walking in beauty | Richibi's Weblog

“Diet Mountain Dew” – Timothy Donnelly

“Dew Drenched Furze“ (1890)

John Everett Millais

_____________

I have been, perhaps still am,

a grasshopper, which is why I

react so strongly to this poem

at twelve already, after having

read Somerset Maugham’s

“Of Human Bondage“, I knew

such would be my own fate,

love wouldn’t be kind to me

it hasn’t, it ain’t easy being

green

Richard

____________

Diet Mountain Dew

I have built my ship of death

and when a wind kicks up

I’ll cut it loose to do its thing

across an unnamed lake of you,

a firefly sent pulsing through

the non-stop estivation of

the verses of our South, who in

its larval phase would feast

on bitter worms and snails, who

emerges from its mud chamber

our planet’s most efficient

luminescence, who turns

chemical energy into radiant

energy shedding very little heat,

so will I sail the compass of

you pleased with my cold light.

I have built my ship of death

aglow in sturdy chemicals

and powered up at night like

American Express, I’m all

customer service only minus

the customer, no service to speak

of other than death, you will

know my logo by its absence

and slogan from the past

ad for the sugared style of you

on TV in my youth, it goes

like this: “When my thirst

is at its worst . . .” and then I

let it trail off into the unsayable

or is it just unsaid because

my mouth is full of you again.

A green like no other green

in the dale, indelicate green or

green indecent, surpassing

the fern and sprout and April’s

optimistic leaflet some stop

to admire in nature, they take

photographs noncognizant

of other vehicles, you are too

green for pasture, you are

my green oncoming vehicle,

usurper of green, assassin

to the grasshopper and its plan,

I put me in your path which is

the path a planet takes when it

means to destroy another I think

you know I’m O.K. with that.

A green like no other green

resplending in production since

1940 when brothers Barney

and Ally Hartman cooked it up

in Tennessee qua private

mixer named after moonshine,

its formula then revised by

Bill Bridgforth of the Tri-City

Beverage Corp. in 1958, year

Linwood Burton, chemically

inclined entrepreneur and ship

cleaning service owner, sold

his formula for a relatively safe

maritime solvent to Procter

& Gamble of Ohio, who went on

to market it under the name

of Mr. Clean, whose green

approaches yours then at the

last second swerves into

a joke yellow plays on green

to make blue jealous till it

blows up in its face but I can’t

not love the smell of it, citrus

reimagined by an extra-

terrestrial lizard which is to say

inhuman in the way you say

inhuman to me, a compliment

unravelled in the drawl: “Hey

you, over there, you look

so unaccustomed to temporality

I would’ve sworn you were

inhuman,” and time for it after

time I fall, further evidence

of my humanity: I am at heart

no less susceptible to rot

than the felt hat on the head

of the rifle-toting barefoot

hillbilly, your mascot until he

disappeared in 1969. Instinct

says he must have shot his

self in the woods in the mouth

one sunrise when a frost

was at hand and the apples

fell thick and he was way

too awake when he did so not to

think there would be another

waiting like a can of you in

the 12-pack in my refrigerator.

I have built my ship of death

and enough already, every

toxic sip of you preparing for

the journey to bloviation:

I leave to return and return

to depart again the stronger

for a satisfaction being bound

to no port has afforded me:

I have built my ship of death

so that even when I crawl

back down into the hold of it

alive as what unnaturalness

in you can keep me, it’s only

to emerge from the other

end of it intact, and perfectly

prepared to be your grasshopper.

