New Music

Appearances of late might cause one to think this should be called New Poetry. I like poetry, and I'm not completely horrible, but this simply is not the case. I actually spend much more time writing music, and the volume of music I've written is proof of as much. I just haven't plastered so much of it here.

So here's a bit of my more recent work, in this case two pieces for brass quintet as performed by John Perkins and Alex Pickard on trumpet, Bruce Gordon on horn, and Dan Witter and Todd Yatsook on trombone.

Fanfare and Fugue for Brass Quintet

Romon's March

This is a slightly more extended piece. I'd even go so far as to say it's somewhat better, but at present the only recording I have is one executed by a computer. And they've got no soul, to say the least, so it's missing a certain something. But here it is anyway:

Toccata for Keyboard

In the slightly less new music category (but still quite new in the grand scheme of things) here are two pieces performed by Rachel Aubuchon for a recital in the University of Missouri at Columbia’s Whitmore Hall in April of 2004:

Rondo on a Lullaby for Norah

Fugue in G-sharp Minor

There's quite a lot more where that came from, including a growing body of orchestral works, and scores to a few radio plays, but this will suffice for now. While this is very much at the core of my being, it may well be that the majority of the people on here will prefer not to delve that deeply into me. I seem to have a musical style that's horribly out of fashion embedded into the deep parts of my psyche. It's my private curse, I suppose, but I wouldn't trade it for all the world. It would be a very bad trade if I did.

So happy surfing net fans. And enjoy what you may.

Sincerely,
The Composer

The Flesh

What exactly does one do
When one hates the flesh?
It’s difficult to comprehend
Why nothing seems to mesh,
All broken crags and tortured ground.

The devils of psychology
Let loose upon our souls
Run marathons with energy
Borrowed from our goals
Wreak havoc, leave us bound
To with’ring limbs and useless pounds.

How do we win redemption
From the demons of the mind
Whose cold compressive tentacles
Round ‘bout our egos wind?
We’ve lost our way, our corpse unsound,
With failing sight, our key unfound,
The tumblers rust, the lock froze shut
We’re trapped within our mound.

19 December 2004

The way you like it

You hit me. I’ll hit you. You like it that way.
The cat’s in the cradle, the hog’s in the hay.
The horses were starving so they’ve gone away.
You hit me. I’ll hit you. You like it that way.

You Hit me. I’ll Hit you. You’ll Like it that way.
I fear our dear daring white boy is astray.
Let’s Beat him! Let’s Hit him! We’ll learn him someday.
You Hit me! I’ll Hit you! You’ll Like it that way!!

18 December 2004

Towards an ending

How shall I recall the Spring
When on one Winter’s day I bring
Not more than half of anything
To conclusion?

When all the spittle that I write
Flys back upon my face in spite
Reminding me no words are right.
There’s no illusion!

It seems the old year has ended
And I’ve not my fences mended.
All my words have but offended
Through derision.

I hope one day I might afford
To call upon some risen Lord
That he might offer a reward
Against division.

Untill that time I know I’ll find
That all my words, though they might rhyme
Cannot repay one lonesome dime
Through incision.

Here I’ll pause, though ending be
As always was, a mystery.
Nothing lingers here for me
But more questions.

17 December 2004

Westward through September

The grey sky opens above the street and my thoughts fly West.
Ever Westward. Westward ho! I pass over plains and mountains
Into the frost of the Northern winter.

The wind racks the car as my fellow travelers sleep.
Every turn has been greeted with wonder.
Where will we pause tonight?

October 2004

What is it?

What is it dead children say
To the coming of the morning,
When all their love has gone away
And mothers gave no warning?

Come say to me, I’ll say to thee
That all that’s lost is gone,
And all that’s left of worth bereft
Since we ran out of corn.

I’ll say to thee, you’ll say to me
That all that’s here remains,
Since we’ve no need of cattle feed
When we can drink our grains.

17 December 2004

You cannot know

You cannot know

Just what you mean to me.
Or how I’d hurt were you to suffer me
But see me not, unless of course you feel
Much as I do.

