Historical and Literary Fiction / Essays / Poetry / Reviews /Book Cover and Interior Illustrations / Pet Portraits and Other Commissioned Artwork … "Prose may be the lowest order of the rhythmic composition, but we know it is capable of such purity, sweetness, strength, elasticity, as entitle it to a place as a sister art with poetry." Thomas Hall Caine (1853 -1931) from his firsthand "Reflections of Dante Gabriel Rossetti"
It might be a day to feel left out, just another Saturday, ordinary and one-of-a-kind, when I’m singularly content with being single.
It might verge on narcissism to send a valentine to myself; although, I think, no more so than to expect one from another.
I have not had the attention of a lover to last a lifetime—although, who knows into eternity. Does that mean I’m lacking or lonely or left out of romance?
Not at all.
Everywhere is an embrace; the place I find myself is full of possibilities for engagement.
I cannot look at the moon and believe I am unloved, sense a breeze and be unmoved, know the birds’ song and feel forgotten.
There are flowers enough to romance me, even in winter I can paint them into view.
There are fires to warm me that I build myself.
Cats gaze into my soul as devotedly as I gaze into theirs.
Music seduces me constantly.
Creation is my purpose, and my words creative enough to convince me my imagination is the only lover I need.
And so I am foolish still.
A thoughtful face can ease the heart that thoughtlessness has given pain
“What a fool you must be,” said my head to my heart, or my sterner to my softer self.”
~ Anne Brontë, Agnes Grey
As today marks the two year anniversary of the passing from this world of a special friend and extraordinary musician and spirit, Owain Phyfe, I want to share this one again.
Copyright 2012 by DM Denton
There was music on your breath
made softer
but not stilled by death;
the bright greeting of your eyes
lost, but for
reminiscing sighs;
the quick smile that found each one,
a star with
the warmth of the sun;
a playfulness in your hands
extending
songs from foreign lands.
You moved many through the fairs
and left them
mourning you in prayers;
those times past and present too,
with all your
audience to woo;
mine a quiet memory
not to let
fade and thus bury—
when neither too sweetly soon
nor too late
you sang for the moon.
The sketch is of Owain, a loved if often distant friend, who was a vocalist, instrumentalist, and founder of Nightwatch Recording, which concentrated on Renaissance and Medieval music, and, also, music from South America and Mexico. He died from pancreatic cancer on September 5, 2012 at the age of 63. I did the drawing many years before, intending to make it into a painting. Like, so many things relating to him, it remains unfinished.
He has left a legacy of beautiful music. Below is one of my favorites, but please go to YouTube for more examples.
If you are interested in purchasing any of Owain’s CDs, have a look here:
For a first post in this month of love, I am offering a ‘romantic’ excerpt from my published novel, A House Near Luccoli, which imagines an intimacy with the legendary Alessandro Stradella – one of the greatest but most undervalued Baroque composers – during his time in Genoa, Italy.
After Donatella accompanies Stradella to a celebration dinner in honor of the Princess Doria’s brother, Benedetto Pamphilj, being made Cardinal; they return to the house near Luccoli at quite a late hour.
Donatella followed him up one floor too many, their association in public not half so daring as into the late night of his apartment, anticipating her aunt calling her out. Alessandro used the only candle burning to light a few others, the curtains also gesturing her to a window so she might view the bay’s shipshape stage and beaming impresario of a lighthouse. The sky showed stars, some more celebrated than others. But no moon.
He had opened the window enough for his head and shoulders to lean out. “Unless you do this.”
“Please, don’t.”
“I’ve got you,” he sang as confidently as she didn’t feel with her upper body in mid-air, yet obedient to his instruction to look sharply left and up where the nearly full moon balanced on a cloud.
“All right. I see it.” She was pulled in like the curtains, on the coolness of the wind and his maneuvers so she thought he might lie down on the couch with her, as ridiculous a notion as falling for the sight of the moon.
“I hope my aunt didn’t hear.” She sat up, crossing her arms.
“You’re your own responsibility.” He removed his coat, folding it on the closed top of the harpsichord, his cravat floating up and down to land there, too.
