the lesson of the moth, by Don Marquis

Ludwig van Beethoven - Ode to Joy, 9th Symphony, with Leonard Bernstein and the Vienna Philharmonic

i was talking to a moth
the other evening
he was trying to break into
an electric light bulb
and fry himself on the wires

why do you fellows
pull this stunt i asked him
because it is the conventional
thing for moths or why
if that had been an uncovered
candle instead of an electric
light bulb you would
now be a small unsightly cinder
have you no sense

plenty of it he answered
but at times we get tired
of using it
we get bored with the routine
and crave beauty
and excitement
fire is beautiful
and we know that if we get
too close it will kill us
but what does that matter
it is better to be happy
for a moment
and be burned up with beauty
than to live a long time
and be bored all the while
so we wad all our life up
into one little roll
and then we shoot the roll
that is what life is for
it is better to be a part of beauty
for one instant and then cease to
exist than to exist forever
and never be a part of beauty
our attitude toward life
is come easy go easy
we are like human beings
used to be before they became
too civilized to enjoy themselves

and before i could argue him
out of his philosophy
he went and immolated himself on a patent cigar lighter
i do not agree with him
myself i would rather have
half the happiness and twice
the longevity

but at the same time i wish
there was something i wanted
as badly as he wanted to fry himself


from donmarquis.com

Love, by George Herbert

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart - Requiem - Dies irae (Day of Wrath)
with English Baroque Soloists & Monteverdi Choir
Barcelona Dec. 1991

Love bade me welcome: yet my soul drew back,
...........Guiltie of dust and sinne.
But quick-ey'd Love, observing me grow slack
...........From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning,
...........If I lack'd any thing.

A guest, I answer'd, worthy to be here:
...........Love said, You shall be he.
I the unkinde, ungratefull? Ah my deare,
...........I cannot look on thee.
Love took my hand, and smiling did reply,
...........Who made the eyes but I?

Truth Lord, but I have marr'd them: let my shame
...........Go where it doth deserve.
And know you not, Sayes Love, who bore the blame?
...........My deare, then I will serve.
You must sit downe, sayes Love, and taste my meat:
...........So I did sit and eat.

(The Temple, 1633)

Night, by Anna Margolin

Arrigo Boito - "L'altra notte in fondo al mare", Mefistofele with Maria Callas

(translated by Shirley Kumove)

I battle enemies in the darkness,
not seeing a single face.

Every night, whistling and banging,
and the tramp of disappearing steps.
I stand bloodied and dead weary
but will not, will not fall.
Every night thereafter, the broad, enveloping silence
as from many pipe organs and restless lights,
and above me, smiling, hovering,
an immense, shadowy face.

Ideas, by Kathryn Starbuck

Giacomo Puccini - "Nessun dorma," Turandot with Mario del Monaco

I was the lonely one in whom
they swarmed in the millions.
I was their creature and I
was grateful. I could sleep
when I wanted.

I lived a divided
existence in sleepdreams
that lit up a silence as dreadful
as that of the moon. I have
an overly-precise recall of

those solitary years before
I opened the curtain and drew
upon a universe of want that made
me so strong I could crack
spines of books with one hand.


From Poetry (Poetry Foundation), March 2009, Volume cxciii, Number 6, page 517

A Hill, by Anthony Hecht

Franz Schubert D.956 String Quintet Adagio

In Italy, where this sort of thing can occur,
I had a vision once - though you understand
It was nothing at all like Dante's, or the visions of saints,
And perhaps not a vision at all. I was with some friends,
Picking my way through a warm sunlit piazza
In the early morning. A clear fretwork of shadows
From huge umbrellas littered the pavement and made
A sort of lucent shallows in which was moored
A small navy of carts. Books, coins, old maps,
Cheap landscapes and ugly religious prints
Were all on sale. The colors and noise
Like the flying hands were gestures of exultation,
So that even the bargaining
Rose to the ear like a voluble godliness.
And then, where it happened, the noises suddenly stopped,
And it got darker; pushcarts and people dissolved
And even the great Farnese Palace itself
Was gone, for all its marble; in its place
Was a hill, mole-colored and bare. It was very cold,
Close to freezing, with a promise of snow.
The trees were like old ironwork gathered for scrap
Outside a factory wall. There was no wind,
And the only sound for a while was the little click
Of ice as it broke in the mud under my feet.
I saw a piece of ribbon snagged on a hedge,
But no other sign of life. And then I heard
What seemed the crack of a rifle. A hunter, I guessed;
At least I was not alone. But just after that
Came the soft and papery crash
Of a great branch somewhere unseen falling to earth.

And that was all, except for the cold and silence
That promised to last forever, like the hill.

Then prices came through, and fingers, and I was restored
To the sunlight and my friends. But for more than a week
I was scared by the plain bitterness of what I had seen.
All this happened about ten years ago,
And it hasn't troubled me since, but at last, today,
I remembered that hill; it lies just to the left
Of the road north of Poughkeepsie; and as a boy
I stood before it for hours in wintertime.

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Georges Bizet - L'amour est un oiseau rebelle, Carmen with Julia Migenes

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Away

Ludwig van Beethoven - Seventh Symphony, II

I want to think that if we were near,
Maybe I’d ask you to hold my hand,
Maybe I’d ask for help to feel my Fear,
Or just a soft touch for my weary head.

But there's no room: shoulder to shoulder,
A mighty congregation is already here -
Anger, Apathy, Dread, Loathing, and,
Always moving away from sight, Tears.