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John Keats – I stood tip-toe upon a little hill

valerio — Wed, 22 Feb 2012 11:30:52 +0000

I stood tip-toe upon a little hill,
The air was cooling, and so very still.
That the sweet buds which with a modest pride
Pull droopingly, in slanting curve aside,
Their scantly leaved, and finely tapering stems,
Had not yet lost those starry diadems
Caught from the early sobbing of the morn.
The clouds were pure and white as flocks new shorn,
And fresh from the clear brook; sweetly they slept
On the blue fields of heaven, and then there crept
A little noiseless noise among the leaves,
Born of the very sigh that silence heaves:
For not the faintest motion could be seen
Of all the shades that slanted o’er the green.
There was wide wand’ring for the greediest eye,
To peer about upon variety;
Far round the horizon’s crystal air to skim,
And trace the dwindled edgings of its brim;
To picture out the quaint, and curious bending
Of a fresh woodland alley, never ending;
Or by the bowery clefts, and leafy shelves,
Guess were the jaunty streams refresh themselves.
I gazed awhile, and felt as light, and free
As though the fanning wings of Mercury
Had played upon my heels: I was light-hearted,
And many pleasures to my vision started;
So I straightway began to pluck a posey
Of luxuries bright, milky, soft and rosy.

A bush of May flowers with the bees about them;
Ah, sure no tasteful nook would be without them;
And let a lush laburnum oversweep them,
And let long grass grow round the roots to keep them
Moist, cool and green; and shade the violets,
That they may bind the moss in leafy nets.

A filbert hedge with wild briar overtwined,
And clumps of woodbine taking the soft wind
Upon their summer thrones; there too should be
The frequent chequer of a youngling tree,
That with a score of light green brethen shoots
From the quaint mossiness of aged roots:
Round which is heard a spring-head of clear waters
Babbling so wildly of its lovely daughters
The spreading blue bells: it may haply mourn
That such fair clusters should be rudely torn
From their fresh beds, and scattered thoughtlessly
By infant hands, left on the path to die.

Open afresh your round of starry folds,
Ye ardent marigolds!
Dry up the moisture from your golden lids,
For great Apollo bids
That in these days your praises should be sung
On many harps, which he has lately strung;
And when again your dewiness he kisses,
Tell him, I have you in my world of blisses:
So haply when I rove in some far vale,
His mighty voice may come upon the gale.

Here are sweet peas, on tip-toe for a flight:
With wings of gentle flush o’er delicate white,
And taper fulgent catching at all things,
To bind them all about with tiny rings.

