New thread: Your Poems Inspired by Music

Perhaps the poets on the LNF can post their original works based on, inspired by, or lyrics for already-existing songs which-- as far as we know-- do not have them.
(I don't mean alternative lyrics to songs or parodies--though parodies could be a different thread.)

Anyway, here's one inspired by "Recuerdo" by Dave Brubeck:

Recuerdo

Sadly and gladly
I remember
Sultry summer nights of bliss
The stars shyly hiding behind the mist
Tiny fireflies blinked and hissed
When day and evening kissed
And you were here with me
And you were here with me


Sadly and gladly
I remember
Crisp and apple-ripened days
The harvest and the silky maze
The glowing gold, the smoky haze
In that sweet October phase
When you were with me
When you were with me


Recalling winters when the snow
Tried so hard to drown us like a sea
The cold cutting cleanly through the fire
The sparks floating up, the sparks floating up
Warm embraces sufficing to surround me
With love clearly melting into desire

Comes the springtime
And I can still remember
When teary threats of clouds were few
A million tiny suns reflected in the dew
Quiet songs of joyful life anew
And I was there with you
I was there with you


Sadly and gladly
When I remember
The youthful years endless and free
A life of young possibility
A love still meant to be
You are still with me
You are still with me.
And you are still with me.

Aunt Shecky
All rights reserved.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by AuntShecky

Perhaps the poets on the LNF can post their original works based on, inspired by, or lyrics for already-existing songs which-- as far as we know-- do not have them.
(I don't mean alternative lyrics to songs or parodies--though parodies could be a different thread.)

Anyway, here's one inspired by "Recuerdo" by Dave Brubeck:

Recuerdo

Sadly and gladly
I remember
Sultry summer nights of bliss
The stars shyly hiding behind the mist
Tiny fireflies blinked and hissed
When day and evening kissed
And you were here with me
And you were here with me


Sadly and gladly
I remember
Crisp and apple-ripened days
The harvest and the silky maze
The glowing gold, the smoky haze
In that sweet October phase
When you were with me
When you were with me


Recalling winters when the snow
Tried so hard to drown us like a sea
The cold cutting cleanly through the fire
The sparks floating up, the sparks floating up
Warm embraces sufficing to surround me
With love clearly melting into desire

Comes the springtime
And I can still remember
When teary threats of clouds were few
A million tiny suns reflected in the dew
Quiet songs of joyful life anew
And I was there with you
I was there with you


Sadly and gladly
When I remember
The youthful years endless and free
A life of young possibility
A love still meant to be
You are still with me
You are still with me.
And you are still with me.

Aunt Shecky
All rights reserved.

---

I don't know Recuerdo, but I like the sound and the rhythm of this. Is there a break in the music as in the third stanza?

The song itself has a bit of a Caribbean beat. The version which I have on CD has Dave Brubeck on piano and the late, great Gerry Mulligan on sax.
The middle stanza of the lyric represents the bridge, perhaps.
If you are able to hear the recording, the lyrics don't match up note-for-note. There are numerous breaks and
riffs and improvs, of course. But I tried to get my lyric to at least capture the spirit of the melody itself.
Thanks so much for your reply!

Now I hope you and other networkers will post some musically-inspired lyrics!

This is a great thread!!! I've been thinking for a long while of starting something like this but kept putting it off. Looking forward to reading the entries!

Miles and 'Trane

How far couldja, wouldja go
how far to gauge how high
the moon, how would you groove
with two feet cemented in the mud?
How can you be cool?
How many times can you request Epistrophy
or Ornithology
and don't forget
Mack the Knife for Evidence
that one is cool?
Cool? How poignant
(also a little pathetic)
when the sea, the sky,
(and you and I) are blue,
all blue,
and this middle-aged
white woman, a wannabe
drives on
thrives on
lives on
needs
these notes,
those riffs,
that rhythm,
and pressing her nose
against the glass of the past
stands stiffly still on the outside
lookin' in,
ah so easily sucked in
to the cult of Coltrane,
the miracle of Miles,
transcendent trumpet,
sacred sax,
Oh heavenly music of Thelonious Sphere,
inaccessible, how high, how far away?
So what?
So what?

