Untitled Document

II: Andante

IV: Andantino

Contents:

II: Andante

IV: Andantino

Contents:

II: Andante

IV: Andantino

Contents:

II: Andante

IV: Andantino

Contents:

II: Andante

IV: Andantino

Contents:

II: Andante

IV: Andantino

Contents:

II: Andante

IV: Andantino

Contents:

II: Andante

IV: Andantino

Contents:

II: Andante

IV: Andantino

Contents:

II: Andante

IV: Andantino

Contents:

II: Andante

IV: Andantino

Contents:

II: Andante

IV: Andantino

Symphony

I. Allegro non troppo

There is a rhythm to life,

Starts in the blood and leads to a summer affair,

Is she there?

Has she come in the eye on the edge of a concert,

Singing through shyness,

“Don't you know?

Don't you know it is I?”

How to begin is a riddle through pulse,

Whispered staccato,

Is it there for you too?

Tongued agitato that hints

“Do you dare to resist?”

“Do you dare to come forward?”

Is it all just some small misconception

In the way that your eye has arisen

In it's dance to the music,

The way that you glanced to the chord,

A meeting by chance in the woodwind,

Your sigh in the cosy violas?

Will it end all too soon

In a wall of percussion

And regret of the mocking bassoon?

Are we the shy listeners,

Or is it just I in the counterpoint weaving?

Is it us in the fugue?

Or is it myself and my dreaming

Chasing themselves to collude

In this season's romance?

Did we ponder together,

Or was it my mirror

Where I saw the race of desire

In the glance that you gave?

Was it mine?

Or was it my wanting,

My song in the choir of your face?

Where shall I place my affection?

Can you tell me, sweet oboe?

Is the deft clarinet simply teasing?

Does the cello portend a rejection?

Am I asking too much from the flute and it's pleasing?

Do the mellow trombones call me in from the night

Of conundrum?

Is the French horn elated or merely polite

In reply to my rhythm of drums?

II. Andante

She talks of the cadaver

In a tone that could bring it alive;

Eyes that are singing,

Voice of assurance hums lithe,

Paints immortality on themes of the dead,

Her cheekbones regally tilting her head

As they rest on the thrones of her jaw.

There is more to discover,

More that this lover would spy

In her face

Through the lace conversation

Of medical cards and organ donation,

How her neck, with its elegant poise,

Is the channel of blood to her brain.

I am silent, outwardly sane,

Yet within,

Longing to take up her voice in my arms,

I am bedlam,

Worked by her charms of invention,

Soft and without the intention

Of sending me into this trance.

III Moderato Cantabile

Tender faced and swaying in the breeze,

Footsteps passing with me in the sand,

How I wish courage could my wishes please,

And stretch my fingers out to clasp her hand.

How my lips would whisper, touch her own,

Share her taste, inhale her vibrant air.

Poor bravery that now finds me alone?

A soul that feels what tongue dreads to declare.

The sea is rising, singing in the spume,

Tossing heartbeats, quickening the shore,

Timidity, my burden, does consume

The power to reveal my yearning core.

Her voice weaves silken words about my senses,

Carols to fascinate my thirsty ear,

And yet my love is teasing with pretenses,

Cannot commune, made mute, rejection's fear.

IV Andantino

Should I say nothing,

And in that nothing see my all?

Take this dream about me as a shawl

For quiet nights,

To warm my shoulders as I walk

A coastal path at dusk?

There is some fear present

In this glimpse of paradise,

For I would sing

And yet the song is mute,

Desire's harp and Cupid's flute

Are haunted by the prospect of their playing

With dying fingers and the tongue a-slaying;

Should I sing silently within my heart,

Or impart this fire that I hesitate to share?

What would she say?

Would burning happy friendship on a spit

Intensify the flame

Until it dies in a memorial of sterile ash?

Should I as an adventurer grow rash,

Set out to scale the mountain

On whose peak I wander in my dreams?

Or would the highland streams grow dry

If I slake my thirst,

And leave me crying for spectator's beauty

Lost in an attempt at capture?

There is dilemma in this rapture,

Shyness in the risk of scorn;

Fear that the thorn would pierce my heart

If I am drawn to take the scent of my ignited rose.

Would my new flower close

And tightly shut me out?

So I step lightly in the dance,

Afraid to kiss this gift that circumstance

Has shown;

Timidity, that in unwrapping my desire

I would become alone,

My fire burning with a warmth too hot

For my coy dove.

Would I awake and find her flown?

Would I find nothing in my eye but tears?

These are my fears that protect the sight,

Prevent the rolling of the dice;

Afraid to stake my humble pleasure

For a deeper paradise.