Linger awhile upon some bending planks
That lean against a streamlet’s rushy banks,
And watch intently Nature’s gentle doings:
They will be found softer than ring-dove’s cooings.
How silent comes the water round that bend;
Not the minutest whisper does it send
To the o’erhanging sallows: blades of grass
Slowly across the chequer’d shadows pass.
Why, you might read two sonnets, ere they reach
To where the hurrying freshnesses aye preach
A natural sermon o’er their pebbly beds;
Where swarms of minnows show their little heads,
Staying their wavy bodies ‘gainst the streams,
To taste the luxury of sunny beams
Temper’d with coolness. How they ever wrestle
With their own sweet delight, and ever nestle
Their silver bellies on the pebbly sand.
If you but scantily hold out the hand,
That very instant not one will remain;
But turn your eye, and they are there again.
The ripples seem right glad to reach those cresses,
And cool themselves among the em’rald tresses;
The while they cool themselves, they freshness give,
And moisture, that the bowery green may live:
So keeping up an interchange of favours,
Like good men in the truth of their behaviours
Sometimes goldfinches one by one will drop
From low hung branches; little space they stop;
But sip, and twitter, and their feathers sleek;
Then off at once, as in a wanton freak:
Or perhaps, to show their black, and golden wings,
Pausing upon their yellow flutterings.
Were I in such a place, I sure should pray
That nought less sweet, might call my thoughts away,
Than the soft rustle of a maiden’s gown
Fanning away the dandelion’s down;
Than the light music of her nimble toes
Patting against the sorrel as she goes.
How she would start, and blush, thus to be caught
Playing in all her innocence of thought.
O let me lead her gently o’er the brook,
Watch her half-smiling lips, and downward look;
O let me for one moment touch her wrist;
Let me one moment to her breathing list;
And as she leaves me may she often turn
Her fair eyes looking through her locks aubùrne.
What next? A tuft of evening primroses,
O’er which the mind may hover till it dozes;
O’er which it well might take a pleasant sleep,
But that ’tis ever startled by the leap
Of buds into ripe flowers; or by the flitting
Of diverse moths, that aye their rest are quitting;
Or by the moon lifting her silver rim
Above a cloud, and with a gradual swim
Coming into the blue with all her light.
O Maker of sweet poets, dear delight
Of this fair world, and all its gentle livers;
Spangler of clouds, halo of crystal rivers,
Mingler with leaves, and dew and tumbling streams,
Closer of lovely eyes to lovely dreams,
Lover of loneliness, and wandering,
Of upcast eye, and tender pondering!
Thee must I praise above all other glories
That smile us on to tell delightful stories.
For what has made the sage or poet write
But the fair paradise of Nature’s light?
In the calm grandeur of a sober line,
We see the waving of the mountain pine;
And when a tale is beautifully staid,
We feel the safety of a hawthorn glade:
When it is moving on luxurious wings,
The soul is lost in pleasant smotherings:
Fair dewy roses brush against our faces,
And flowering laurels spring from diamond vases;
O’er head we see the jasmine and sweet briar,
And bloomy grapes laughing from green attire;
While at our feet, the voice of crystal bubbles
Charms us at once away from all our troubles:
So that we feel uplifted from the world,
Walking upon the white clouds wreath’d and curl’d.
So felt he, who first told, how Psyche went
On the smooth wind to realms of wonderment;
What Psyche felt, and Love, when their full lips
First touch’d; what amorous, and fondling nips
They gave each other’s cheeks; with all their sighs,
And how they kist each other’s tremulous eyes:
The silver lamp,—the ravishment,—the wonder—
The darkness,—loneliness,—the fearful thunder;
Their woes gone by, and both to heaven upflown,
To bow for gratitude before Jove’s throne.
So did he feel, who pull’d the boughs aside,
That we might look into a forest wide,
To catch a glimpse of Fawns, and Dryades
Coming with softest rustle through the trees;
And garlands woven of flowers wild, and sweet,
Upheld on ivory wrists, or sporting feet:
Telling us how fair, trembling Syrinx fled
Arcadian Pan, with such a fearful dread.
Poor nymph,—poor Pan,—how he did weep to find,
Nought but a lovely sighing of the wind
Along the reedy stream; a half heard strain,
Full of sweet desolation—balmy pain.

What first inspired a bard of old to sing
Narcissus pining o’er the untainted spring?
In some delicious ramble, he had found
A little space, with boughs all woven round;
And in the midst of all, a clearer pool
Than e’er reflected in its pleasant cool,
The blue sky here, and there, serenely peeping
Through tendril wreaths fantastically creeping.
And on the bank a lonely flower he spied,
A meek and forlorn flower, with naught of pride,
Drooping its beauty o’er the watery clearness,
To woo its own sad image into nearness:
Deaf to light Zephyrus it would not move;
But still would seem to droop, to pine, to love.
So while the Poet stood in this sweet spot,
Some fainter gleamings o’er his fancy shot;
Nor was it long ere he had told the tale
Of young Narcissus, and sad Echo’s bale.

Where had he been, from whose warm head out-flew
That sweetest of all songs, that ever new,
That aye refreshing, pure deliciousness,
Coming ever to bless
The wanderer by moonlight? to him bringing
Shapes from the invisible world, unearthly singing
From out the middle air, from flowery nests,
And from the pillowy silkiness that rests
Full in the speculation of the stars.
Ah! surely he had burst our mortal bars;
Into some wond’rous region he had gone,
To search for thee, divine Endymion!