So what if they've both left
this realm, never to be heard again
live, but for the survival
of clinically-perfect CDs
and remastered tapes
and obsolete though somehow
richer, warmer, purer vinyl
on the stereo
but neverevereverever
on the AM radio
So what?
So what?

So what if the Miles Davis mystique
somehow threatens the status quo?
If in legendary insouciance
he turned his back
on the finger-snappin'
toe-tappin'
name-droppin'
tab-runnin'
buck-passin'
check-dodgin'
fashionably-neurotic
and self-consciously hip
club-hoppin' liberals
so that the sounds he made
from his lips (to God's ears)
around the valves
and through the bell
had to bend
and take a one-eighty,
make a U-turn,
to reach us --
so much more delicious
for their sheer defiance!
And didn't he remind us
of his contemporary
Ted Williams,
who declined to disguise
his occasional contempt
for the yahoos in the Fenway stands?
We forgive little lapses
from the great:
the man could hit.
And Miles, the Ted Williams
of Fifty-second Street,
he could play. He wasn't
shall we say just
whistlin' Dixie, Toots.

While 'Trane's heavenly sounds defied
comparisons and frustrated
bearded critics who wanted to describe
him as a baby Bird, a second Prez,
as he prayed while he played
with an unworldly lyricism
a love supreme
a love supreme
and listeners accustomed
to shuffling music into the background
found themselves sucked in
to a different plane
a love supreme
a love supreme
How high, how far
would he go
until he sent the sound
beyond jazz. Hell,
it wasn't even mere music any more
but something purer, warmer, richer
a love supreme
a love supreme.

Another man named John wrote of love
from the stance of a skittish Puritan
(if sent to this sinful century
he supposedly would have shunned
Birdland and the Five Spot and the low down wail)--
But with his eyesight fading
like darkness descending on the doomed,
his vision deepened
when he dreamt and wrote
of Paradise
and of the first
man who looked upon the first
woman for the primordial first
time.
Milton's Adam when he looked at Eve
said that he was "transported,"
lifted up,
"sent,"
transported
and deposited into another realm
transported
as if he weren't really
Adam anymore
no longer a man
not made of mud
but a spirit
who could be transported
by a love supreme.

And now on this battered earth,
this cacophonous box of noise
with its incessant electronic
chatter and information
overload and its E-Z
payment travel plans
via supersonic ships
and flatulent vehicles
the gates
stay
slammed shut
and there is NO ESCAPE

except for the rare
and beautiful transport
available to ears that hear
and surrender their spirits to soar
on the train
that rides
for miles
and miles.

Aunt Shecky
All rights reserved.

Whoa Nellie! I'm breathless. You may THINK you're standing on the outside, but girl, I would say you are on the inside. Wow!

Inspired by "Farewell Dear Bilbo" by Howard Shore, for the Lord of the Rings.

A funny little timed dance
Morphs into a slow, sylvan tune
A hint of wistfulness creeps in
Turns into a heartwrenching call
The heart answers to duty
Off to see the world
It's grand! See the pennants on the pinnacles!
The peaks of the world are majestic
And I will climb each one,
The blood in my veins pounding with excitement
So much to see!
The road goes ever on--
A beauty that fills my heart
Sets it beating in awe
Though not all is pleasant
Soon, I tire.
I want to go home.
Something evil walks the forest,
Not hiding itself,
And yet, a hidden strength blossoms.
I find in me the courage to go on
Through wind, and rain, and darkness
Through the evil that follows my steps
I will remain....
Myself.

[The following was inspired by "One Bass Hit" by the Modern Jazz Quartet. Percy Heath was the bassist in that
group. A note to our younger LitNetWork participants, the
bass appearing in this piece is "unplugged;" indeed, it is the stand-up bass once a staple of most jazz combos.]

One Bass Hit

Miss Marianne Moore had it right–
about that affinity between writing and baseball,

but what – - may we ask– about music?
the graceful choreography of a double play,

the operatic chorus of the crowd,
the harmonic crack when ball meets bat.

