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Literature Text
Oh chant your high descant and call
The thund'rous roll of heaven down--
The windows round and gasping light
Will tremble in their mortar holds--
Embolden all their quaking panes;
Fix fast to bricks their concrete frames;
The dome above support with prayers--
Each fresco and each stone enscrolled
Your harmonies should wend about:
Organ, your pipes piping must be
The bellows wailing breath in them;
Your iron soul half-stopped, release!
The world's song play for me.
And stones hewn free from sandstone cliffs
Must echo with their grainy voice,
Their red must bleed the blood they shed
As rosy dust upon the pews
Into the strain roving around--
Their sound is fair and should augment
The strident and the stately hymn--
Become the air! Your dust will clear
But still immortal you shall be
Within the song I hear.
But you, dear voices of the woods
Are lost with every tree new-felled
And quiet as the music stops.
Old flutes can play your tunes for you
They do so when the choir leaves
With remnants of a little rain--
Your song they still contain.
The last refrain now reaches me;
As marbled glass is darkening,
As gilded pages flake away,
And now I sing good-bye.
The thund'rous roll of heaven down--
The windows round and gasping light
Will tremble in their mortar holds--
Embolden all their quaking panes;
Fix fast to bricks their concrete frames;
The dome above support with prayers--
Each fresco and each stone enscrolled
Your harmonies should wend about:
Organ, your pipes piping must be
The bellows wailing breath in them;
Your iron soul half-stopped, release!
The world's song play for me.
And stones hewn free from sandstone cliffs
Must echo with their grainy voice,
Their red must bleed the blood they shed
As rosy dust upon the pews
Into the strain roving around--
Their sound is fair and should augment
The strident and the stately hymn--
Become the air! Your dust will clear
But still immortal you shall be
Within the song I hear.
But you, dear voices of the woods
Are lost with every tree new-felled
And quiet as the music stops.
Old flutes can play your tunes for you
They do so when the choir leaves
With remnants of a little rain--
Your song they still contain.
The last refrain now reaches me;
As marbled glass is darkening,
As gilded pages flake away,
And now I sing good-bye.
Literature
Master of Fate
Ten years a warrior,
Ten years near hell's door.
Ten years of death in mud,
Covered deep in blood.
Deep in his heart
A son of war,
Never before with no sword in hand,
Shackles broken, left alone to stand.
Ten dead laid around him,
Eyes deep in varied terror.
Bodies hurt limb to limb,
His expression deep and grim.
Others go day to day
Without a single change.
But this man, this monster full of hate-
He is the master of his own fate.
Literature
The poem-meter
The poem-meter, such incredible yet stupid feature.
Covered with ice for so long.
Singing its silent song.
An iceberg in my memory.
All it does is sleep but somehow it can see.
It also can feel; it can sense.
But stays still with confidence.
For eleven months I waited.
For this thing which I strangely loved and weirdly hated.
No answers heard when I need it most.
It squeezes my needs into a crimson toast.
But it burns me now with might and rage.
After a cold slumber for a long age.
Words and feelings all flying about.
In all directions leaving their hideout.
I take a feather; I drown it in ink.
Without a thought or ability to
Literature
In the Syllable
...then there is a way in diswaiting.
Dust some yellow sand covers,
here uncover bare bedding.
...suffusing red planes, blushed dunes,
under incidentally quilted blanket
wet as arid curves, as sounds.
...in a persistent pavement,
in a solemn unsuited promise,
some written words erase
some letters drip and soak
unto a perfuse miracle,
a dislocated split,
a letting go of...
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A poem inspired by the Gregorian chants I'm currently studying. Very interesting, and very pretty. This is a more 'experimental' poem than many of my others, I think, so hopefully it comes off as I intend.
Also, about the title (yes, I actually have one!):
A melisma is a point in a chant when basically a soloist would take a syllable of the text and heavily embellish it with lots of pitches. So it's very ornate, and kind of free--kind of like their emotion is just too much to be contained in one or two pitches. A good example can be found in typical "alleluias."
And now for some questions:
Does the ending work?
Does the vocabulary work?
Do the increasingly smaller stanzas create any impression? What impression?
Favorite line?
And anything else you want to comment/critique on would be much appreciated.
(for thewrittenrevolution: [link])
Also, about the title (yes, I actually have one!):
A melisma is a point in a chant when basically a soloist would take a syllable of the text and heavily embellish it with lots of pitches. So it's very ornate, and kind of free--kind of like their emotion is just too much to be contained in one or two pitches. A good example can be found in typical "alleluias."
And now for some questions:
Does the ending work?
Does the vocabulary work?
Do the increasingly smaller stanzas create any impression? What impression?
Favorite line?
And anything else you want to comment/critique on would be much appreciated.
(for thewrittenrevolution: [link])
© 2011 - 2024 williamszm
Comments19
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Your wonderful literary work has been chosen to be featured by DailyLitDeviations in a news article that can be found here [link]
Be sure to check out the other artists featured and show your support by ing the News Article.
Keep writing and keep creating.
Be sure to check out the other artists featured and show your support by ing the News Article.
Keep writing and keep creating.