He was a Poet, sure a lover too,
Who stood on Latmus’ top, what time there blew
Soft breezes from the myrtle vale below;
And brought in faintness solemn, sweet, and slow
A hymn from Dian’s temple; while upswelling,
The incense went to her own starry dwelling.
But though her face was clear as infant’s eyes,
Though she stood smiling o’er the sacrifice,
The Poet wept at her so piteous fate,
Wept that such beauty should be desolate:
So in fine wrath some golden sounds he won,
And gave meek Cynthia her Endymion.

Queen of the wide air; thou most lovely queen
Of all the brightness that mine eyes have seen!
As thou exceedest all things in thy shine,
So every tale, does this sweet tale of thine.
O for three words of honey, that I might
Tell but one wonder of thy bridal night!

Where distant ships do seem to show their keels,
Phoebus awhile delayed his mighty wheels,
And turned to smile upon thy bashful eyes,
Ere he his unseen pomp would solemnize.
The evening weather was so bright, and clear,
That men of health were of unusual cheer;
Stepping like Homer at the trumpet’s call,
Or young Apollo on the pedestal:
And lovely women were as fair and warm,
As Venus looking sideways in alarm.
The breezes were ethereal, and pure,
And crept through half closed lattices to cure
The languid sick; it cool’d their fever’d sleep,
And soothed them into slumbers full and deep.
Soon they awoke clear eyed: nor burnt with thirsting,
Nor with hot fingers, nor with temples bursting:
And springing up, they met the wond’ring sight
Of their dear friends, nigh foolish with delight;
Who feel their arms, and breasts, and kiss and stare,
And on their placid foreheads part the hair.
Young men, and maidens at each other gaz’d
With hands held back, and motionless, amaz’d
To see the brightness in each others’ eyes;
And so they stood, fill’d with a sweet surprise,
Until their tongues were loos’d in poesy.
Therefore no lover did of anguish die:
But the soft numbers, in that moment spoken,
Made silken ties, that never may be broken.
Cynthia! I cannot tell the greater blisses,
That follow’d thine, and thy dear shepherd’s kisses:
Was there a Poet born?—but now no more,
My wand’ring spirit must no further soar.—

Giosuè Carducci – O nova angela mia senz’ala a fianco

valerio — Tue, 21 Feb 2012 11:24:38 +0000

O nova angela mia senz’ala a fianco,
Certo dal loco ove bellezza è pura
L’intelligenza tua vestí figura
Di pargoletta donna in velo bianco;

E qui venisti al secol rio, che stanco
Del bello adoperar piú nel mar dura,
Per drizzar me fuor de la vita scura
Voglioso dietro le tue scorte e franco.

E ben forse avverrà ch’agile e scarco
Io prema ancor le tue vestigia sante
Con l’alma teco in un desio congiunta;

Se di tanto mi degna il Primo Amante,
Che, mentre io tenga del mortale incarco,
L’ale tue d’òr non mettan fuor la punta.

Giorgio Baffo – Mi dedico ‘ste mie composizion

valerio — Mon, 20 Feb 2012 11:01:47 +0000

Mi dedico ste mie composizion
Ai Omeni, e alle Donne morbinose,
A quelli veramente, che le cose
I varda per el verso, che xe bon.

Sotto le metto alla so protezion,
Acciò, che dalle Teste scrupolose,
Come persone tutte spiritose
I le defenda colla so rason;

Che i diga, che quà drento no ghe xè
Nè critiche, nè offese alle persone,
Che de Dio no se parla, nè dei Rè,

Ma sol de cose belle, allegre, e bone,
Cose deliciosissime, cioè
De Bocche, Tette, Culi, Cazzi, e Mone.

Giorgio Baffo – Me tira el Cazzo, che ’l me và in malora

valerio — Sun, 19 Feb 2012 10:59:54 +0000

Me tira el Cazzo, che ’l me và in malora,
Me pizza la capella, e più no posso,
L’è duro, come un ferro, come un osso,
Adesso el se corrompe, adesso el sbora.

