In Dreams (Lyrical Poetry Project)

I have never seen a rainbow
that didn’t fade
but I have seen where the stars go
in evening shade

and in my dreams
I will forever call your name

lonely sky wraiths as reminder
we hearts are small
fragile thread for the book cover
glittering jewel

When the grim marble outlasts us
Once, we were here
What will remain? Stones etched with love
Once, we grew here

And in dreams
We dance together in the rain

And in the stories we’ll forget
sleeping wolves lay
We won’t spin the tales of regret
That blood soaked day

The beauty that we remember
Just ephemeral as embers

This piece is based on In Dreams by Howard Shore

Blue Smiles (poetry from lyrics)

Tell me where you picked up that blued steel smile
casting blinding sunbeams as you tremble
While flames traverse land; cheetahs sprinting miles
with each ballet grace flicker, you stumble
You cloaked mediocrity and regret
but we are the hunt; you are no monster

Blood beneath weeping skin does not forget
prey animals in grass, first responder
Epitomizing a baby birds’ flight
stumbling, fumbling into the spiders’ web
We thrive in burrows of ink, where no light
you, timid rabbit, we, who must be fed

Those of us nesting in bowers of bones
we are the monsters
Tragedy in tooth and claw brought us home

Never take the final step.

This piece was based on monsters featuring Xeah, produced by Tommee Profitt

It feels like a fall (poetry from lyrics project)

I once fell on a sword
They said bye, bye beautiful.

It wasn’t my blade
The sudden sting
of a strange, silver wasp
brought me to my knees.

They said bye, bye beautiful
In death you are a symbol

Years of cheeks turned
towards the forgiving sun
while flowers bloom in the night
They have their reasons
The days’ illusion
of light
is a painful memory
to those who once knew
a breath of spring and buttercups
but now only believe
in the night.

The sake of others
and their mediocrity
belongs not to the velvet plants
or their weeping stems.
But to those with knives
and mouths curved in falsity
More dangerous than any wound
Wolves wearing smiles
behind eyes that brim

Dams of false sympathy burst
to drown us in the riptides
Each of us a ghost

They said bye, bye beautiful

And the mountains climbed
begin to crumble
The genuine tears corrosive
as a prize-winners’ stumble
Protectors, cowards
who would rather slip
Would rather trip
Who would skin us for our own
before risk the inferno
The burning fall

They said die, die beautiful

This piece is based on Bye Bye Beautiful, by Nightwish, from the album Dark Passion Play


This will be a different kind of post.

There’s no instrument in the world quite like the violin.

For centuries it has found itself surrounded on all sides by mystique and wonder, and it seems only justified. Considered the most difficult instrument on the planet to master, looked upon with wonder and a ceaseless fascination that those who cause them to sing with an almost human voice have given perpetual motion to.

Yes, violins are wondrous creations.

While other instruments are subject to strict measurements and specifications, no two violins are ever the same. Luthiers have little regard for imposing such strict measurements upon their imagination, and why should they?

That is why every violin in the world sings with a different voice, bears a different weight, their curves and quirks as unique as we ourselves are want to be. There are boxy violins; slender violins; violins with narrow waists and flaring bell bottoms while others are more square. It could explain why so many of us become so attached when we discover the instrument that fits us best: each is one of a kind, after all.

To discover a violin that fits the player to perfection is as happening across a diamond in the muck. Not only the size and shape are important, but the tone. Some violinists prefer a rich, dark tone that no heavy mute can dampen (I have one such violin and do love him but he can be a bit brash for my tastes). Some prefer a softer, sweeter voice that echoes with sadness and melancholy, while yet others seek a middle ground.

For some violinists obtaining the perfect instrument becomes the pursuit of a lifetime; I’ve witnessed some play a dozen in a single afternoon, only to walk away empty handed. There’s something missing, a lack of expression and reflection they wish to portray via the elegant curved maple they cradle.

I have found my violin.

She’s Eastern European in origin, and has made the journey from the wilds of Vlad the Impalers’ country to my less than quaint corner of England. I am not a fan of bare maple as a rule; the darker the stain, the happier I tend to be. However my teacher sees beyond the material and understood what I needed. After two trips to the luthier, a setup including a new soundpost and handcarved bridge along with gorgeous wooden fittings to die for (I must thank Stuart Cooper as he is a true artist) she is home.

While classed as a 4/4 she is rather petite and very much in the baroque style; every inch the ladys’ violin so I suppose I must now endeavor to become a lady. While the shadow has a booming voice that commands attention and the strad Lucia has been softened by the ages, she falls between the two in a perfect harmony.

Her delicate size and shape and the well chosen chin rest mean she fits me as a glove; I could tuck her under my chin for hours, with or without shoulder rest. Her voice is plaintive and melancholy, with a touch of sweet sadness that brings to mind Tchaikovsky or certain pieces of Shostakovitch.
In short, she is perfect. I cannot thank my violin teacher or new luthier enough for enabling me to find my perfect partner in music: a violin is a little like a soulmate. When you pick up the right one it’s less a feeling of giddy newness and more a sense of returning home after a long absence. I could not be happier and despite the struggles of physiotherapy, psychotherapy and the other difficulties I face I walk into them knowing I have found the perfect friend to carry me from the darkness with sweet melodies.

If you’ll excuse me, I have to go practice 40 hours a day.