Up to the plate steps Mr. Percy Heath–
Bumpa-bump ba-dah pa dah bah dah
Bumpa budabah dah pa dah bump

And remember some great singles
hitters of history, and their sweetly
melodic names: Ichiro and Biggio,
Sissler and Luis Aparicio--

Bumpa-bump ba-dah pa dah bah dah
Bumpa budabah dah pa dah bump

Boggs, and poor beleaguered Pete Rose,
making contact, connecting!--
they say that chicks love
the long ball, but singles
are just fine with me,
‘cause, you know, those hits
can really add up.

O say, can you hear
those tones, deep down, those
frozen ropes, the infield bloopers,
the plunked-down strings?

Bumpa-bump ba-dah pa dah bah dah
Bumpa budabah dah pa dah bump

Base hit!
Bass hit !

Aunt Shecky
All rights reserved.

There they are, under the pillows
again, enjoying their furtive,
late-night conversations. It's no use
telling them insanity is rude.
It's what they want to hear.


Charming suicides, they know nothing
about Mozart's worried sweetness.
All they want is to find
an applecart to turn over.
Any old applecart. Love. Or happiness.

J. Newman Sudden Proclamations copyright 1992

I liked this piece, Prince Myshkin. After a brief popularity engendered by that "Amadeus" movie, Mozart isn't as "trendy" as it was. But I'm glad you still appreciate him. By the bye, did you ever hear a number by that famous group, Canadian Brass, as if Mozart were a contemporary rock star? Their concerts, as you may know,
are mostly classical, but they can also toot a mean Fats Waller.

Is that not supposed to be Eine Kleine Nachtmusik? or is it a title of the poem thats a play on words?

The night was perfect
Amongst the river we sat.
Hendrix played Little Wing
And we remembered gladness.
You said, 'take anything you want from me'.
I said, 'I'm not here to take, but I accept your gift'.
And we kissed....

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by karo

The night was perfect
Amongst the river we sat.
Hendrix played Little Wing
And we remembered gladness.
You said, 'take anything you want from me'.
I said, 'I'm not here to take, but I accept your gift'.
And we kissed....

---

The thoughts, the content, could hardly be more lovely; but the restraint is what makes for its heartbreaking quality.

Countess Giulietta, for you the gentle
ruminations came in simple chords,
that rose and rose again in questions.

You and he in midnight, walking,
the pace is there, his long stride,
and you, in three’s, corset and train.

Did Rellstab name it from a vision
of Lucerne? Or was it Quasi una fantasia,
for you were the love and dream.

What garden, walked in moonlight?
What visions came so softly, silently,
lightly, like the wings of night birds

that nested in the strings, the grain of wood
that felt his ear against its subtle breathing,
when they sang of black fleeing into black.

His lamentation turned to prayer, lifting
to the night sky, descending to despair,
again demanding the air deliver its moving.

Giulietta, he did return to your measured step,
in his darkest places, resolved that Schiller’s Joy,
astounding heaven, remained bound within him,

heard in silence, and the unbearable sound of faces.

Meade Lux Special Boogie

The late Mr. Shaw lives
in these blues-changing lines
boogie woogie melody and rhythm
riding, riding
a clickety-clacking
train on a track

in the time-sprung tradition
of tunes on the rails:
the hobo’s song,
the lonely, whistling wails --

not to mention Maestros
Mercer and Arlen and
their blues in the night
helps me forget all the things
my momma never done tol’ me.

Folks still ride trains
but not as much
not as much
not as much
as they used to

but more than they listen
to this music or the rain –

Meade Lux Lewis, Jimmy
Yancey, and
this is Artie, Man! --
and Woody and Benny
(A Goodman nowadays
is hard to find) – little
combos, big bands,
big-time clarinets:

could sound rickety
but magically made new.

O God thank you thank you
thank you
thank you for
such riches old and new
on this low-down dirty ol’ earth
and thank you for the sun and moon
and thank you for the stars

and thank you for --
not making me live
not making me live
not making me live
in a world without jazz

All Rights Reserved

Diminuendo in Blue

Duke. Newport, 1956.
Way before your time,
not mine. I didn't know
from jazz then; was unbaked,
just beginning to cook up dreams.

