Frédéric Chopin
PIANO CONCERTO NO. 1 IN E MINOR, OP. 11
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PIANO CONCERTO NO. 1 IN E MINOR, OP. 11
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Eliahu Inbal
London Philharmonic Orchestra
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Recorded 1970
Released 1971
Tuesday, April 12, 2022
"To the Country"
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Prairie land, Happy days. In Royal Buenos Ayres
Now far, far behind are left the fire, and terrific heat.
Today in thy verdant exultation all my day dreams will come to life
And I shall inhale thy fragrant breath and bathe me in thy sun.
A very good morning to thee, my orchard, and now I salute thy freshness
As it bursts forth from thy branches, while thy peach trees are in bloom;
Framed about with rose bushes thy Florida Street
Looks on while Glory, the Mart and Sport pass along.
A little bird, a poet, meditates verses in his craw;
Gossipy and petulant, a sparrow goes chattering;
The climbing plants are arguing about political affairs;
The roses and the lilies talk of art and also of love.
Driving his chariot team of fairy dragon flies,
The mischief making Puck of rich dreams passes
And here is the splendid sportswoman in her celestial car,
The Imperial Titania followed by Oberon,
At night when the half ring of gold shows itself
Beneath the tranquil blue of Heaven, the loved one of Pierrot,
(It is a pallid feast which reigns now in the orchard)
Plays upon her lyre the air, forsooth, do-re-mi-fa-sol.
The curious violets into her balcony are peeping
And one of them sighs, “Tis a pity that the nightingale is not here!”
The sylphs accompany the dances of the breezes
In a vague hazy Walpurgis of perfume and fantasy.
Soon is heard the echo of the loud cry of the pampas.
It burns like the setting of the Argentine sun
And a spectral horseman like a shadow crosses,
Over his shoulder is a poncho, upon his face is grief.
Who are you solitary traveler of the night?
“I am Poetry” who once upon a time reigned here
I am the last gaucho herdsman. I am going away forever
From our ancient country and carrying away its heart.
Monday, April 11, 2022
"Lovesong"
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When my soul touches yours a great chord sings!
How shall I tune it then to other things?
O! That some spot in darkness could be found
That does not vibrate when’er your depth sound.
But everything that touches you and me
Welds us as played strings sound one melody.
Where is the instrument whence the sounds flow?
And whose the master-hand that holds the bow?
O! Sweet song—
Sunday, April 10, 2022
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"Still Looking Out for Number One"
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Now that you’ve gone away for five days,
I’ll smoke all the cigarettes I want,
where I want. Make biscuits and eat them
with jam and fat bacon. Loaf. Indulge
myself. Walk on the beach if I feel
like it. And I feel like it, alone and
thinking about when I was young. The people
then who loved me beyond reason.
And how I loved them above all others.
Except one. I’m saying I’ll do everything
I want here while you’re away!
But there’s one thing I won’t do.
I won’t sleep in our bed without you.
No. It doesn’t please me to do so.
I’ll sleep where I damn well feel like it —
where I sleep best when you’re away
and can’t hold you the way I do.
On the broken sofa in my study.
"Life and Death"
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Life
I saw the candle brightly burning in the room!
The fringed curtains gracefully draped back,
The windows, crystal clear!
Upon the generous hearth
Quick Wit and bubbling Laughter
Flashed and danced
Sparkled and pranced,
And music to the glowing scene lent cheer.
It was a gracious sight,
So full of life, of love, of light!
Death
Then suddenly I saw a cloud of gloom
Take form within the room:
A blue-grey mist obscured the window-panes
And silent fell the rout!
Then from the shadows came the Dreaded Shape,—
The candle flickered out!
Saturday, April 9, 2022
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Friday, April 8, 2022
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FOROUGH FARROKHZAD
"Window"
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A window for seeing
A window for hearing
A window like a well
that ends deep in the heart of the earth
and opens out into this expanse of recurring blue kindness
A window that overfills the tiny hands of loneliness
with its nightly gift: the perfume of generous stars
And from there one could invite the sun
to the geraniums in exile
One window is enough for me
I come from the land of dolls
from under the shade of paper trees
in the garden of a picture book
from the dry seasons of barren experiences of friendship and love
in the dusty alleyways of innocence
from the years the letters of the colorless alphabet grew
behind the school’s tubercular desks
from the moment the children could write
the word stone on the blackboard
and the panicked starlings flushed from the ancient tree
I come from among the roots of carnivorous plants
and my brain is still
overflowing with the terrified voice of the butterfly
they crucified in a notebook
with a pin
When my trust hung suspended by the thin rope of justice
and all over town
they were chopping up the heart of my lamps
when they bound the childish eyes of my love
with the black blindfold of the law
and from the agitated temples of my desire
spurts of blood were scattering everywhere
when my life was nothing more
nothing more than the ticktock of the wall clock
I knew I must I must I must
love madly
One window is enough for me
A window onto the moment of awareness and seeing and silence
Now the walnut sapling
has grown tall enough to tell its young leaves
the meaning of the wall
Ask the mirror
the name of your savior
Isn’t the earth shaking under your feet
lonelier than you are?