Timothy Donnelly

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carpe diem

“Still Life with Food, Glasses and a Jug on a Table” (1640)

Pieter Claesz

_______

we were having dinner at an upscale
downtown restaurant, I was having
as appetizer wild prawns grilled on
a branch of rosemary with chickpeas,
all illuminated with a filigree of tahini,
as a main course a surf and turf of
crisp pork belly and wild Pacific
octopus with a square of grilled
polenta with again rosemary, Vickie,
a green salad with burrata, a cheese
she touted enthusiastically, to start,
then the same semolina gnocchi
with wild mushrooms and pecorino
my mother was having, as an entree,
though Mom’d had a duck and chicken
liver pâté with rhubarb and orange
mâche salad as an opener

after which we all enjoyed a blackcurrant

curd for dessert, with burnt meringue

over a lemon and orange glaze

Vickie had had a difficult morning,

you need a foam roller, I repeated,

a cylinder I use to relax, and which

I’ve been recommending to all and

sundry for some weeks

how do you feel now, I asked, as I

sipped a fine Platinum Chardonnay

from the Okanagan Valley, she was

having nothing other than water for

a tetchy stomach, she complained,

despite my several oenophilic, which

is to say, wine-loving, exhortations,

even having her smell the clean,

crystalline aromas of my wine

sitting here, on this outdoor veranda,

in this company, among these glittering

wares, I elaborated

she toyed distractedly with her pasta

out of ten, I said, where ten is fabulous,

a word I usually avoid, but which often

seems especially appropriate, what

would you score

seven, she retorted, which I thought

acceptable

you, Mom, I asked, to which without

batting an eyelash she replied, ten,

teaching us both, Vickie and I,

thereby, inadvertently, a lesson

I should’ve expected that, I said back,

you’re always a ten, I would’ve said

seven, I declared, when not a five

though sometimes I’ll admit to a

transcendental eleven, I had to

add, when all of my stars fall right

later we each walked homewards

to our separate domiciles, stars

were speckling, not, maybe,

fortuitously, I noted, an unfettered

night sky

Richard

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March 29, 2016

2016, a rumination‏

“Warning Sign“ (2006)

Banksy

____

in an introspective moment, I mused

the days move on, the years, it’s

2016, beyond what I could ever

have imagined, born as I was

before even television nearly,

1949, Israel was being invented,

the Geneva Conventions were

being devised

the future had been predicted with

“2001” in 1968, Kubrick’s visionary

masterpiece, if not quite with “1984“,

Orwell’s 1949 attack on imminent,

impending, totalitarianism

though that work was too close to

have significant impact, we still, by

that eponymous date, weren’t at all

aware of possible pervasive

personal monitoring, of even

entirely innocent transactions,

we were busy deregulating,

privatizing, ceding our patrimony

to unscrupulous speculators, that

which our forebears had even died

for, who once had been serfs and

as indentured

Big Brother since has been

identified, verified, and you, we,

are the perpetually espied

we are seduced by the idea that

our innocence will be our salvation,

though innocence, like beauty,

truth, is in the eye of the, not

necessarily impartial, beholder

and the beholder, the monitoring

eye, cannot be impartial

see God

we have ever been at the mercy

of not necessarily Reason, but

inexorable Fate, though prayer,

I’ve found, has worked miracles

it is the only hope we have

I wish you miracles

Richard

Richard

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March 25, 2016

“Easter Oratorio”, BWV 249 – Johann Sebastian Bach‏

“Ascension of Jesus” (“La Santisima Trinidad“)

El Greco

______

for Martha and Chris, who still go to Easter

Mass, and whom Martha calls therefore

relics

and for Staf and Annemie, who live in

presently beleaguered Belgium, and

who must, at this time of distress,

need our prayers

having long ago lost track of the Christian

calendar, I only this week found out

Sunday ‘d be Easter, therefore Friday

Good Friday, not that this would much

change my daily routine, but it set me

perusing pertinent art, I knew I could

count on Bach for an oratorio, and sure

enough I found it

an oratorio, as I earlier explained, is an

opera without sets or costumes, usually

associated with religious services, but

Bach had one for every Sunday and

every Christian feast day

after an instrumental introduction,

reminiscent of Handel, I thought,

Bach’s “Easter Oratorio” slips into a

lovely adagio, notable for its exquisite

oboe obligato, where the innocence

and purity of that wind defines the

movement

the ceremonial pomp of the earlier

section then returns to include a

chorus expressing triumph, the

realization that the Lamb of God

has returned

but soon enough, Mary, the soprano

of a quartet of singers, each of the

four singing according to their own –

alto, Mary Magdalene, tenor, Simon

Peter, bass, John the Evangelist –

voices, and accompanied by an

utterly transcendental transverse

flute, sings

“My soul, the spice that embalms

you shall no longer be myrrh. Only

a crown of laurels can soothe your

anxious longing.”