The centerpiece
then and there
was a tenor sax solo:
twenty-seven choruses
whipping up the crowd
into a frenzy
frothier than the foam
on Narragansett Bay.

This was the long bridge
before the crescendo.

Nothing like that
here and now:
the record, starving,
a definite diminishing.

Where was my feast,
my triumph,
my Paul Gonsalves moment?

Cheer up, they tell me.
Snap out of it.
There’s no use crying
over a spilled life.

Lately prophets
are predicting
that the world
will end soon.
True? Good
Christ! I'm not ready.

An improv in the interval,
staving off
the personal apocalypse
with table scraps of joy
from concerts of old tunes.




All Rights Reserved.

Unlike his devotees
who toast him with a glass
and a flute

across the centuries,
a life lived a cappella
bereft of composure,
this silence of a mute–

his own drums beaten,
his fists were shaken
at the sky, forsaken,

beyond passion’s fearing,
he himself beyond hearing
his own thunder and a sigh.

All Rights Reserved.

Oscar Peterson
(1925- 2007)

We've heard tunes
like "Tenderly" before
but never like this.

Your piano had a little blues,
a little stride, and a mystical
note like an angel's kiss.

I mean those crazy things
you did with the pedals
that gave the music wings.

Were you to write
Your own requiem
it wouldn't be a dirge--
it would swing.

O thank Canada for
sending this sound to me!

Farewell, dear maestro,
Oscar P.

http://www.cnn.com/2007/SHOWBIZ/Musi....ap/index.html

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by AuntShecky

Oscar Peterson
(1925- 2007)

We've heard tunes
like "Tenderly" before
but never like this.

Your piano had a little blues,
a little stride, and a mystical
note like an angel's kiss.

I mean those crazy things
you did with the pedals
that gave the music wings.

Were you to write
Your own requiem
it wouldn't be a dirge--
it would swing.

O thank Canada for
sending this sound to me!

Farewell, dear maestro,
Oscar P.

http://www.cnn.com/2007/SHOWBIZ/Musi....ap/index.html

---

What a beautiful tribute to a beautiful person. Thank you, Aunty. :)

Thank you. Canada has much to be proud of!

I love Enya and one day while listening to her very beautiful, "To Go Beyond (II)", these words from my very favorite scripture about the road to Emmaus (Luke 24:13-32) came to mind. I had been searching for a song about Emmaus and these two things just seemed to meld together perfectly. These words are meant to be sung to this very lovely instrumental piece. It is important that you listen to the long version for it is at the swell in the music that carries the emotion of the line, "Now we see, Lord!" It is on Enya's 1986 CD entitled "Enya", track 15.

To Go Beyond

Walking along on the road to Emmaus,
We came upon a man we did not recognize,
He searched our eyes and our souls with his questions,
He thought us fools, slow of heart to believe,
We hungered for more of what he had to say,
Stay with us now for the daylight is passing,
Please bless and break the bread.

Now we see, Lord! It's you our savior!
Now you've removed this veil of mystery for us,
Oh taste and see how gracious the Lord is,
Blessed is man who trusteth in him.

Lord you are our way, our truth,
Our life, our light, our feast, our strength,
To go beyond with such mercy unknown,
We know God and love are one.

ampoule, December First, TwoThousand

Blues for the Bard

How oft I wonder ‘bout the music played
in plays Will wrote. Without a jammin’ sound,
the dulcimer and sackbut scarcely swayed.
What if our modern jazz had been around?
From hautboy or hurdy-gurdy tunes would leap,
not cranked but bopped by hipster’s hands.
Oh boy, what jokes from “virginal” they'd reap
if bluesmen had a gig at the Globe’s old stands!
It tickles me to think of Cleo’s ship,
its burnished decks all rocked with Dixieland,
or to see a scene with Falstaff’s ale-stoked lips
upon a horn that bounced in Basie’s band.
If jazz had somehow sprung from Time’s clock’d jail,
then Will, methinks, would've swung, perchance to wail.

AuntSchecky, you might enjoy this

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6S6IJ...eature=related

A modern day Romeo & Juliet

Countess Giulietta, for you the gentle
ruminations came in simple chords,
that rose and rose again in questions.