Deh! cara vita mia, cara Signora,
Leveme vìa sea malatia da dosso,
Tastè co ’l scotta, vardè co l’è rosso,
Palpè, che la lussuria và per sora.

Slarghè le gambe, e quel Monin da latte
Sporzeme, caro ben, sulla spondetta,
Lassè, che metta un deo trà le culatte.

Oh! Mona cara, siestu benedetta,
Care ste culattine, e chi l’hà fatte,
Cara Potta, ben mio, ti xe pur stretta.

Giorgio Baffo – Senti pittor, depenzeme una dona

valerio — Sat, 18 Feb 2012 10:49:54 +0000

Senti pittor, depenzeme una dona
Senza camisa, come Dio l’ha fatta
Coi cavei biondi, e colla coa desfatta
Con un fioretto in testa alla barona.

Che la gabbia un visetto da madona
Una tettina bianca, e delicata,
Che se ghe veda un poco de culata,
E quanto mai se pol anca la mona.

Fame te prego una cossetta amena,
D’un bianco velo, che ghe sia de fora,
Ma che se veda, che la se la mena.

Che la la sporza tutta quanta fora,
E dalla fazza de delizia piena
Capissa tutti quanti, che la sbora.

Perché so ve sarà d’aggradimento
Saver d’un vostro amigo la fortuna,
Ve dago parte del mio avanzamento.

M’à mandà l’altro zorno a chiamar una
Dona restada vedova d’un mercante,
Che del negozio no vol star dezuna.

Se mi voleva unir al so contante
Anca el mio capital, con patto espresso
De torlo indrio co voggio in ogni istante;

Ch’ella in riscontro me metteva appresso
La so bottega, mi la chiave adesso
Tegnisse per serarla, e avrirla spesso

Che l’avesse da usar più, che mai posso
In ogni so occorenza, e manizarse
Tutti, fin che ’1 negozio vegna grosso,

Che no s’abbia nessun mai da lagnarse,
Ma reciproca fosse la fadiga,
E goda più quel, che sa più inzegnarse.

In te la so bottega sta mia amiga
La tien bona moneda, e diligente
La me da i frutti, basta che ghel diga

Ghè sta un da dir no tanto indifferente
Perché tegnir la chiave anca voleva
D’un armer, che la gha principalmente

Dadrio della bottega, e mi saveva,
Che là la tien le meggio mercanzie,
Ma l’ha ditto, che troppo pretendeva.

Spero però co delle cortesie
De superar sta cossa, che appetisse
Sora de tutte le fortune mie.

V’assicuro, che molto mi gradisse
Quel, che la fa per mi, che fortuna
Me posso ben chiamar, se no falisso.

Del vero negoziar la m’hà insegnà
El modo, che bisogna i primi zorni
Far boni patti, e star con civiltà.

Ghè voi perché ’1 contratto no se storni,
Co ’1 negozio xè in pronto andar avanti,
Se l’altra parte anca ve fasse i corni,

Xè necessario intender dei mercanti
La so natura, se i xè tardi, o presti.
E no bisogna vegnir zoso avanti.

A conchiuder insieme esser ben lesti,
Trafegar alla muta no va ben,
Ma gnanca co le ciarle esser molesti,

Fatti, e poche parole far convien
E xè utile assae saver valerse
E della bocca, e della lengua ben,

In t’un negozio solo contentarse
No l’è da bon mercante, e quando preme
Bisogna delle man anca valerse.

S’hà da bandir per negoziar insieme
I scrupoli, perché quelli ve pol
Farve fallir in sul più bel, crederne

Qualche volta del spasso se se tiol
Col imbriagar el so corispondente
Così el se zira come, che se vol.

Da sta dona ho imparà precisamente
Sti documenti, e no la dà l’ingresso
In bottega a chi fa diversamente.

Amigo mi procuro, vel confesso,
D’incontrare el so genio, perché vedo,
Che l’è una dona, che no gha interesso,

E in questo gnanca mi no ghe la cedo.

