Est in arundineis modulatio musica ripis

Певучесть есть в морских волнах,
Гармония в стихийных спорах,
И стройный мусикийский шорох
Струится в зыбких камышах.

Невозмутимый строй во всем,
Созвучье полное в природе,—
Лишь в нашей призрачной свободе
Разлад мы с нею сознаем.

Откуда, как разлад возник?
И отчего же в общем хоре
Душа не то поет, что море,
И ропщет мыслящий тростник?

И от Земли до крайних звезд
Все безответен и поныне
Глас вопиющего в пустыне,
Души отчаянный протест?


In ocean waves there’s melody
There’s harmony within the clash of elements,
And a harmonious tuneful whisper
Streams through the rippling rushes.
There’s imperturbable order everywhere,
Full consonance in nature,
And only our illusory freedom
Is out of tune with her.
Whence, how did this discord arise?
And why, amidst the universal chorus,
Do human souls not sing as does the sea,
Why does the sentient reed sigh?
And from the earth unto the highest stars
Unanswered to this very day
A voice lamenting in the wilderness,
The soul protests despairingly?




Love Movement


There is a love shift supervening, beside your closest margins.

In the very dearth you stroll upon,

the dross of air you breathe.

The blithe form you move in and out of.

The perception and delusions, penetrating through rough textures of truth.

Love moves its way through seemingly impassable force and bargains its way…

Into your eyes.


For the light of your eyes,  will penetrate the mist of illusions…



Earth raised up her head
From the darkness dread and drear,
Her light fled,
Stony, dread,
And her locks covered with grey despair.

‘Prisoned on watery shore,
Starry jealousy does keep my den
Cold and hoar;
Weeping o’er,
I hear the father of the ancient men.

‘Selfish father of men!
Cruel, jealous, selfish fear!
Can delight,
Chained in night,
The virgins of youth and morning bear.

‘Does spring hide its joy,
When buds and blossoms grow?
Does the sower
Sow by night,
Or the ploughman in darkness plough?

‘Break this heavy chain,
That does freeze my bones around!
Selfish, vain,
Eternal bane,
That free love with bondage bound.’


~ W. Blake



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There comes a point where, sallow eyes…we gaze into the stare of that which shifts us to stone.

We calmly peer onward , seeing all that lies beyond .    Yet, we bide… motionless.

Every inch of our mortal part, un-favored to any outside sense or sensibility.

The ability to palpate and be touched, elapsed in the construct of time…emptied of any human likeness.


A suspended narcosis…fed by the alms to love.

The hearth of a world, void of the stretch of human action, reflection.

Such states without form, yet rigid nonetheless…are moments in perpetuating time.

Bequeathed of the true earth, to sight us of our cracks…

Lest we forget the gaze is fleeting. 

Furlong once and only, in the farness we let it become.

Yet fragile as we are,

so shall the fractures effectively break us…

as we gaze into the eyes of life, nearest

Yet, on the threshold of true feeling

So far.



I see things (… …)
If there was one
I won’t change my mind
Whatever you know
Whatever you do
Never change
Before they have ever (…)

Tell them to stop
Falling off their throne

Never change
Before they have (fallen in)

Wherever you go
Whatever I do


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The Human Abstract


Pity would be no more
If we did not make somebody poor,
And Mercy no more could be
If all were as happy as we.

And mutual fear brings Peace,
Till the selfish loves increase;
Then Cruelty knits a snare,
And spreads his baits with care.

He sits down with holy fears,
And waters the ground with tears;
Then Humility takes its root
Underneath his foot.

Soon spreads the dismal shade
Of Mystery over his head,
And the caterpillar and fly
Feed on the Mystery.

And it bears the fruit of Deceit,
Ruddy and sweet to eat,
And the raven his nest has made
In its thickest shade.

The gods of the earth and sea
Sought through nature to find this tree,
But their search was all in vain:
There grows one in the human Brain.


~ W. Blake



HEY talk of short-lived pleasure–be it so–
Pain dies as quickly: stem, hard-featured pain
Expires, and lets her weary prisoner go.
The fiercest agonies have shortest reign;
And after dreams of horror, comes again
The welcome morning with its rays of peace.
Oblivion, softly wiping out the stain,
Makes the strong secret pangs of shame to cease.
Remorse is virtue’s root; its fair increase
Are fruits of innocence and blessedness:
Thus joy, o’erborne and bound, doth still release
His young limbs from the chains that round him press.
Weep not that the world changes–did it keep
A stable changeless state, ’twere cause indeed to weep.

~ William Cullen Bryant


Please take a brief moment in time…to remember this most  rare and delicate man.   His thoughts were often enlivened by nature, his companion of most times.  He was elated by his surroundings.  There is something to be said…for those who are obliged  to simple beauty and decisive truth.  Romanticism holds its place in isolation, yet there is something to behold there…


Here is a place to follow…if you wish to find more:




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Consistent, the breadth of depth contained in Vini’s fingers and nostalgically  satisfying strums.


βut Βeauty…






¡s in the walking…



— ψe are betrayed…





βy destinations.




For Every beginning, there is some middle ground…perhaps the intangible balance of life.














When you close your doors, and make darkness within, remember never to say that you are alone, for you are not alone; nay, God is within, and your genius is within. And what need have they of light to see what you are doing?




Without mercy… ending brilliance in darkness with light.





It is natural human impulse to think of evolution as a long chain of improvements, of a never-ending advance towards largeness and complexity in a word, towards us. We flatter ourselves. Most of the real diversity in evolution has been small-scale. We large things are just flukes an interesting side branch.

on thy brow
Shall sit a nobler grace than now.
Deep in the brightness of the skies
The thronging years in glory rise.
And, as they fleet,
Drop strength and riches at…



Light of the Shadows…power that befalls you

On the occasion of every accident that befalls you, remember to turn yourself and inquire what power you have for turning it to use.


