From Yixi Zhang
Posted April 9, 2007 at 11:14 PM
"E, laser of the ear, ear's
in a tux, the sky's blue, pointed;
A, youngest of the four, cocksure
and vulnerable, the white kid
on the basketball team — immature,
D is the tailor
who sewed the note "I shall always love you"
into the hem of the village belle's wedding dress,
a note not discovered until ten years later in New York
where, poor and abandoned, she was ripping up the skirt
for curtains, and he came,
and he married her;
G, cathedral of the breastbone,
Coin of ours can never ransom
Years now prisoner to time.
Roars the bus, where once the hansom
Trotted on the trail of crime.
etc. etc. etc. and then the final stanza:
When, as fog through pane and curtain,
Softly grey comes creeping in,
Wise, immortal, strange and certain,
Sherlock plays his violin.
That fiddle's got the devil in it!
Mortal, demon, witch or genie,
Of the mystic violin!
With the sting of your staccato
And your prickly pizzicato,
When you'd diddle on your fiddle,
It was little short of sin.
Lean and lanky like linguine,
With a manner that was manically
Satanic when you played,
How your haunting hint of Hades
Would inflame the local ladies.
You were fiery, you were wiry,
You were very often laid!
You're the fiddler's own Houdini,
Be you devil, be you man.
Give the opera buffs Rossini,
Give 'em Verdi and Puccini.
Call me geek or call me weenie,
I'm a Paganini fan!
The Fiddler of Dooney
WHEN I play on my fiddle in Dooney,
Folk dance like a wave of the sea;
My cousin is priest in Kilvarnet,
My brother in Moharabuiee.
I passed my brother and cousin:
They read in their books of prayer;
I read in my book of songs
I bought at the Sligo fair.
When we come at the end of time,
To Peter sitting in state,
He will smile on the three old spirits,
But call me first through the gate;
For the good are always the merry,
Save by an evil chance,
And the merry love the fiddle
And the merry love to dance:
And when the folk there spy me,
They will all come up to me,
With ‘Here is the fiddler of Dooney!’
And dance like a wave of the sea.
Arthur O'Shaughnessy. 1844–1881
WE are the music-makers,
And we are the dreamers of dreams,
Wandering by lone sea-breakers,
And sitting by desolate streams;
World-losers and world-forsakers,
On whom the pale moon gleams:
Yet we are the movers and shakers
Of the world for ever, it seems.
With wonderful deathless ditties
We build up the world's great cities,
And out of a fabulous story
We fashion an empire's glory:
One man with a dream, at pleasure,
Shall go forth and conquer a crown;
And three with a new song's measure
Can trample an empire down.
We, in the ages lying
In the buried past of the earth,
Built Nineveh with our sighing,
And Babel itself with our mirth;
And o'erthrew them with prophesying
To the old of the new world's worth;
For each age is a dream that is dying,
Or one that is coming to birth.
The Touch Of The Master's Hand
By Myra Brooks Welch
'Twas battered and scarred and the auctioneer
Thought it scarcely worth his while
To waste much time on the old violin
But he held it up with a smile.
”What am I bidden, good folks,” he cried
”Who will start bidding for me?
A dollar, a dollar” - then “Two! Only two?
Two dollars, and who'll make it three?
Three dollars, once; three dollars, twice;
Going for three” - But no
From the room far back a gray haired man
Came forward and picked up the bow;
Then wiping the dust from the old violin
And tightening the loose strings
He played a melody pure and sweet
As sweet as a caroling angel sings.
The music ceased and the auctioneer
With a voice that was quiet and low
Said, “What am I bidden for the old violin?”
And he held it up with the bow.
”A thousand dollars, and who'll make it two?
Two thousand! And who'll make it three?
Three thousand once; three thousand, twice;
And going, and gone!” said he.
The people cheered and some of them cried,
”We do not understand. What changed its worth?”
Swift came the reply:
”The touch of the master's hand.”
And many a man with life out of tune
And battered and scattered with sin
Is auctioned cheap to the thoughtless crowd
Much like the old violin.
A mess of pottage a glass of wine;
A game - and he travels on.