and knocks your socks off

this week at market, stuffing my

organic red pepper and a bag of

handcrafted chips, barbecued,

designer, into my bag, at their

express counter, collecting my

coins, my receipt, my change

purse, my wallet, and last but not

least, of course, my self, I sensed

something of mine drop, looked

dutifully around, could find

nothing, wondered, and made to

excuse me, sir, I heard behind me,

you dropped something

a little boy, an urchin, blond hair,

blue eyes, right out of Charles

Dickens, I thought, eight maybe,

nine, held out a quarter, apparently

mine

why thank you, I replied, enchanted

and you know what, I asked, I’m

going to give this back to you, and

put the quarter back into his hand

the last time I did something like

that, I saw an angel, I remembered,

but that’s another story

thank you, he said back, gleaming

with the maturity of his interaction,

though I’m not sure he wasn’t

himself in fact also a very angel

later I thought I should’ve sent him

for a crème brûlée, a piece of carrot

cake, a pastry, or something, and

berated myself for the paucity of

my recompense

but there is a link to Easter in my

tale, the idea of hope, revival,

regeneration, in the possibility of

goodness reentering the world, a

task inherited by the children, and

whom we must not lead astray

apart from its more traditional

associations, for perhaps the less

observant, people of other creeds

and faiths, if Easter means anything

still, or has ever, it is about just that,

hope, revival, regeneration, nor must

we ourselves betray those ideals

happy Easter

Richard

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March 22, 2016

a rumination on rain‏

“Spring Rain“

Erte (Romain de Tirtoff)