One knows not the power they occupy…lest one forget the forces which they control. The control of which illusions are placed upon them. 

We carry the keys of ultimate mirth in illusion, utter despondent illusion.  There are forces unknown which live within the earth abounding us…

forces that draw us to truth…forces that draw us into darkness. 

Forces that draw us into light.  For in dark and light, twain… remain in visible verity.

Whence we place our feet…where we scatter and gain, is only relative to the illusion which we have forged and the illusion that will anywise , be destroyed. 

Whether through our own hands, terminated through the breath of our being…there are forces that will guide us, away from the certainty of nothingness.

It is within our function to synchronize with these forces, yet recognizing the potency of nothingness and all that may be constructed to shade us from the light of the shadows


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“The public wants work which flatters its illusions.”

Most of what passes for legitimate entertainment is inferior or foolish and only caters to or exploits people’s weaknesses. Avoid being one of the mob who indulges in such pastimes. Your life is too short and you have important things to do. Be discriminating about what images and ideas you permit into your mind. If you yourself do not choose what thoughts and images you expose yourself to, someone else will, and their motives may not be the highest. It is the easiest thing in the world to slide imperceptibly into vulgarity. But there is no need for that to happen if you determine not to waste your time and attention on mindless pap.



Of Great Musical Note; Attention and Time in Modern “Romanticism”: Final Piece

* Note: It is most appropriate to end this series where it very well may have begun.  Perhaps not in the sense of the aforementioned composers and the likeness of “Romanticism” thereof. But, in the true sense of romance and sensation.  In the true sense of emotive purity.  John Field created the masterpiece framework, the prototype for the oft duplicated…Nocturne.


YOU MAY NEED TO ERASE some music muscle memory to truly listen to the intent on these pieces.  He was the original…yet they that came after him, claimed his lead. If you fail to affirm these things, then merely listen to Nocturne 06 or 12.  They came far prior to the one who asserted that place, those places.*

*Do some research if you please…


 “The principal mark of genius is not perfection, but originality.”


John Field was the prototype for many  whom followed in his footsteps.  Some never even mentioned his name…yet they were truly inspired.  It is almost entirely impossible to not note the similarities in their masterpieces. All baring the original name, John Field.  We shall never truly get to the bottom of whom has borrowed what and why they thought it wise to never pay tribute to this intelligent creature, Mr. Field.  Yet, what is most important is that even now…his message of romance, beauty and ultimately truth lives on.

Please give a moment of your time to reflect simply on the name JOHN FIELD .  It is perhaps one you have never heard…yet he deserves so much merit.  His name must live on.  His truth, his beauty…must live on.


“It is better to fail in originality than to succeed in imitation.”


There’s music in the sighing of a reed;
There’s music in the gushing of a rill;
There’s music in all things, if men had ears:
Their earth is but an echo of the spheres.

~Lord Byron



His notes never quite hit the ground.  They cannot quite simply touch the earth.  This is ethereal, beautiful otherness in form.  Speechless phrases written in the vast sky of lightness.  The fingertips floating on the piano as if hardly able to barely brush with the human touch. The personification of airiness.  The prototype, the muse….for all those that followed him.  For they never come close, to being him.  Beautiful though they may be…imitators to the muse ;they wrote through skin .  They receive praise through his name, his message.  He has all but been forgotten in most senses.  Yet the message lives on their music… he was the messenger of the natural truth.


A petit field…
To the Irish pianist and composer John Field has been credited the invention of the Nocturne, a form later adopted and developed by Chopin. Field was born in Dublin in 1782, the son of a violinist, but moved with his family to London in 1793, perhaps taking violin lessons from Haydn’s friend Salomon. He became an apprentice of Muzio Clementi, appearing in a series of important London concerts, and later touring widely. After concerts in Russia, he remained in St. Petersburg, where he became a fashionable teacher and performer, moving to Moscow in 1821. Illness brought him, in 1831, to London again, a visit followed by a continental tour and a final return to Moscow, where he died in 1837.

A grander field…

Very few composers are credited with having ‘invented a form’, but the one thing most people know about John Field is that he invented the nocturne. It isn’t true, of course: others before him (Haydn for one) had used the term ‘nocturne’ or ‘notturno’, either for a short, lyrical piece or a kind of serenade. But it was Field who cultivated it both as an idea and a genre, and associated it inescapably with the piano. Perhaps more important is the fact that he was the first Celtic voice – certainly the first Irish composer – to make a contribution to European concert music. And his contribution, though not massive in itself, had huge consequences. Field came from a family of musicians and was something of a prodigy, giving his first concert in Dublin at the age of nine.

He also benefited from the generosity of his father, who was willing to outlay the huge sum of 100 guineas to place the 12-year-old boy in a seven-year apprenticeship in London with Muzio Clementi, who as well as being a publisher and piano manufacturer, was one of the greatest pianist-composer-teacher impresarios of the age. Clementi recognized his talent, and Field became the master’s favourite pupil. His early London concerts (with two years knocked off his age for publicity purposes) were a marked success. Even the visiting Haydn was impressed, writing of ‘Field a young boy, which plays the pianoforte Extremely well’. In return for lessons in pianism and composition, Field had to demonstrate the pianos in Clementi’s warehouse with his improvisations. He first appeared as composer-pianist at the age of 16 with the performance of his First Piano Concerto at the King’s Theatre in February 1799, and in 1801 published his Op. 1, a set of piano sonatas dedicated to Clementi.

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An apropos ending…




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