The prophets
brought their prophecy of desolation
with them into our century:
these ongoing detonations
and these poisoned clouds
Are these the reverberations of holy verses?
O friend, O brother, O my kin
when you arrive at the moon
write the history of the mass murder of the flowers
Dreams always
are thrown down from the heights of their own naïveté
I smell the four-leaf clover
that has grown on the gravestone of worn-out meanings
Was the woman buried in her shroud of waiting and chastity
my own youth?
Will I again climb the stairs of my own curiosity
to greet the good God strolling on the roof of the house?
I sense time has passed
I sense that “the moment” is my share of the pages of history
I sense that the table is an illusory gap between my hair and the hands of
this sad stranger
Say something to me
What does one who grants you the kindness of a living body
want from you in return but an understanding of what it means to feel alive?
Say something to me
In the sanctuary of my window
I am one with the sun
Translated by Elizabeth T. Gray Jr.
"Looking at the Moon After Rain"
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The heavy clouds are broken and blowing,
And once more I can see the wide common stretching beyond the four sides of the city.
Open the door. Half of the moon-toad is already up,
The glimmer of it is like smooth hoar-frost spreading over ten thousand li.
The river is a flat, shining chain.
The moon, rising, is a white eye to the hills;
After it has risen, it is the bright heart of the sea.
Because I love it—so—round as a fan,
I hum songs until the dawn.
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Translated by Florence Ayscough and Amy Lowell
Thursday, April 7, 2022
CZESŁAW MIŁOSZ
"Rivers"
"Rivers"
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“So lasting they are, the rivers!” Only think. Sources somewhere in the mountains pulsate and springs seep from a rock, join in a stream, in the current of a river, and the river flows through centuries, millennia. Tribes, nations pass, and the river is still there, and yet it is not, for water does not stay the same, only the place and the name persist, as a metaphor for a permanent form and changing matter. The same rivers flowed in Europe when none of today’s countries existed and no languages known to us were spoken. It is in the names of rivers that traces of lost tribes survive. They lived, though, so long ago that nothing is certain and scholars make guesses which to other scholars seem unfounded. It is not even known how many of these names come from before the Indo-European invasion, which is estimated to have taken place two thousand to three thousand years B. C. Our civilization poisoned river waters, and their contamination acquires a powerful emotional meaning. As the course of a river is a symbol of time, we are inclined to think of a poisoned time. And yet the sources continue to gush and we believe time will be purified one day. I am a worshipper of flowing and would like to entrust my sins to the waters, let them be carried to the sea.
"Our Land"
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We should have a land of sun,
Of gorgeous sun,
And a land of fragrant water
Where the twilight is a soft bandanna handkerchief
Of rose and gold,
And not this land
Where life is cold.
We should have a land of trees,
Of tall thick trees,
Bowed down with chattering parrots
Brilliant as the day,
And not this land where birds are gray.
Ah, we should have a land of joy,
Of love and joy and wine and song,
And not this land where joy is wrong.
ADAM ZAGAJEWSKI
"Codeword"
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Look, your life too is becoming
the oil in a lamp on whose surface
the weak blue flame of homeland wanders.
That country, like depression, will steal
your youth and turn it into a codeword,
will take your rapture and give grief;
that country, that clock that won’t run,
black band on a sleeve,
that country where souls are in storage
and bodies are no one’s because death
is paid in advance and it will come,
too early, at dawn, with its forehead of an ape,
too early, the clouds of morning, too early,
a prayer, kiss, the helpless children
fallen too early, and instead of orchids
the ashes of mountain September, cold fog,
the consoling lie, booze and not hell.
Translated by C. K. Williams and Renata Gorczynski
Wednesday, April 6, 2022
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from The Wasteland
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IV. Death by Water
Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead,
Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep sea swell
And the profit and loss.
A current under sea
Picked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell
He passed the stages of his age and youth
Entering the whirlpool.
Gentile or Jew
O you who turn the wheel and look to windward
Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.