‘Tis no small thing to heal
My heart’s regrets with a sigh, to reach
Across the gap between our skins and teach
My soul to cry

Again. But then you’ll cut me.
That which heals also hurts. So flee me,
Fly from me when storms about me reel
Like ants drawn to a broken seal
On some great cask.

I hope that we two might each
Lean anew to hope and love. I beseech
You, stay if I am food to help you grow . . .
But if I’m poison, I pray that you will go.

October 2004

Walking

The open gate beckons my soul
into its dark solitude.
The warm sodium glow speaks of
sepia and fairies.
Victoria where are you now?
Do you look down upon your
subjects with mirth and
amusement in this later day?

Do the foibles of the people reflect or
reject the foibles of your court?
Once through the gate, that iron gate
in its limestone arch,

I choose the left-hand path.
It’s habit now, but this is the path of
darkness and mystery.
I follow it to its inevitable conclusion in
picturesque ruins.
Where else could such a path ever end?

How many paths lead this way?
How many gateways lead here?
Whose is the unmarked headstone in the West,
Past the stags and stables and gates?

October 2004

The musical life

It's been some time since last I posted here. I've tried twice in the last week or so with no success. First I attempted to respond to a quiz that witchzenka sent my way. (She's wonderful guys. Get to know her if you can.) But alas I found myself distracted in the depths of funk. Then I tried to discuss art and love and how they've been troubling me. I found that this was an exceedingly difficult proposition, and probably outside the purview of a quasi-public journal anyway, so I said nothing.

But at the absolute least, I'd like to give you access to my most recent artistic endeavors.

Study 16 is a short piano piece in a vaguely impressionist style.
Toccatta is a more extended piece in a neo-classical style. It may well be the fist movement of a piano suite.
Two works that may be further movements in the same suite are this allemande and this tempo di courante.

There's not much to talk about in terms of current news. I'm still writing music. I'm still chasing smart girls. Both have been pushed a bit further back than I would like by bills that want paying. I'll see what I can do about that, of course, but that's about where I am now. One hopes that things will improve in the fall once classes start back up.

I might perhaps try to revisit some of the more personal emotional stuff in a future post. I've been trying to decide what to do with this journal, and this might be as good a place as any to genuinely discuss my feelings and interests, as my primary goal here is to advertise myself and not my musical skills. (Though I'm always happy to do both.)

I ramble. If you have any particular suggestions or ideas, I'd be glad to hear them. Best wishes. And witchzenka, if by chance you see this, sorry I dropped the ball. I'll try to pick it up later. I promise.

Sincerely,
David

a tiny flower

I saw a tiny flower once, growing from a crevice in a face of rock.
It was in the mountains, surrounded by a world of spectacle and grandeur
so that you might almost
look past it,
small as it was.

It wasn't there for me.
It had no story.
It didn't care that I looked at it.
It simply was.

But I, being one attracted by seeing, being touched by bright colors
and strange situations,
being one who saw beauty in the struggle of the small
to express itself under adverse conditions (being myself but small,
and often feeling my own conditions to be so)
I was drawn to this flower.

And now I have its picture.
I remember its beauty, just as I remember the beauty of the
great domes of rock,
the cliffs and boulders of ancient granite,
the towering trees reacing their green branches toward the heavens,
the cascades of water
plunging from unimaginable height
to be broken into innumerable
shards before ever they reach their foot.
And I remember this flower with the same fondness that I remember trees and rocks
that were before and will be after I am gone.

Which is greatest?

Shall I compare a symphony to a waltz
Or to a five chime whistle screaming in the night for me to follow?
Can I relate a flower to ancient stone and ever changing water or
the embers of my soul?

c. 8 May 2003

I have met Bathsheba

I have met Bathsheba.

The music has fallen from my lips
And I have been sucked dry.

My soul is a rotted husk
Naked before me.

I have danced this step before,
But even if the poison has left
The hurt freezes me.

I have met Bathsheba
And the weight has fallen from my limbs
Like so much consequence.

The pain is new in every moment;
In every love.

Bathsheba is every woman
And every man
Who has felt heaven's drag.

The psalmist is every singer
Who has lost and suffered.

I have met her.
I would meet her again
Despite the withering cost.

29 January 2007