Robin Stine – Singin’ to me – MP3 – Edizione Magnatune

valerio — Fri, 17 Feb 2012 09:41:37 +0000

Singing to Me-Robin Stine

Seduction comes in many forms. Those who can seduce with style make it seem effortless, unintentional, irresistible. Robin Stine’s music seduces with a whiff of subtle perfume and a casual graze of her hand as she walks past, leaving the listener powerless to do anything but follow. As a singer, her voice floats on the stylish edge of contemporary cool-light, but never lightweight. As a songwriter, her enchanting originals set her in the upper echelon of today’s songwriters.

Born and raised in Kansas City, Robin began her musical journey as a child singing in school groups and church choirs. When she left for college she had no idea that music would take her around the world. For three of her collegiate years she performed with gospel groups, traveling across the U.S. as well as in Canada, Brazil, Argentina, Chile, Hong Kong and China. She then moved to Miami in 1996 to begin her graduate studies. During this time she performed with “Mike Suman’s Swing City” and her own band “Simply Stellar” at festivals, hotels and clubs throughout South Florida. In 2003 she moved to Pensacola to focus on the next phase of her musical career-writing and recording her original music.

Under the guidance of producer Mark Bingham, who’s worked with everyone from Dr. John to the Blind Boys of Alabama to the Black Eyed Peas, she’s assembled an enviably experienced crew including pianist Warren Bernhardt (Steps Ahead, Jack DeJohnette, Gerry Mulligan), drummer Gary Burke (Joe Jackson, Bob Dylan), trumpeter Steven Bernstein (Roswell Rudd, Medeski Martin & Wood, Don Byron), and her fellow Kansas City native, guitarist Steve Cardenas (Norah Jones, Madeleine Peyroux, Paul Motian, Mark Isham). A lifelong love of performing inspired by family and further fueled by the completion of her album, have culminated in a desire to return to the touring stage after a rebuilding period in the post-Hurricane Ivan year. Now based in Pensacola, Florida, Robin is ready to follow the release of Daydream with a festival and club scene tour in a way that will also leave the world powerless to do anything but follow.

Tratto da: http://www.magnatune.com

Licenza: http://www.classicistranieri.com/licenzamagnatune.html

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Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart – Requiem in re minore per soli, coro e orchestra, K 626 – Requiem Aeternam – Bezdin Ensemble – Adina Spire

valerio — Wed, 15 Feb 2012 09:55:03 +0000

Introitus – Requeim Aeterna (WA Mozart)-Bezdin Ensemble

The Requiem Mass in D minor (K. 626) by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart was composed in Vienna in 1791, during the last year of the composer’s life. The requiem was Mozart’s last composition and is one of his most popular and respected works, although the question of how much of the music Mozart managed to complete before his death and how much was later composed by Franz Xaver Süssmayr or others is still debated.

The Requiem has a complex history, riddled with deception and manipulation of public opinion. The work was commissioned by Count Walsegg in July 1791 who wanted to pass off the work as his own, so the circumstances of the commission were kept secret. Upon Mozart’s death, Constanze had the work completed by other composers, but to receive final payment, their assistance had to remain a secret. At the same time, Constanze wanted to present the work as having been written by Mozart to completion, so as to receive revenue from the work. When it became known that others besides Mozart had a hand in writing the Requiem, Constanze insisted that Mozart left explicit instructions for the work’s completion.

With all of these levels of deceptions and secrets, it is inevitable that many myths would emerge with respect to the circumstances of the work’s completion. One series of myths surrounding the Requiem involves the role Antonio Salieri played in the commissioning and completion of the Requiem and in Mozart’s death generally. While the most recent retelling of this myth is Peter Shaffer’s play Amadeus and the movie made from it, it is important to note that the source of misinformation was actually a 19th century play by Alexander Pushkin, Mozart and Salieri, which was turned into an opera by Rimsky-Korsakov and subsequently used as the framework for Amadeus.

Tratto da: http://www.magnatune.com
Licenza: http://www.classicistranieri.com/licenzamagnatune.html

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