You and he in midnight air, wordlessly,
secretly, arm in arm, he in stride
and you reticent, corset and train.

Did Rellstab name it from a vision
of Lucerne? Or was Quasi una fantasia
for you, the love and dream.

What garden, walked in moonlight?
What visions came so hauntingly, silently,
beautifully, like the quiet wings of night birds

that nested in the strings, the grain of wood
that felt his ear against its subtle breathing,
when they sang of black fleeing into black.

His lamentation turned to prayer, lifting
to the night sky, descending to despair,
again demanding the air deliver its motion.

Giulietta, he did return to your measured step,
in its darkest paces, resolved that Schiller’s Joy,
astounding heaven, remained bound within him,

bound in silence, but for the unbearable sound of faces.

Gently I ask, "firefangled....who are you?
Where are you from and just how did you get to today?"
You know I don't mean Florida, but all those sonatas, those moonlit nights, those visions in your dreams.
I will never forget how absolutely shaken I was the first time I stood with a chorus and sang Ode to Joy with the orchestra going wild. Oh how my heart pounded.
What a gorgeous person you are and what a poem.....oh.....

AuntShecky...thank you for this wonderful thread. You are so very clever and talented.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by ampoule

Gently I ask, "firefangled....who are you?
Where are you from and just how did you get to today?"
You know I don't mean Florida, but all those sonatas, those moonlit nights, those visions in your dreams.
I will never forget how absolutely shaken I was the first time I stood with a chorus and sang Ode to Joy with the orchestra going wild. Oh how my heart pounded.
What a gorgeous person you are and what a poem.....oh.....

AuntShecky...thank you for this wonderful thread. You are so very clever and talented.

---

Thank you , Ampoule. I wrote this years ago after seeing Immortal Beloved one night at the midnight show. I could not sleep that night as I cannot tonight. I am glad my poem greeted you early in the day. :)

" You'd never know it,
But I'm a kind of poet,
And I've got a lot of things to say. . ."
--Johnny Mercer (November 18, 1909-June 25, 1976)


Mercer, Mercy Me

Other than calling me “Lazybones”
My Mama never told me much,
Never assured me that anywhere
I hung my hat could be home.

(She wasn't big on e-liminating
the negative and often messed
with Mr. In-Between.)

I never knew that a glowworm’s light
in the cool, cool, cool of the evening,
could brighten like the midnight sun--
no matter what, come rain, come shine.

I grew up like that, day in, day out,
until I heard the songs
that Savannah’s favorite son
“borrowed from the birds.”

Though I hate watching
the autumn leaves of October go,

peel me another tangerine,
conjure me up those marvelous
words! Play me another song --
just one more --
for the road.



Tomorrow, November 18, will mark the 100th anniversary of Johnny Mercer's birth.
Here's a lovely 7 minute video tribute I found this am:

http://video.aol.com/video-detail/jo...57343731?flv=1

This is as precious as it is artful. You weave the songs into the poem so seamlessly that we might need to ask which was the inspiration for which.

“As the small pebble stirs the peaceful lake;/The centre mov’d, a circle strait succeeds,/another still, and still another spreads. . .”
--Alexander Pope

Spheres of Influence

With your chords so angular, so oblique, Monk,
those tome-bound terms like “crepuscule” and “Epistrophy,” Monk,
and those asymmetrical lines ending without finality, Monk –

did they all come from humor or from pain,
or merely quirky probings of your mind?
We felt like fishermen coming home with empty nets,
or astronauts marooned by space, by time.

You jumped from a circumscribed orbit
too hip for the room – and then
your supernova exploded
like an ever-widening sphere.

The other day I splashed a rock
into the kill just to watch
the ripples swirl around.
Then I looked up through the blue
at the brilliant corners of the sun,


and there you were.


April, 2008

There is something wonderful, is there not, in paying heartfelt tribute to an artist one admires?

I'm especially taken with

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by AuntShecky

We felt like fishermen coming home with empty nets,
or astronauts marooned by space, by time.