“She’s like that,” Donatella felt surprisingly satisfied, “when she isn’t listened to.”
“She didn’t want you to go?”
“She didn’t want me asked to go.”
“Ah. I was hoping I’d found a rebel in you. Instead you do as you’re told or asked.”
“I could refuse either.”
“Or negotiate between the two.” He sat at the writing table. “I need more vino.” He stretched his arms out and laid his head down facing her with a brother’s benignity.
“I think she sleeps with the key.”
“You’re light on your feet.”
“No.”
“If she wakes, you have an excuse.”
“I do?”
“Just letting her know you’re back.”
“She’d be suspicious anyway.”
He jumped up. “Especially if you had something else to tell her.” He went down to his knees, his arms covering hers in white and his hands praying. “What could it be?” They opened and folded around hers. “I know!” His lips bowed and proposed to her fingertips. “Marry me.”
Even a princess would have despaired as he begged Donatella to take him lightly. He sat on the floor propped against her legs, his head tilted into her skirt like a cat in its own space happening to touch upon hers.
Just came upon this new Youtube video of a Stradella aria for soprano & continuo:
E’ pazzia l’innamorarsi
Susanne Rydén soprano, Alessandro Palmeri cello.
CD: Stradella, Italian Arias. Ensemble Harmonices Mundi.
Conductor: Claudio Astronio.
Old View of Genoa, where A House Near Luccoli takes place.
Thank you to all who have already read it and to those who have contributed to some great reviews the novel has received. Of course, more are always welcome!
The martyred Saint Cecilia (2nd Century) is the patron saint of music, musicians, and poetry.
I am reposting my prose-poem below in honor of Saint Cecilia’s Feast Day, which is today, November 22nd. I won’t share any gruesome story about her death and matrydom, just that as she was dying she sang to God. It is also written that as the musicians played at her wedding she “sang in her heart to the Lord” … and that she listened to the voices of angels.
I give thanks for all the arts, including music and poetry.
If music was a light, it would sound brighter in the dark. Like the glow around the moon, it would fade to illuminate the stars.
If music was composed of rays, it would lift the mist from the world, until its brilliance played across the skies not silenced by the clouds.
If music was a mirror, it would reflect each soul that listened.
If music was eternity, it would be heard beyond all breathing, accompanied by the heartstrings of the angels, never to be broken.
If music was silence, it would be for our ears to hear nothing but its calling us to paradise.
Copyright 2012 by DM Denton
If you wish to read more about Saint Cecilia please check out her listing on Wikipedia.
A sound, a scent, a sight,
a hope, a dream, a memory,
creative tunneling towards the light;
one word, then two and three,
a poem, a page or more of prose
set out on a never-ending journey;
there’s loss, there’s love, not less
than the unsettled heart should need
to imagine how it is doomed and blessed;
the stars, the sun, the moon,
a breeze and, oh, the stillness, too
give the birds and composer’s hand a tune; a brush, a lens, a thought,
what is known and never can be
explained except as inspiration sought.
Copyright 2012 by Dm Denton
I want to thank onwindydays for recently nominating me for the Very Inspiring Blogger Award! Such a lovely gesture. I am humbled and it makes me very happy to play it forward!
First (this is rule I almost didn’t follow) I am supposed to offer seven things about myself …
I have a milestone birthday this year.
I have been writing stories and poems since I could write.
I have had nineteen cats, two dogs and a budgerigar named Billy.
I worked as a gardener on a large estate.
I lived in a medieval abbey.
I live in a log cabin.
I believe in reincarnation.
The blogs I nominate (in no particular order as I am inspired by them all, and a few more than ‘the rules’ require) are:
The snow is freshly fallen, connecting this place to every other, blending past and present, enfolding me in the company of one who has come and gone. The colorless shapes through my window are as haunting as my heartache.
Copyright by Diane’s Mom 2013
I cannot offer an explanation to anyone but the moon. Remember when I wrote:
I told the moon tonight—
the moon so full and bright—
what I wanted to tell you.
It was as though I had,
for you are like the moon,
as constant and changing,
as out of reach.
