Rooms
Charlotte Mew
I remember the rooms that have had their part
In the steady slowing down of the heart.
The room in Paris, the room at Geneva,
The little damp room with the seaweed smell,
And that ceaseless maddening sound of the tide—
Rooms where for good or ill—things died.
But there is the room where we two lie dead,
Though every morning we seem to wake and might just as well seem to sleep again
As we shall somewhere in the other quieter, dustier bed
Out there in the sun—in the rain.
Top Shelf
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None of the Lights I answered with reluctance when you invited me to a bonfire by the beach with young girls and a local who, despite her ...
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Tooth Which child's heart didn't throb, eyes didn't widen at the taste of tooth rocking back and forth the soft slide of gum, ...
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The Idea Write down your ideas. I did last night, got out of bed and grabbed a pen and paper and, like a child chasing fireflies, caught ...
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The Vocalist The rest could only imitate what he alone and all alone could do: sustain, vibrate, reach unnamed colors of the soundscape. ...
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So I have gotten into the habit of recording my piano practices because reasons (that have got to do with skills development and, admittedl...
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Cracked open Volume 1 of Béla Bartók's Mikrokosmos (which I ordered at a music shop sometime in February ) and I am loving it so far. W...
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Pulse (A love poem) In the beginning was a pulse that came right before any breath to birth a song or a word. It throbs even as the music...
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The piano makes me happy, which means it makes me sad if I can't engage with it daily in some way — playing, practising, messing aroun... -
Pictures to Show The article calls for being present. That instead of taking photos of the bee Sucking on sunflower, Lock your eyes ... -
Learn slow to learn fast. Everyone will say this in one form or another, in passing or in depth. I'm quoting above the exact phrase sa...
