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The Connection Between Poetry and Music

01 poetry and music claude michel clodion

Painting is poetry that is seen rather than felt, and poetry is painting that is felt rather than seen. Leonardo da Vinci

Poetry, music, forests, oceans, solitude-they were what developed enormous spiritual strength. I came to realize that spirit, as much or more than physical conditioning, had to be stored up before a race. Herb Elliott



When destiny leaves you alone in the dark;
When your mother and father leave you early,
All you have left are hope;
All you have left are dreams,
Yes, my friend, life rolls along the road of dreams,
And each dream is finished soon;

Travel in peace, dreams of mine,
Into the land of color,
the wonderful land of noble memories,
So that my blind spirit might see through the turquoise moon’s eyes,
So that my tired spirit finds its peace in your sacred cradle.
Fly with the breath of Freedom,
So that you may sow the seed of young hope
In the courtyard of heavenly gates;

Travel in peace, dreams of mine,
To honor the many tears haunted by memories,
To honor the many stars haunted by lonely nights,
To honor the many winds haunted by prayers of the unfortunate;

Travel in peace, dreams of mine,
Into distant valleys of saturnine silences.
Find your humble home
In the infinity of human tragedies,
So that you may fraternize many unfortunates
With your merciful existence,
So that my lonely spirit can see the magnificent light
In the fraternal souls of people I hold dear;

When they want to kill your hope,
hoist your flag of dreams
And keep on marching your way,
like a noble soldier of Dreams.

©Walter William Safar





Poetry is prose bewitched, a music made of visual thoughts, the sound of an idea. Mina Loy



You came unexpected,
Like the sun appears behind heavy
Clouds of led,
You peeked from behind the curtains of a mystical night,
Like a rose offering itself to the new day,
And I love you more than ever!

As you watch me amorously,
A young wild rose
Proudly looks into the night’s dark face,
Its face perfectly human,
Longing and gentle,
Just like yours.

Now a raindrop timidly slides down the rose petal’s face,
As if placed there by some invisible hand of an angel of love,
It shines like the pearly dew in the sacred eye of eternity.
Oh, Lord, whom are they intended for,
This raindrop’s senses,
The raindrop that shivers before me?
Just like that tear of yours
That slid onto my palm
While I was leaving for distant worlds.

Days, months and years of aimless straying
Never wiped out the memory of you,
Because you were always with me,
In my poems.

My love, now I am finally with you,
And you,
You who selflessly perceived
My nomadic and intractable nature,
Now you are ashamed
That I might hear the powerful echo of your enamored heart.

Don’t be ashamed, my love,
Love is of a noble kin,
It comes silently, both slowly and quickly,
Just like that velvety shadow
Carried along the roofs of the world;
There is no ear that can hear it;
There is no eye that can see it,
Always barefoot, silently treading grass and desert,
Water and sea, following men
More closely than their own shadows.

Now I am looking into the eyes of eternity,
And I think:
“From your holy spirit I am drinking life,
Thank you, love!”
Now I can finally fall to my knees at your feet, love,
And declare loud and clear:
I love you!

©Walter William Safar




Poetry is the music of the soul, and, above all, of great feelings souls. Voltaire



You are calling me, road of dreams,
To a land beyond the rainbow,
In which diversity is the harmony of living,
In which hatred is losing the battle against love,
In which a strong spirit is virtue instead of weakness;

You are calling me, road of dreams,
To where reality is conceived from thousands,
Tens of thousands of dreams,
Dreams that feed the soul,
Dreams that nurture the hearts of
Dreamers from all over the world;

You are calling me, road of dreams,
To a wonderful land of dreamers,
But I am tired,
My mornings are different now,
Full of extinguished sparks,
And the scents of weary nights
That lay beside you now,
Just like night birds,
Your weary wanderers,
Whose passion bled
Into life’s inexhaustible well.

I admit to you, road of dreams,
I knew that, in this life,
Love makes the most beautiful rainbows,
And so I, your faithful child,
Your lonely wanderer,
Didn’t want to stop following the call of the heart,
No matter what.

When the young moon kisses your sacred face,
Oh yes, road of dreams!…
You won’t concede to losers,
You are calling me though I’m on my knees,
In other words, you won’t accept my surrender!
You are showing me a place beyond the rainbow,
The capital of the dreamers’ land,
Where everyone has their place under the sun and the stars,
Where wealth is measured through the spirit, not money,
Where the divine light takes pride in love;
Oh yes, road of dreams,
You are showing me the land of dreamers,
Where there is room for everyone
Who wishes the same to others
As they do to themselves.

