards are a little way of getting to know each other too, I think. Behind the curtain of the internet, we could be anybody. At least these attempts at internet small talk help us be a little more human and hopefully “real” in our discourse. Small talk is not always easy for some people, and at times we might feel a little like Cleavon Little in Blazing Saddles trying to make friends with the citizens of Rock Ridge.
Well, Sarah Wesson over at Earful of Cider has nominated my blog. Thank you Sarah. I’ve never personally met Sarah, but from her blog I know Sarah is a librarian by day, and a detective noir fiction writer by nights and weekends and days off with some interesting and fun ideas about character development. Plus she wrangles a couple of kids along with her patient-sounding, saintly husband.
So the rules are:
1. Share seven (7) fact(oid)s about yourself that you haven’t already made known in your writing.
2. Nominate seven (7) bloggers you regularly follow to do the same.
Factoids up.
1. I started drinking coffee when I was 11 years old. My Dad would make me a cup to help me wake up, because Middle School started at 7:30 AM. I am now an incredibly early riser. 5:30 AM is not unusual.
2. I secretly enjoy doing yardwork (mowing, weeding, etc.). There is something sustaining about a completed task where you can look at your results from a porch swing while drinking a tall glass of iced tea.
3. I wish peanut M&Ms were healthy snacks.
4. I like surprises (good ones).
5. It is no surprise (see what I did there…) that my favorite reading genre is Mystery/Thriller. This started in my adolescent years with The Hardy Boys, and then moved to Ellery Queen, Sherlock Holmes, Agatha Christie, and on to P.D. James, Dan Brown, James Lee Burke, Kathy Reichs, Matthew Pearl and James Rollins.

6. If I were to become independently wealthy (almost no chance of that happening – because, hey, it’s statistics and there is always a probability, no matter how small or insignificant), I think I would still work at a job.
7. Even though I find most math tedious, I find statistics strangely exhilarating. If only there was a porch swing and a tall glass of iced tea involved.
And now…onto other blogs.
I am admittedly more of a blog lurker than a regular follower, and I will not impose upon other bloggers who don’t necessarily know me from Adam’s off-ox to participate. If you wish to play along, consider yourself nominated, check the rules and have at it. Otherwise, enjoy the increased traffic (maybe..no guarantees) that my link to your blog could induce.
1. Sister Madly at The Sixpence at Her Feet, wickedly sarcastic and funny observations. Also, she smells colors.
2. Charlotte Hoather at Charlotte Hoather Blog. She is an aspiring professional singer studying Soprano in Glasgow, UK. She has over 11,400 followers so she needs no boost from a lovely blog award. She posts snippets about life for her and also clips from some of her performances. She’s very good and likely will be a star in the future. Search and find her performance of Oh, Danny Boy…beautiful.
3. Shawn L. Bird at Shawnbird.com. She’s a writer, poet, teacher in Canada. She also has quite a following. I like her blog because she posts at least one poem a day…and it seems so effortless.
4. Becky is studying horticulture in the UK. She has two blogs: one for plant stuff called Life of a plant lover and one for just her creative side called this and that. She posts beautiful pictures of gardens she works in and places she visits, and explains about the different types of flowers and plants and her nature poems are very heart-felt.
5. V. C. Linde, a poet/writer at Listen for the Reverb, is a restless soul, writes very well, and is involved in different venues to make her writing accessible (something I identify with). She has an interest in many different styles. I think her found poetry is most compelling.
6. S. K. Woodiwiss, a poet/writer who writes several blogs, but I follow Poetry: Because Obscurity is a Sin. She has a brooding passionate style. Her words almost ache. It’s a style that’s not for everyone, but it’s good to feel that kind of writing sometimes.
7. Jamie Dedes, at The Poet by Day posts poems, stories, inspirational pieces, pictures….She has a great eye for poetry and the beauty in the words.
If you made it through this, thanks for reading. If you’ve been nominated, feel free to ignore or participate at your choice. If you do participate, link back to me, because as blog neighbors I’d like to know what you do and think about.
The one perfect thing
in the corner
where the buildings meet
is where the wind dives in
to swarm
and spiral in
a reel.
you only know that
because the tattered
blue plastic
jumps and skates
to the left
and the crumpled
kraft paper skitters away
to the right,
both fettered by an unpredictable swirl.
the one perfect thing
is the tumbleweed branch
pushed along
by this dervish
and goaded into rolling away.
An essence of poems
In an extrusion
a mist of poems
read to the pink dusk
of September
-a pearlescent haze suspended-
before some fell like blooms
from a Rose of Sharon
– left to wane and decay with the days to bronze-
And some,
blossomed in full,
agape and yawning with nectar’s tumescence,
curled tightly in a twist,
a final coalescence suspended
there and left in her mind,
deliquescent.
resurgo
When I left
my thoughts in the days
after
death,
as tic marks arose
like the blades of grass
-too numerous to count
and for their random stacking
could have buried
my understanding the
true
meaning of
resurrection-
beyond
reanimation of blood and
bone.
it is reinvention
of joy,
in the covered fields
that can be walked upon,
the horizons remote and straddling,
the light and dark places
that replace the terminus.
touches
the tactile feel
when I drink
from a
red plastic cup
with vertical ridges-
waves that undulate at
my tracing fingertips.
and after a time-
combined with the condensate
colluded from
hot and cold-
I wipe clean the surface
and clasp my hands
tightly –
as if to shutter
the memory.
Singing the moon
In a twildly dusk, I see
a flaxum and her mimbles, we
open talk and loydal sing
with sunbeam-laden mulbering.
The verse rafeals a higher cause,
and willently, we sing then pause,
our fragenotions echo there
as we chorus contricare.
As just as then, we breathed and stopped,
fixembled, stable, clembed and swapped
A song sincerely wooed, then freed
and flaxum/poet now agreed.
Then in mirist silence found,
tracing back with embered sound
songs at dusk- the most revered
The ferrel-maried moon appeared
and strummed the night to denser aires
with open chords and fortunes fair.