_________

since last November the days have

been short, and have not hastened

since winter to be longer, not

helped either by the most recent

time change, more than anything

a biannual irritant

nor has the rain stopped, apart from

a few clement days, its persistent,

often pounding, onslaught

that’s me, above, expressing my

displeasure

as usual, in distress, I turned to art

to see, or hear, what others might

have to say about my current

dilemma, my chagrin du jour, if you

like, in this instance, the Erte on rain

took the sting out of the raindrops

others had inspired, a Gauguin,

unexpectedly grey, but haunting,

a Monet, of course, equally sombre,

who painted in all weathers

Constable, uncharacteristically

angry, was looking a lot like

Turner, but more direct, accessible,

less oracular, more matter-of-fact,

sensible, reading only the weather

in the weather

Winston Churchill, of all people,

gives us, incidentally, something

in between

a 1900 Paul Mathiopoulos appealed

especially to my sense of poetry

among the artworks I perused,

someone I’ll have to further, for his

tender homage to perhaps other

colours than orange, explore

a John Atkinson Grimshaw, another

to me unknown, does a similar thing

in, essentially, a monochrome, with

a fine mist standing in for ethereality

Miró is ever up to his old tricks,

seeing rain among the other marvels

in his idiosyncratic playpen, if you can

find it

but Erte catches best of all my desire

for irony, sardonicism, self-criticism

in music I couldn’t think of anything

other than Beethoven’s “Der Sturm“

to temper the weather, despite the

fact that rain hadn’t been ever his

inspiration, the title came from his

publisher to increase sales,

Beethoven wrote pure music,

abstract, never specifically literally

to describe, what is called program

music, his descriptions, his

evocations, came unadulterated,

untransliterated, from the heart

in literature nothing beats Somerset

Maugham’s short story, “Rain“, a

masterpiece of intrigue as well as

literary prowess, searing substance

married to superb style

the book was duly made into film,

and several times, with Gloria

Swanson in 1928, Joan Crawford

in 1932, and Rita Hayworth in 1953

none of these slouches

the clouds have now coincidentally

dispersed, the metaphorical ones,

not so surprisingly, have been

meanwhile displaced by my retreat

into art, a recourse I’ve found to be

always dependable, and, yet again,

in this otherwise grim environment,

diverting and trustworthily inspiring

I wish you consequently, also, for

similar reasons, art, a salve along

life’s often obstreperous journey

Richard

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March 12, 2016

“The Afternoon of a Faun” – Vaslav Nijinsky‏

Program for “L’après-midi d’un faune” (1912)

Léon Bakst

_______

though the reference to Pan is not direct

in the title of Nijinsky‘s choreographic

rendition of Debussy‘s 1894 symphonic

classic, itself a musical transposition

of Stéphane Mallarmé‘s 1876 poem,

“L’après-midi d’un faune“, or, in English,

“The Afternoon of a Faun“, the

connections are unmistakably implicit,

not only in the story which is told, but

also in the elements of the dance, which

borrows heavily from Grecian urns, their

static, angular poses

also Mallarmé makes specific allusions to

Syrinx herself, among other nymphs, in his

seminal work, not to mention to the deity’s

eponymous flute

the only change to the original production

in this particular presentation is in the

dancers, here, Rudolf Nureyev performs

with the Joffrey Ballet, where Vaslav

Nijinsky, the choreographer himself,

danced with Sergei Diaghilev‘s Ballets

Russes in the show that made history,

the sets and costumes by Léon Bakst

remain also unchanged, this is what the

audience saw May 12, 1912, at the very

Théâtre du Châtelet in Paris

the piece shocked even irreverent Paris,

of course, for its overt and unapologetic

eroticism, it‘ll probably even shock you,

still

I thought, this is what happened to Berlin

after the First World War, a reconstructed

chthonic* resurgence at the death of an

old order, the Age of Aquarius after the

nuclear scare, “Hair“

famously, Auguste Rodin loved it

Richard

* chthonic: of what makes you snort, grunt,

instinctive forces, the ones which make

a young man’s fancy turn to, well, love

or worse

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March 5, 2016

“Pan and Syrinx” – Carl Nielsen

“Spam“

Andy Warhol

________

at the food market at the corner, an
international conglomerate, which is
close, and consequently convenient,
despite its often ecologically
questionable products, they’ve put
up a placard to tout their healthy,
apparently, nevertheless, fare, a
dude in jeans, life size, greets us
with a smile to outshine the Mona
Lisa‘s

excuse me, I always say before I
realize he’s not real

each time

later, as I’d payed for my generic
organic milk and coffee, one of
the cashier’s was from a distance
trying to delight a baby in a baby
carriage coming my way

cuter than I am, I’ll bet, I said

hard to beat, she responded,
meaning me and not the baby,
I, from the playful twinkle in her
eye, duly and deferentially
surmised

she’s the one who taught me how
to use my credit card more efficiently,
brown hair tied back in a tight short
pony tail, eyebrows to match, and a
smile to light up a stadium

she made my Saturday night, which
at my age, a doddering 66, is all that
is required

meanwhile as I was being turned
into a teenager, Syrinx was still
being hounded by Pan

listen to Carl Nielsen‘s wonderful
evocation

Carl Nielsen, Danish, 1865, 1931

Richard

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March 4, 2016

“Syrinx” – Claude Debussy‏

“Syrinx“ (1892)