Others mourn you better. They were a part of your everyday and everywhere. They created memories for sharing without suspicion. I was but a reminder of what had passed, like a whisper, between us.
How could I lose the one I never had?
Romantic love has never made a home with me, has never stayed long enough to unpack its plans and rest assured. It becomes a habit, one life to another, this living with what is undeclared, like a smuggler of illegal hopes.
Now you are gone from this world. The lives you touched are left unresolved and may’ve already begun to move on. I have nowhere to go if you are not with me, even if I have to backtrack a little. Surely, memories haven’t any consequence: a meeting that wasn’t the first; a beautiful wife for you and sister for me; a voice that caressed even as it called me ‘contentious’; a kiss that just missed my mouth for my cheek; a chair that still rocked after sailing the seas for you; a cat that let you spin it into embarrassment; a bump to my head you seemed genuinely concerned about; a song no one knew was just for me.
You stole my heart
hundreds of years ago;
only now can I gladly let you have it;
only now
in the space time makes
before
and after
can I know what I was missing.
I turned from you. I know that is why we never were. If I had been braver we might’ve spoiled everything. I was afraid that the noose of loving you might strangle me again, unless I wrote a different version of the story.
Although I still talk to the sky as if that is where you are.
No one can take the moon
from me;
the dark sky can conceal its varying
brightness and watchfulness
and mockery,
but cannot convince me
it is gone.
If music was a light, it would sound brighter in the dark. Like the glow around the moon, it would fade to illuminate the stars.
If music was composed of rays, it would lift the mist from the world, until its brilliance played across the skies not silenced by the clouds.
If music was a mirror, it would reflect each soul that listened.
If music was eternity, it would be heard beyond all breathing, accompanied by the heartstrings of the angels, never to be broken.
If music was silence, it would be for our ears to hear nothing but its calling us to paradise.
Copyright 2012 by DM Denton
The martyred Saint Cecilia (2nd Century) is the patron saint of music, musicians, and poetry.
It is told that as she was dying she sang to God. It is also written that as the musicians played at her wedding she “sang in her heart to the Lord”. Her feast day is celebrated … November 22.
(Since I first published I have removed the details of Saint Cecilia’s death, as I realized they were taking away from my original intention of this post … to be about light and hope, not darkness or suffering.)
If you wish to read more about Saint Cecilia please check out her listing on Wikipedia.
There was music on your breath
made softer
but not stilled by death;
the bright greeting of your eyes
lost, but for
reminiscing sighs;
the quick smile that found each one,
a star with
the warmth of the sun;
a playfulness in your hands
extending
songs from foreign lands.
You moved many through the fairs
and left them
mourning you in prayers;
those times past and present too,
with all your
audience to woo;
mine a quiet memory
not to let
fade and thus bury—
when neither too sweetly soon
nor too late
you sang for the moon.
The sketch is of Owain Phyfe, a loved if often distant friend, who was a vocalist, instrumentalist, and founder of Nightwatch Recording which concentrated on Renaissance and Medieval music. He died from pancreatic cancer on September 5, at the age of 63, after only being diagnosed in July. I did the drawing many years ago, intending to make it into a painting. I have decided to leave it unfinished.
He has left a legacy of beautiful music. Below is one of my favorites, but please go to YouTube for more examples. And if you enjoy, please consider purchasing one or more of his CDs, which would benefit his dear wife, Paula, and add a little magic to your life as well. Ciao, Owain.
I no longer remember being undecided between one place and another.
Copyright 2012 by DM Denton
Except for tonight in the lateness and earliness of the small hour, a glance at the moon past and promising though I turn off the light at my hand, a desire for sleep more than life until I wake to the black-necked geese flying home to home and above suspicion.
In honor of my mom’s 83rd birthday today, here is a card she painted for me a few years ago, a bouquet of love for treasuring and sharing.
©Artwork and writing, unless otherwise indicated, are the property of Diane M Denton. Please request permission to reproduce or post elsewhere with a link back to bardessdmdenton. Thank you.
bardessdmdenton - author- artist 