---

and

Quote:

---

The other day I splashed a rock
into the kill just to watch
the ripples swirl around.
Then I looked up through the blue
at the brilliant corners of the sun,


and there you were.

---

Marvellous, thanks.

This is acutally an older poem of mine, wrote it in high school, but it was inspired by the song Kiss From a Rose by Seal

Kiss Of a Rose

I have seen many a strange and wondrous thing
as I walk the desolate street the wind blowing through
my hair.
I have heard the voices in the air as I danced naked in the rain.
The water streaked down my body to cool the burning flesh.
I have smelled the smoke in the sky as the light of the flame
danced in my eyes to set my face aglow.
I have felt the love in my heart with the touch of your lips
upon my bare skin.
Now I stand here alone so excited for all I have known.
And now I stand in the night and howl at the moon as the chill
of the water runs down the curve of my breast. The wind it runs
over my back as sensual as the touch of your hand.
The smell of the rose I hold in my hand whiffs up to my nose as
sweet and soft as your own sent when we have united.
I push open the gate cold steel steal against my hand as it creaks
I step in. Memories haunt me of times when you were near.
The shadows converge around me and remind me of the feel of your
arms around me. I walk down the path, tree leaves rustle a sound
sweet as your breath.
I stop where I am going and look down to place my rose upon your
grave as a tear rolls down my cheek.
Good-bye my love for you are gone and I am left here alone naked
in the rain and the wind with the stars to guide me home and memories
of out nights to keep me warm.
The sense of your touch to my skin, your lips to my mouth, the sent of
your passion, the sound of your moans will forever surround me. Like
night, day, shadow, and shade forever I shall love you.

I like your choice of words at strategic places in this from the play on his middle name to the ambiguity of kill, which I took as an allusion to his playing style as well as a creek or stream.

There are probably even more interesting things I'm not seeing as of this reading. I am going to count the stresses when I have more time, suspecting there are 88 in the poem (maybe not). Anyway, Auntie, I really enjoyed this for all its style and feeling. Was T smiling when you saw him?

Dark Muse, the "pattern" of your piece looks like a waterfall! I like verse that looks good on the "page," even when the "page" is virtual.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by AuntShecky

Dark Muse, the "pattern" of your piece looks like a waterfall! I like verse that looks good on the "page," even when the "page" is virtual.

---

Thank you, going through some of my older works, I have a few written in a simillar way, though I have over the years naturally migrated from that style, I myself like how it looks and have thought of trying to rengage in writing like that again.

Interesting thread.

I wrote a short simple poem from what I 'heard' in a lucid dream a few years ago (I shan't explain further to avoid the rolling of eyes by readers):

The Sabbath Day Is Here !

The Sabbath Day is here !
The Sabbath Day is here !
I'm grateful for the Sabbath Day
The Sabbath Day i-is here !!

Since then I have recently learned a little music theory and composition (enough to score, edit, and convert a simple song with open source freeware) and have scored 13 variations of the poem/song; my music teacher was kind enough to come up with 2-delightful variations herself. My goal is to expand upon the 'lyrics' to have a more complete "Primary" song.

Here is my instrumental only variation of Rev9_The Sabbath Day.mp3 - about a 450 Kb download.

Hope you enjoy.

[poem/lyrics/music © tailor STATELY]

These are some lyrics I wrote inspited by a cross between Tool, and NIN

Black Messiah

Blood of my blood
skin of my skin
tonight's the night
we taste our sin

Pass the chalice
round the fire
purified on this hour

Drink it all in
seeing visions of the past
with your name dying
on my lips

Don the masks of death
while we dance
to the ways of flesh

Blood of my blood
skin of my skin
tonight's the night
we taste our sin

Drunk on the sight of you
betrayed with a kiss
and a serpents hiss
send me to the grave

Lost in the scent of you
I die happy again
sinner I know
sinner I love
count my blessings
I'll never rise above

Blood of my blood
skin of my skin
tonight's the night
we taste our sin

I went on a quest
seeking your abyss
how sweet it was to fall inside

I'll not be saved
and I'll not pray
for a walk in your Garden's fire

Blood of my blood
skin of my skin
sin of my sin

Swallow me down
eat me alive
chained to the cross
bore around your neck

Blood of my blood
skin of my skin
tonight's the nights
we taste our sin

Touch me to your lips
let my blood fill your cup
and I'll come again
as long as you live

