Nature Insight: Bog Chorus (Repost)

The frogs are singing again, and as I haven’t come up with anything new this week, here is a timely repost!

If I could sing
all day, all night,
then being
nobody
would be alright.

Copyright 2012 by DM Denton

If I could send
a clear high note,
then I might
keep my head
and heart afloat.

If I could be
content to bring
one more voice,
all might muse
a hope of spring.

I take a leap
though just a frog,
not for praise
but the mud
in my cool bog.

Inspired by the frogs singing in my vernal pond and Emily Dickinson’s poem:

And please check out Grace Pieces recent ‘re-write’ of this Emily Dickinson poem:

“I’m Somebody!  Who Are You?”


©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.

Little Bird Lost

Copyright 2012 by DM Denton

O, singing bird—

why did you fly away

just when I was

enjoying

the color

in your feathers

as well as

your song?



 

 

 

 

If I could lure my singing bird
From his own cozy nest
If I could catch my singing bird
I would warm him on my breast
For there’s none of them can sing so sweet
My singing bird as you.

Irish Traditional Song





©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.

Nature Insight: Bog Chorus

If I could sing
all day, all night,
then being
nobody
would be alright.

Copyright 2012 by DM Denton

If I could send
a clear high note,
then I might
keep my head
and heart afloat.

If I could be
content to bring
one more voice,
all might muse
a hope of spring.

I take a leap
though just a frog,
not for praise
but the mud
in my cool bog.

Inspired by the frogs singing in my vernal pond
and Emily Dickinson’s poem: ‘I’m Nobody! Who are You?’


©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.

Musing Music

I’m an un-practiced musician. There grieves the piano, anticipation of my touch buried for now. A guitar excited me for a little while but was, after all, too difficult. There waits a harp, hopeful of my embrace again. My voice still sings, for an audience of angels if they’ve nothing better to do, or as I think I can put the passion I have for a career I never did into words.

And so often the fiction I write–out of history and imagining, love and disappointment, encounter and escape, silence and sound—is musing from and for music (melodious, melancholy, magical music), easier done for its company.

I share a little of my playing with words now, and will probably do so again later. 

   

     

“Musical” excerpt from A House Near Luccoli:

     What was he waiting for? The bow raised his right sleeve, turned his face away and lowered his chin, his own hair covering any expression of nerves. The violin bent his left arm, curling its hand, straightening his shoulders and curving his back so his hips disappeared and legs lengthened, butterfly knotted shoes closely parted like feet on a pedestal table. The slightly past midday sun was a spotlight on the terrace, his creamy coat and the crimson of Margherita’s skirt—no breeze or any kind of movement, not even a cough or whisper.
     Lonati stood and was told to sit down again. Alessandro was perfectly posed for a portrait or memory or the recognition of God, raising his sight, an aspiring suitor preparing to declare his intentions.
     Hands and laps held programs Donatella had duplicated for Una Storia del Cavalieri, Il Trionfo Erroneo di Amore. Alessandro wasn’t confident the Genoese elite would admittedly enjoy it. Unless he kept it at a distance in a self-indulged city like Venezia and accompanied by elaborate sets and costumes, effects and even dancing. There hadn’t been money or time for such an undertaking, so perhaps his hesitation considered how much depended on the manipulation of his music to refine and even refute the folly of its subject. Within moments of his bow sliding into sound a trick was also triumph, holding back impulse for contemplation and swashbuckling for delicacy, putting serenity in strings before the highs and lows of singers. Doriclea loved Fidalbo not Olindo and every note believed her until Alessandro played with them, Lonati following in friendly imitation, the castrato coming forward. Eventually the continuo slowed everyone, underscoring virtuosity and relieving it too if not for long. The principal of obstinato was practiced for connection and contest, a single motif tossed around in slightly different versions like a rumor or hope of one, voices and instruments in competing agreement.
     Alessandro was master of entertaining and editorializing, stealing the show without taking anything from the roles of lovers and go betweens, spoilers and servants—giving character to their romance, farce and delusion. He stood apart from the ensemble with nods for their faithfulness, or squints and frowns for what he hadn’t thought of. Less and less he was concerned with an audience irrelevant to his sense of achievement or regret, artistic isolation suiting him as much as flamboyancy.   

 Copyright © 2010 by DM Denton
All Rights Reserved

Link to my previous post Words and Music.

©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.