Harry Christophers
THE DEER'S CRY
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William Byrd
Diliges Dominum
Christe qui lux es et dies
Emendemus in melius
Miserere mihi, Domine
Ad Dominum cum tribularer
O lux beata Trinitas
Laetentur coeli
Tribue, Domine
Arvo Pärt
The Deer’s Cry
Woman with the Alabaster Box
Nunc dimittis
Thomas Tallis
Miserere nostri
When Jesus went
"I, Lover"
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I shall never have any fear of love,
Not of its depth nor its uttermost height,
Its exquisite pain and its terrible delight.
I shall never have any fear of love.
I shall never hesitate to go down
Into the fastness of its abyss
Nor shrink from the cruelty of its awful kiss.
I shall never have any fear of love.
Never shall I dread love’s strength
Nor any pain it might give.
Through all the years I may live
I shall never have any fear of love.
I shall never draw back from love
Through fear of its vast pain
But build joy of it and count it again.
I shall never have any fear of love.
I shall never tremble nor flinch
From love’s moulding touch:
I have loved too terribly and too much
Ever to have any fear of love.
Tuesday, April 5, 2022
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KNUT HAMSUN
The Growth of the Soil
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A man comes walking north. He carries a sack, the first sack, containing provisions for the road and some implements. The man is strong and rough-hewn, with a red lion beard and little scars on face and hands, sites of old wounds--were they gotten at work or in a fight? Maybe he has been in jail and wants to go into hiding, or perhaps he is a philosopher looking for peace; in any case, here he comes, a human being in the midst of this immense solitude. He walks and walks, in a silence broken by neither bird nor beast.
"Quest"
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My goal out-distances the utmost star,
Yet is encompassed in my inmost Soul;
I am my goal—my quest, to know myself.
To chart and compass this unfathomed sea,
Myself must plumb the boundless universe.
My Soul contains all thought, all mystery,
All wisdom of the Great Infinite Mind:
This is to discover, I must voyage far,
At last to find it in my pulsing heart.
"Pastoral"
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A frog leaps out across the lawn,
And crouches there—all heavy and alone,
And like a blossom, pale and over-blown,
Once more the moon turns dim against the dawn.
Crawling across the straggling panoply
Of little roses, only half in bloom,
It strides within that beamed and lofty room
Where an ebon stallion looms upon the hay.
The stillness moves, and seems to grow immense,
A shuddering dog starts, dragging at its chain,
Thin, dusty rats slink down within the grain,
And in the vale the first far bells commence.
Here in the dawn, with mournful doomèd eyes
A cow uprises, moving out to bear
A soft-lipped calf with swarthy birth-swirled hair,
And wide wet mouth, and droll uncertainties.
The grey fowls fight for places in the sun,
The mushrooms flare, and pass like painted fans:
All the world is patient in its plans—
The seasons move forever, one on one.
Small birds lie sprawling vaguely in the heat,
And wanly pluck at shadows on their breasts,
And where the heavy grape-vine leans and rests,
White butterflies lift up their furry feet.
The wheat grows querulous with unseen cats;
A fox strides out in anger through the corn,
Bidding each acre wake and rise to mourn
Beneath its sharps and through its throaty flats.
And so it is, and will be year on year,
Time in and out of date, and still on time
A billion grapes plunge bleeding into wine
And bursting, fall like music on the ear.
The snail that marks the girth of night with slime,
The lonely adder hissing in the fern,
The lizard with its ochre eyes aburn—
Each is before, and each behind its time.
Monday, April 4, 2022
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WEST SIDE STORY
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Steven Spielberg
USA, 2021
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It's not very often that I comment on the films I watch - this is just a journal. But ... Jesus Fucking Christ. What a mess.
The good: Rita Moreno's Valentina was one of the few positive changes (or additions, whatever) and her performance is really nice, though I can't fathom why she would have touched the film. Another that plays well is Graziella's attempt to defend and rescue Anita in the drugstore. And the repeated visuals of the Upper West Side being torn down - displacing thousands and thousands of poor people - to build Lincoln Center and fancy apartments are stark and effective.
Speaking of Anita ... Ariana DeBose's performance is terrific but I have no clue how anyone could have noticed her for the Oscar let alone awarded her with it since Spielberg cut away from her face every other time she opened her mouth. Disrespectful in the extreme, as if he was ashamed of her.
Having scenes in locations far from the setting? A slap in the face to the book and story. The editing throughout the film is horrific. I would love to have seen the dancing - Jerome Robbins was one of the best film choreographers ever - but Spielberg cuts every three seconds deliberately downplaying every number
Building from there, I think Stephen Sondheim, Leonard Bernstein, and Arthur Laurents knew who was supposed to sing each song and what order they are supposed to be sung. The decisions by Tony Kushner and Spielberg to royally fuck that up are inexcusable. (Yes, I know Robert Wise swapped "Officer Krupke" and "Cool" in the first film, but he didn't change their goddamned meanings.)