Black fire burns
behind your eyes
as we live in our lies
for you I am crucified

Blood of my blood
skin of my skin
sin of my sin

Blood of my blood
(take me away)
skin of my skin
(forever I'll stay)
sin of my sin
(immortality)

This was inspired by Voodoo by Godsmack

Mr. Voodoo Man

Lord of ash and bone
dance in the serpents spiral
as distant drums beat
taste the venom in my veins
now so far away
the spell cast over my eyes
walk me through your dreams
where the sky is painted in black
and you chant your charms
mister shaman, my soul-man
the voodoo we do
while caught in the snakes eye
reborn on ritual ground.

The following is not intended to knock the award-winning composer/musician/singer but rather present an affectionate tribute. He is, after all, known for his sardonic wit and delightfully subversive world-view, so perhaps he won't mind that I kid, I kid. Strictly speaking, the ditty below is not a parody, because it doesn't follow the original song, "You Can Leave Your Hat On," note for note and syllable for syllable. An allusion to Frank "Baby It's Cold Outside" Loesser has also been thrown in this hypothetical answer to the provocative -- and catchy!-- song of seduction which we like to call

Variation on a Theme by Randy Newman

It's your wish and your vote
that I take off my coat.
But it's frigid today and I can't really stay.
Guess I'll leave my coat on.

I hear you say that you choose
that I take off my shoes.
But then you'd see my torn hose
and their holier soles.
Guess I'll leave my shoes on.

You give me reason to leave.
You give me reason to leave.
You give me reason to leave.

You want me to take off my dress,
With my slip such a mess?
Who wants a scratch or a prick
from some safety pin's stick?
I'd better leave my dress on.

We don't know what love is.
We don't know what love is.
We don't know what love is,
except we know it's not now.

Suppose I take off my hat?
Maybe I'll take off my hat.
All right, I'll take off my hat--
but no more than that.

I posted this in the Personal Poetry section, then remembered this thread.

If you're familiar with the Leonard Cohen song or any of the more recent popular versions, this should fit.

Best Wishes for the holiday season to all Lit-Netters!

Desparate Hallelujah
The story goes that You were born
on a starry night, the silence torn
by infant screams and those who thought they slew Ya.
Far from that shed,
the swords and sin,
the sheperds watched the moon go dim,
while descending angels chanted hallelujah.

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah

So it goes that You lived and died.
They pierced your hands, Your feet, and side,
but You don’t really pass away now, do Ya,
nor live your life
with endless pain,
a penance for a heaven gained
in which we’ll sing eternal hallelujahs.

Hallelujah, Hallelujah

Are You watching these religious wars?
Are You really that worth killing for?
I thought it was a sin according to Ya.
You free us to live by the sword.
You call us and we plead, My Lord,
in a whispered and a desparate hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah

They tell us You were born to die,
and aren’t we all, but tell me why
it’s set up so we feel we tried to fool Ya.
While doing what we need to do,
we’re told to put our faith in You,
but where are You in all Your hallelujahs?

Hallelujah, Hallelujah

Do you laugh at us when we call it fate,
to die too soon or be born to late,
or think we’ve hit a lucky streak—well do Ya?
If for ourselves we must break free,
we’ll tell You, “It’s not You, it’s me
and my throat is sore from screaming hallelujah.”

One more thing, this time of year
we draw the ones that we love near
for an old tradition long before we knew Ya,
we light some candles, burn a tree,
and hope that all the world can see
it’s love that is the brightest hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah

Quote:

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Originally Posted by PrinceMyshkin

There they are, under the pillows
again, enjoying their furtive,
late-night conversations. It's no use
telling them insanity is rude.
It's what they want to hear.


Charming suicides, they know nothing
about Mozart's worried sweetness.
All they want is to find
an applecart to turn over.
Any old applecart. Love. Or happiness.

J. Newman Sudden Proclamations copyright 1992

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re-posted by request