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.

HeartShop

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.

Exchange

‘Ask and you shall be given’ -
surrender,
you don’t know what your heart's asking for;
It will be hard,
trust that your heart truly wants It.

‘Here it is, what you have asked me for’ -
in your palm I see my words huddled.
They come back to me still warm from your blood
and our warmths blend for a moment,
yours too fast seeping out.

Because it is hard to surrender the words
from the heart,
we go in a circle;
we can trust it – a different trust -,
we can trust us
to go on forever.

And so I ask you again
with words from my mouth -
they will go and come back
and for two moments their warmth will connect us.

I then ask my heart if she will ever stop wanting
and she says, 'I am Want',
and I wonder of your heart,
does she distract herself with regret
for another's warmth
seeping.

Lecture

Giuseppe Verdi - "Triumphal March", Aida

As I work to sharpen my knife,
kindly stop fidgeting and listen to
how much you'll enjoy being carved up.

You'll also rejoice in the knowledge
of the house your bones will make sturdy
and the bountiful lush garden
we'll be able to grow with your blood.

I know, you cannot picture it now,
but I've helped colleagues who have done it
and I'm pretty sure you can trust me
to get it right from the very first try.

I've observed and carefully noted
how we must start with the tongue -
we wouldn't want those words you don't mean
to hang about the house like mad rats.

Story-ing

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart - Symphony No. 40, I

Up in the tallestest corner of the fartherest tree,
the popinjay finally found what he’d been destined for.
After he put down his bags into a tottering pile,
he conjured a handkerchief to dust the smoothest branch
and sat down cross-legged, prepared to gaze enraptured.
‘Ah, but what could compare, you awesomest and fair!’,
he eventually ventured in faint and trembful whispers.
‘I humbly beg your leave in worshipy words to conceive
to tell of your perfection! The world must pay attention!’
Hope in his beady eyes, he awaited the answer and,
receiving no demur, sprung his travelled bags open.
Out came a dainty table ready with silkest cover,
on which he then assorted, from smallest to the sharpest,
quills, styluses and inks, all polished to a sparkle.
He cocked his head a-side to best view the arrangement,
and in a priding voice spoke again to his wonder,
‘Always for you in my quest I have looked for the worthest.
So long I have pined, and dreamed, and thought what to bring!
And now we finally, now we begin! I vow, I get maudlin!’

Peach taste

Gioachino Rossini - Overture, Il Barbiere di Siviglia

The peach tastes like petals feel,
the peach smells like velvet,
the peach feels like kisses taste,
the peach tastes like peaches.