Arthur Hacker

__________

though Debussy would’ve called his

“Syrinx“ “Flûte de Pan”, “Pan Flute”,

alas, the name had already been

taken, he therefore came up with the

much more inspired “Syrinx“

Syrinx, with the help of other nymphs,

who’d come at her cry for help as she

fled the god Pan, a pursuer, had been

turned into a bush of reeds, its canes

producing a song so sweet as to

confound and disarm him, impelling

him to create of them that sublime

instrument

Hermes had been telling Argus, Argus

Panoptes, the giant with the hundred

eyes, the story about the pipes he

was playing, an implement received

from Jove, apparently, god of all the

gods, who wanted him to kill Argus,

for confining Io, who’d been turned

into a heifer by Juno, Jove’s wife,

who’d caught him chasing her, Io’s

plaintive lows had been getting to

Juno as Io fretted unfettered through

the fields too close to Olympus

when Hermes’ music finally closed the

giant’s last two eyes, he beheaded him,

but Juno, in merciful recognition of his

service, however ultimately ineffectual,

set them into the variegated tail of the

peacock

are you kidding me, I always think when

I read Ovid’s “Metamorphoses”, and am

ever nevertheless entirely enchanted

a flute solo had not been composed in

over 150 years when Debussy composed

his “Syrinx“, 1913, after C.P.E. Bach’s not

at all unimpressive “Sonata in A Minor“

of 1747, it duly set off a new life for the

long overlooked flute, a reed which

Mozart famously didn’t like

note the tonal, rhythmic, and repetition

shifts from the rigid Classical model,

where these are much more strict,

Impressionism was not only breaking

down pictures, the pictorial arts, but its

sound world as well, it was an utterly

new era, new sensibility, new zeitgeist,

and you can feel it, though you might

not be quite able to immediately

verbalize it, the arts were again, as

they ever ‘ve been, the canary in the

gold mine

Richard

psst:

The Transformation of Syrinx into Reeds

Then Hermes thus: A nymph of late there was
Whose heav’nly form her fellows did surpass.
The pride and joy of fair Arcadia’s plains,
Belov’d by deities, ador’d by swains:
Syrinx her name, by Sylvans oft pursu’d,
As oft she did the lustful Gods delude:
The rural, and the woodland Pow’rs disdain’d;
With Cynthia hunted, and her rites maintain’d:
Like Phoebe clad, even Phoebe’s self she seems,
So tall, so streight, such well-proportion’d limbs:
The nicest eye did no distinction know,
But that the goddess bore a golden bow:
Distinguish’d thus, the sight she cheated too.
Descending from Lycaeus, Pan admires
The matchless nymph, and burns with new desires.
A crown of pine upon his head he wore;
And thus began her pity to implore.

Now while the lustful God, with speedy pace,
Just thought to strain her in a strict embrace,
He fill’d his arms with reeds, new rising on the place.
And while he sighs, his ill success to find,
The tender canes were shaken by the wind;
And breath’d a mournful air, unheard before;
That much surprizing Pan, yet pleas’d him more.
Admiring this new musick, Thou, he said,
Who canst not be the partner of my bed,
At least shall be the confort of my mind:
And often, often to my lips be joyn’d.
He form’d the reeds, proportion’d as they are,
Unequal in their length, and wax’d with care,
They still retain the name of his ungrateful fair.

Ovid

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February 28, 2016

Bassoon Sonata, opus 168 – Camille Saint-Saëns

“Photo; This is the Color of My Dreams“ (1925)

Joan Miró

______

for my sister

a competition program that pits
youngsters against each other,
but on a variety of instruments,
with some operatic voice, has
riveted us to our sets on Friday
evenings, seven o’clock local
time throughout Canada

out of the province of Quebec,
however, and therefore in
French

“Virtuose“ lives up to its name
with extraordinary performances
from mere children, and some
adolescents, you can catch all of
the past episodes, and performers,
on their website

last week a young man delighted
us with a movement from a bassoon
sonata, an unlikely instrument, of
Saint-Saëns, his opus 168

my sister expressed surprise,
un basson, she marvelled

quickly I sought out, of course, the
full composition, it’s otherwise for
me like reading one chapter only
out of a book

it’s a short piece, no longer the
grand statements of the earlier
Romantic Period, but a series of
pastiches, fleeting impressions,
impromptu ruminations rather
than extended dissertations,
something like what I’m doing
here with these texts