He's going once and going twice
He's going and almost gone.
But the Master comes and the foolish crowd
Never can quite understand
The worth of a soul and the change that's wrought
By the touch of the Master's hand.
For composers beyond compare.
Both impelled by an inner goal
To pluck sounds from the air,
And give voice to the human soul.
Sherlock had his Conan Doyle,
Showing music and great books don’t spoil.
But oft comes the time when a fiddler can’t play,
When minor culinary crime doesn’t pay,
Put fiddle down – prunes rampant-run in one’s intestine –
Dash then to the room that you’d do best in,
Crapping what feels like a ’72 Datsun
Proves music’s alimentary, my dear Watson.
MY SWEET BROWN GAL
W'en de clouds is hangin' heavy in de sky,
An' de win's a-taihin' moughty vig'rous by,
I don' go a-sighin' all erlong de way;
I des' wo'k a-waitin' fu' de close o' day.
Case I knows w'en evenin' draps huh shadders down,
I won' care a smidgeon fu' de weathah's frown;
Let de rain go splashin', let de thundah raih,
Dey's a happy sheltah, an' I's goin' daih.
Down in my ol' cabin wa'm ez mammy's toas',
'Taters in de fiah layin' daih' to roas';
No one daih to cross me, got no talkin' pal,
But I's got de comp'ny o' my sweet brown gal.
So I spen's my evenin' listenin' to huh sing,
Lak a blessid angel; how huh voice do ring!
Sweetah den a bluebird flutterin' erroun',
W'en he sees de steamin' o' de new ploughed groun'.
Den I hugs huh closah, closah to my breas'.
Need n't sing, my da'lin', tek you' hones' res'.
Does I mean Malindy, Mandy, Lize, er Sal?
No, I means my fiddle-- dat's my sweet brown gal!
Though tuneless, stringless, it lies there in dust,
Like some great thought on a forgotten page;
The soul of music cannot fade or rust, -
The voice within it stronger grows with age;
Its strings and bow are only trifling things -
A master-touch! - its sweet soul wakes and sings.
VIVA FUI IN SILVIS
SUM DURA OCCISA
SECURI DUM VIXI TACUI
MORTUA DULCE CANO
I was alive in the forest
I was cut by the cruel axe
In life I was silent
In death I sweetly sing
This is an inscription on the face frets of an Elizabethan lute. And, yes it has nothing to do with the violin as it is, but of course such words apply to the violin as well.
What are you thinking, little violin?
What do your clear strings dream?
"Brown rivers have gold depths. The sprightly
softness in the current of the bow."
What are you singing, my little violin?
Who are you calling now? "Truths
the trees, my parents, taught me.
The sky above your childhood home."
Small Song: Anger
I open my books
but they are closed to me.
While I slept, an iron gate
descended, and in one night
was seized with rust an thorns.
Like magic, then,
the notes of the violin
drift through the broken stones, dissolving
the knotted vines, the stems,
the hinges and the bars.
How doth the little violin
Improve its image prudent;
And pour the notes of Bach Sonatas
O'er every golden student.
How cheerfully it seems to grin.
How neatly glisten its blings;
And welcomes little children in,
With gently smiling strings.
A violinist's prayer -
Oh, Lord, may I never impune
Your wish that I stay in tune.
Keep me from sin and trouble
And purify my stops double.
And with hope I fervently pray
That I practice 4 hours a day.
Grant that my brain and dura
Avoid any scordatura.
And be sure I will never falter
To pray at the Heifetz altar.
By the way, Sander,
When you pass into Heaven,
Please leave me your mind!
(Because you are a genius!)
I dislike copyrights in general though, and I think they should expire as soon as the artist/writer/composer, well, expires. They are only useful during the artist's life, so the artist can make a living. But after that...?
Anyway, Anna, I don't think the FBI will come charging in here anytime soon, we're probably fine.
To be a great musician you must be a man of moods,
You have to be, to understand sonatas and etudes.
To execute pianos and to fiddle with success,
With sympathy and feeling you must fairly effervesce;
It was so with Paganini, Remenzi and Cho-pang,
And so it was with Peterkin Von Gabriel O'Lang.