And finally, the performance by Ansel Elgort is abysmal. Dead on arrival. He's been terrific in other films, but here .... The least Spielberg could have done is have him revived from his coma and display an IQ over 50.
If I gave review scores, I'd be hard pressed to say 3.5/10. It really is that bad.
Bottom line: It's no wonder Sondheim died just days after seeing the premiere.
"The Indians' Spirits"
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Down in the deep my spirit will creep
Out of the window into the air
No one knows where.
Deathless and lifeless, sleepless of fears
Indians will keep their spirits near—
Creeping about in the open air
No one knows where.
Down in the deep my spirit will creep,
Fearless of sorrow and fearless of time,
Indian will seek a spirit to help his creed.
Out of the window into the air
No one knows where.
Indian spirit shall share
Deathless and lifeless, sleepless of fear
The noise of my spirit shall speak very clear.
Out of the window into the air
No one knows where
When far into the darkened night a change in the air
The Indian spirit shall creep out of no where.
Sunday, April 3, 2022
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Gayatri Mantra Chant [Live]
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गायत्री मंत्र, ॐ भूर्भुवः स्वः तत्सवितुर्वरेण्यं
ॐ भूर्भुवः स्वः तत्सवितुर्वरेण्यं | भर्गो देवस्यः धीमहि धियो यो नः प्रचोदयात्
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oṃ bhūr bhuvaḥ svaḥ
tat savitur vareṇyaṃ
bhargo devasya dhīmahi
dhiyo yo naḥ prachodayāt
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Gāyatrī Mantra, also known as the Sāvitri Mantra, is a highly revered mantra from the Rig Veda - Mandala 3.62.10, composed and collected between 1500–1200 BCE - and dedicated to the Vedic deity Savitr. Gayatri Mantra is used as a method of prāyaścitta (atonement). It is believed by practitioners that reciting the mantra bestows wisdom and enlightenment, through the vehicle of the Sun (Savitr), who represents the source and inspiration of the universe.
W. E. B. DU BOIS
"The Song of the Smoke"
"The Song of the Smoke"
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I am the smoke king,
I am black.
I am swinging in the sky,
I am ringing worlds on high;
I am the thought of the throbbing mills,
I am the soul of the Soul toil kills,
I am the ripple of trading rills.
Up I’m curling from the sod,
I am whirling home to God.
I am the smoke king,
I am black.
I am the smoke king,
I am black.
I am wreathing broken hearts,
I am sheathing devils’ darts;
Dark inspiration of iron times,
Wedding the toil of toiling climes,
Shedding the blood of bloodless crimes,
Down I lower in the blue,
Up I tower toward the true.
I am the smoke king,
I am black.
I am the smoke king,
I am black.
I am darkening with song,
I am hearkening to wrong;
I will be black as blackness can,
The blacker the mantle the mightier the man,
My purpl’ing midnights no day dawn may ban.
I am carving God in night,
I am painting Hell in white.
I am the smoke king,
I am black.
I am the smoke king,
I am black.
I am cursing ruddy morn,
I am hearsing hearts unborn;
Souls unto me are as mists in the night,
I whiten my black men, I blacken my white,
What’s the hue of a hide to a man in his might!
Hail, then, gritty, grimy hands,
Sweet Christ, pity toiling lands!
Hail to the smoke king
Hail to the black!
Saturday, April 2, 2022
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"Recurrence"
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We shall have our little day.
Take my hand and travel still
Round and round the little way,
Up and down the little hill.
It is good to love again;
Scan the renovated skies,
Dip and drive the idling pen,
Sweetly tint the paling lies.
Trace the dripping, piercèd heart,
Speak the fair, insistent verse,
Vow to God, and slip apart,
Little better, little worse.
Would we need not know before
How shall end this prettiness;
One of us must love the more,
One of us shall love the less.
Thus it is, and so it goes;
We shall have our day, my dear.
Where, unwilling, dies the rose
Buds the new, another year.
Friday, April 1, 2022
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"I Left All Liars"
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I have left all liars
Including innocent
I could not do else
Except that
I needed to relax
Anyhow,
They deserve
The special thanks
For they awoke me
They taught me
They showed me
The reality and life
The value of the truth
I do not notice them anymore
I do not feel any devotion
Affection, respect for them
I had once thought
Such people are the ugly blemish
On the humanity
I believe
God protects the good ones
From such people
I pray, and I hope
I stay safe, and far from them.
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