you’ll recognize also a similar
approach in other composers of
the period, Debussy especially,
but too Satie, Ravel, Poulenc to
name only a few, the speed of
the new century precluded
extended musical peregrinations,
you’ll remark on the dearth of
symphonies, concertos,
composed during this epoch

the composition is in G major, my
cleaning lady had come over, was
already busy in an adjoining room
at the time, I was nearing the
end of the first movement, the
allegro moderato, a wistful
evocation of spring, I thought,
an innocent, fragile blossom
unfurling its delicate petals
with unaffected grace and
unconscious poetry

the final note sounded, the
bassoonist removed his lips from
the tube, but the note kept on
playing, coming, as I soon
understood, not from the video I
was watching, but from the other
room, Jo had turned on the
vacuum cleaner

o my god/dess, I uttered, hurried
over to where she was, subdued
my enthusiasm in order not to
unduly rattle her, as I brimmed
with my scintillating insight

your vacuum cleaner vacuums in
G, I gushed when she turned to
acknowledge me, it continued the
last note, I explained, of the first
movement of my sonata, Saint-
Saëns’ – say that three times with
a lisp, I interjected – until you
turned your vacuum cleaner off,
which is also, I pointed out, a
wind instrument

her delight was modest compared
to mine, however ever nevertheless
congenial, and quickly she returned
to her duties

I went back tickled pink to my
monitor and the following
movement, the sprightly and equally
enchanting allegro scherzando

Richard

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February 22, 2016

String Quartet in G minor, opus 10‏ – Claude Debussy

Il-ratto-di-Proserpina-Galleria-Borghese

“Pluto and Persephone” (1522)

Gian Lorenzo Bernini

______________

if I’ve been away from my post for so long,

it’s either because my muse had left me,

abandoned me to the rigours of an

especially inclement winter, cold, driving

rain, short somber days, weather for

isolation, insulation, hibernation

or, like Persephone, I’d been abducted

as to an Underworld, moral as well as

meteorological, however cosseted might’ve

been there my stay, eiderdown pillows,

blankets, books, Internet movies, concerts,

plays, until by permission of Pluto, fateful

consort, God of the Netherworld, by the

intercession of Mother Demeter, Queen of

the Harvest, I’ve been allowed, even urged,

to return for spring

where cherry blossoms are burgeoning,

flowers bud in their variety of colours,

birds sing, trees, like myself, begin to

scratch out their brimming script onto

the open-armed page of heaven

I’d left the string quartet evolving towards

Bohemia and Russia, in the capable hands

of Smetana and Borodin respectively, from

its solid roots in Vienna with Haydn and

Beethoven

it would evolve westwards, of course, too

to France eventually, as the centre of art

shifted somewhat from Vienna to Paris in

the late 19th Century, and spread, through

paint mostly, the eye superseding the ear,

wresting the cultural reins from music as

oracle for the times, the new perspective

of Impressionism

here’s a string quartet of Debussy, in G

minor, his opus 10, a world away from

the emotional seductiveness of

Romanticism, but rather driving, electric,

cosmopolitan, teeming with traffic, it’s

1893, the zeitgeist has changed

Richard

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Richibi’s Weblog

Category: walking in beauty

April 3, 2016

“Diet Mountain Dew” – Timothy Donnelly

March 29, 2016

carpe diem

March 29, 2016

2016, a rumination‏

March 25, 2016

“Easter Oratorio”, BWV 249 – Johann Sebastian Bach‏

March 22, 2016

a rumination on rain‏

March 12, 2016

“The Afternoon of a Faun” – Vaslav Nijinsky‏

March 5, 2016

“Pan and Syrinx” – Carl Nielsen

March 4, 2016

“Syrinx” – Claude Debussy‏

February 28, 2016

Bassoon Sonata, opus 168 – Camille Saint-Saëns

February 22, 2016

String Quartet in G minor, opus 10‏ – Claude Debussy