Monsieur O'Lang had sympathy to such a great degree.
No virtuoso ever lived was quite so great as he;
He was either very happy or very, very sad;
He was always feeling heavenly or oppositely bad;
In fact, so sympathetic that he either must enthuse
Or have the dumps; feel ecstacy or flounder in the blues.
So all agreed that Peterkin Von Gabriel O'Lang
Was the greatest violinist in the virtuoso gang.
The ladies bought his photographs and put them on the shelves
In the place of greatest honor, right beside those of themselves;
They gladly gave ten dollars for a stiff backed parquette chair.
And sat in mouth-wide happiness a-looking at his hair.
I say "a looking at his hair," I mean just what I say,
For no one ever had a chance to hear P. O'Lang play;
So subtle was his sympathy, so highly strung was he,
His moods were barometric to the very last degree;
The slightest change of weather would react upon his brain,
And fill his soul with joyousness or murder it with pain.
And when his soul was troubled he had not the heart to play.
But let his head droop sadly down in such a soulful way,
That every one that saw him declared it was worth twice
(And some there were said three times) the large admission price;
And all were quite unanimous and said it would be crude
For such a man to fiddle when he wasn't in the mood.
But when his soul was filled with joy he tossed his flowing hair
And waved his violin-bow in great circles in the air;
Ecstaticly he flourished it, for so his spirit thrilled,
Thus only could he show the joy with which his heart was filled;
And so he waved it up and down and 'round and out and in, -
But he never, never, NEVER touched it to his violin!
I agree with Sandy that Internet copyright issues are particularly problematic (such as jurisdictional difficulties and lack of jurisprudence). Generally speaking, copyright law is in very complex and the answer has to be case by case based. Statutes and applicable common law doctrines are different among US, Canada and other commonwealth countries. There are exceptions to the copyright and the doctrine of fair dealing is often used as a defence. You may want to take a look at the following sites if you haven’t dozed off by now:
Any IP lawyer here?
On Listening to Someone Play the Lute
A beautiful woman sets down her lute, seated here in my hall;
As the banquet ends she prepares to perform just three or four refrains.
Her lamp is alone, the moon is bright, the guests do not depart;
The strings are grieving, the melody swift, it is Autumn Night So Long.
This jeweled lute in our household has long remained unplayed,
Golden frets and pegs of jade without the look of life.
I am touched that you approach it as though with affection;
As soon as you play I cannot help but heave a string of sighs.
The songs of woodsmen echo and answer to the still of a mountain glen;
The songs of Chu are grave and grieving with the pain of a cloudy night.
The Hsiao and Hsiang and Admiring Orchids turn gradually even and free;
All in the room are only aware of the flow of the pure shang tones.
And now I hear white snow begin to settle on dark bamboo,
A raging tempest blowing against my hut beside the creek.
All of a sudden it turns into a visit to the vast and wintry,
And I know that this is the Song of Rainbow Skirts and Feather Robes.
The kung restrained and the ya stir, how they sound and respond!
Pure and cool, ten thousand glens with murmuring breeze-blown pines.
On a hazy crag all evening long, a sadly crying crane;
Where between the river and heaven, a startled coiling dragon?
From the very first my love of music has been a love of this;
The transverse flute and treble pipes only jangle in my ears.
All my life I have always cherished the longings of Chung Tzu-chi,
But in this world it is hard to meet a man like Po Ya-tzu.
And now tonight, or any night, it is this I would not forego;
Just for you I beat the measure as tears drop on my robe.
A lofty song, refined and calm, rare in the world of men;
Though the River revolves and the stars turn round do not go back home!
When the violin can forgive the past
it starts singing.
When the violin can stop worrying
About the future
You will become such a drunk laughing nuisance
That God will then lean down
And start combing you into His hair.
When the viloin can forgive
Every wound caused by others
The heart starts singing.
We have not come here to take prisoners,
But to surrender ever more deeply
To freedom and joy.
We have not come into this exquisite world
To hold ourselves hostage from love.
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