Friday, September 18, 2015

Monday Through Friday: Playlist for September 18, 2015


I Shall Be Married on Monday Morning

By  Anonymous  

As I was walking one morning in spring,

I heard a fair maiden most charmingly sing,

All under her cow, as she sat a-milking,

Saying, I shall be married, next Monday morning.

You fairest of all creatures, my eyes e’er beheld,

Oh! Where do you live love, or where do you dwell,

I dwell at the top of yon bonny brown hill,

I shall be fifteen years old next Monday morning.

Fifteen years old love, is too young to marry,

The other five years love, I’d have you to tarry,

And perhaps in the meantime love you might be sorry,

So put back your wedding, next Monday morning.

You talk like a man without reason or skill,

Five years I’ve been waiting against my will,

Now, I am resolved my mind to fulfil,

I wish that tomorrow was Monday morning.

On Saturday night it is all my care,

To powder my locks and curl my hair,

And my two pretty maidens to wait on me there,

To dance at my wedding next Monday morning.

My husband will buy me a guinea gold ring,

And at night he’ll give me a far better thing,

With two precious jewels he’ll be me adorning,

When I am his bride, on Monday morning.

REFLECTIVE MUSIC: April is in my mistress' face by Thomas Morley

Deaf Night at O'Donnell's

By  Art Nahill  

I happen in

from another unremarkable

Tuesday in the realm

of gratuitous sound, but here,

I can hear again

the quiet voices of the ontological,

the clink of ice cubes

in uplifted glasses,

the scrape of chairs,

the mournful lowing of floorboards,

the long history of blood

retold in my ears.

I scuffle to the bar, thoughts


by my suddenly thunderous

presence in this world,

and the silence flowing

from the neon jukebox,

the silence going down

smooth as the shot

of loneliness that would

naturally follow

a Billie Holiday song

if one were playing—

—while everywhere hands

are fluttering like sheets

in winds of gossip,

hollering above last call

for one more round.

REFLECTIVE MUSIC: Body & Soul by Johnny Green


By  C. D. Wright 

       If this is Wednesday, write Lazartigues, return library books, pick up passport form, cancel the paper.

       If this is Wednesday, mail B her flyers and K her shirts. Last thing I asked as I walked K to her car, “You sure you have everything?” “Oh yes,” she smiled, as she squalled off. Whole wardrobe in front closet.

       Go to Morrison’s for paint samples, that’s where housepainter has account (near Pier One), swing by Gano St. for another bunch of hydroponic lettuce. Stop at cleaners if there’s parking.

       Pap smear at 4. After last month with B’s ear infections, can’t bear sitting in damn doctor’s office. Never a magazine or picture on the wall worth looking at. Pack a book.

       Ever since B born, nothing comes clear. My mind like a mirror that’s been in a fire. Does this happen to the others.

       If this is Wednesday, meet Moss at the house at noon. Pick B up first, call sitter about Friday evening. If she prefers, can bring B to her (hope she keeps the apartment warmer this year).

       Need coat hooks and picture hangers for office. Should take car in for air filter, oil change. F said one of back tires low. Don’t forget car payment, late last two months in a row.

       If this is Wednesday, there’s a demo on the green at 11. Took B to his first down at Quonset Point in August. Blue skies.   Boston collective provided good grub for all. Long column of denims and flannel shirts. Smell of patchouli made me so wistful, wanted to buy a woodstove, prop my feet up, share a J and a pot of Constant Comment with a friend. Maybe some zucchini bread.

       Meet with honors students from 1 to 4. At the community college I tried to incite them to poetry. Convince them this line of work, beat the bejesus out of a gig as gizzard splitter at the processing plant or cleaning up after a leak at the germ warfare center. Be all you can be, wrap rubber band around your trigger finger until it drops off.
       Swim at 10:00 before picking up B, before demo on the green, and before meeting moss, if it isn’t too crowded. Only three old women talking about their daughters-in-law last Wednesday at 10:00.

       Phone hardware to see if radon test arrived.

       Keep an eye out for a new yellow blanket. Left B’s on the plane, though he seems over it already. Left most recent issue of Z in the seat. That will make a few businessmen boil. I liked the man who sat next to me, he was sweet to B. Hated flying, said he never let all of his weight down.

       Need to get books in the mail today. Make time pass in line at the P.O. imagining man in front of me butt naked. Fellow in the good-preacher-blue-suit, probably has a cold, hard bottom.

       Call N for green tomato recipe. Have to get used to the Yankee growing season. If this is Wednesday, N goes in hospital today. Find out how long after marrow transplant before can visit.

       Mother said she read in paper that Pete was granted a divorce. His third. My highschool boyfriend. Meanest thing I could have done, I did to him, returning a long-saved-for engagement ring in a Band-Aid box, while he was stationed in Da Nang.

       Meant to tell F this morning about dream of eating grasshoppers, fried but happy. Our love a difficult instrument we are learning to play. Practice, practice.

       No matter where I call home anymore, feel like a boat under the trees. Living is strange.

       This week only; bargain on laid paper at East Side Copy Shop.

       Woman picking her nose at the stoplight. Shouldn’t look, only privacy we have anymore in the car. Isn’t that the woman from the colloquium last fall, who told me she was a stand-up environmentalist. What a wonderful trade, I said, because the evidence of planetary wrongdoing is overwhelming. Because because because of the horrible things we do.

       If this is Wednesday, meet F at Health Department at 10:45 for AIDS test.

       If this is Wednesday, it’s trash night.

REFLECTIVE MUSIC: String Quartet No. 3 (1) by Philip Glass

The Musical Director faces quite a simple task:
To get a choir to sing – that surely isn’t much to ask!
In rehearsals all he has to do is walk around and shout,
And in concerts merely stand in front and wave his arms about.
Despite these perks the fellow can get noticeably stroppy,
Just because he spots the odd face buried in a copy.
The poor old chap shows all the signs of clinical depression.
He bellows, “Never mind the notes! Please give me some expression!”
So we singers try to help him – give him everything we’ve got –
Which, admittedly, it must be said, is, frankly, not a lot.
We take a breath and hope the sound that issues from our throat
Is something fairly well in time, and somewhere near the note.
But, by the concert, everything’s been carefully refined,
Each subtlety of emphasis been duly underlined.
We build up the crescendo to that wondrous final chord
Whose magical precision makes the audience applaud,
And we all get there together, though God knows how we do –
Sopranos, altos, tenors – and the basses get there too –
Just half a bar behind.

REFLECTIVE MUSIC: Be not afraid, by Felix Mendelssohn

No comments:

Post a Comment