And You,
Just like me,
Are dreaming of your star
(Wise people say that everyone has their star)
To banish the nightmares into the turquoise shell
That is wistfully glittering under the heavenly dome.

And my star shines so beautifully,
Handing out its turquoise fliers
Like a heavenly messenger,
That one day my big silent tear
Shall drop onto her palm.
I’ve been on my knees,
Road of dreams,
Until I heard Your call again,
And I rose to my feet,
And filled with faith
To run into her embrace.

©Walter William Safar




Poetry is music, and nothing but music. Words with musical emphasis. Amir Baraka



His little dark street
Is at home in the silky cobweb;
His little dark street
Is only loud in the missionaries’ prayers,
It elicits a gaze in very few people,
It is but an uninvited guest to life.

The stationery boy hands out his beautiful fliers,
Like a messenger of his little dark street.
In his big clear eyes a tear is born,
Not as an accusation,
But as wonderful love,
His heart is young and full of hopes
That someday his big silent tear
Shall drop onto someone’s palm.

A new day is born in his wonderful spirit,
Perhaps somewhat cold and strange,
But a new day, still.
Oh powerful destiny, listen to your unloved son,
Wake up the sleeping star;
Wake up the sleeping sun;
Wake up the sleeping hearts of men,
So that the new day may be a friend to your unloved son.

In the inaudible shadows, he has his faithful listeners,
In death he has a faithful visitor,
His young beautiful eyes are more familiar with death than life.
When so many happy children gather around the city’s Christmas tree,
His dear young heart is loudly beating into the deaf nights,
Like a silver bell,
So that his small, dark home would be alight with a gaze.

When the wonderful northern wind brings
Happy children’s voices from afar,
Like a modest Christmas gift,
The stationery boy is building his little kingdom of happiness
In his vivid imagination,
His days and nights may be cold and dark,
But his imagination is bright and completely wonderful,
It shines in the darkness like an angel.

His silver bell is ringing beyond the heavenly dome.
If you want to show a real angel to your kid,
Hurry towards that little dark street,
And you might be lucky enough to see the stationery boy
Before he gets his silver wings.

©Walter William Safar




Poetry is plucking at the heartstrings, and making music with them. Dennis Gabor



In the shadow of a murky building, in a street with an ugly appearance
and an unpleasant smell, without sun and without human warmth
for most of the day, a boy and a dog tend after their only
legal craft assigned to them by the world: survival.
The boy and the dog are not just one body and one soul,
but they are also, as the world believes, one voice.
This voice, which seems to be heard only on Christmas Eve,
comes from a shrill ghost which lies restless in its grave;
in that sad street, which never housed a single butterfly
in its whole existence, there was some kind of greedy
spider, that spun its web to prey on careless people.
Yet, the boy and the dog await each new day with humble
and reverent obedience, and they sell paper: regular, fine
concept, white, whitish-brown, golden-blue; stamps,
sprinkling sand, nails, pencils, red and green ribbons
for gift wrapping; old notebooks, calendars,
diaries. To cut a long story short, the boy and his dog
trade in good old values. They are invisible to the courts,
because, after all, who cares for the poor, as the wise would say.
This morning, however, the boy and his dog were not in their
usual place, the golden sundust floated on the soft, sweet back
of the wind, as if looking for the stationer boy and his dog.
And the boy was lamenting the death of his old dog, in the shadow,
as usual, far away from the eyes of the world, and these salty, silent
tears were looking for at least one short gaze of the world,
but the cold world considers the boy to be just a regular, modest,
humble, honorable, and thus invisible stationer.
He kneels next to his only friend, and with a broken voice
he bids him farewell for one last time:
“Good night, my only friend! Good night, my little
stationer! Sweet and blissful dreams!”
And so the stationer boy was once again left alone in that sad street.

©Walter William Safar





Music gives a soul to the universe, wings to the mind, flight to the imagination and life to everything. Plato



by Walter William Safar

In a dreamlit night, I looked at a star
Like a bird without a flock.
I do not want to call solitude
What it is,
Because there are other flockless birds
Somewhere in the distance.
Yes, my friend,
We do not have to see each other
To know each other,
Because you cannot see solitude,
Yet you still know it;
When solitude wants you,
Look upon a star
And you will know that you are not alone,
Because many a gaze is friendly with the star;
When you pass a flower,
Know that it is your friend too,
Because you did not thread upon it.

When you see a bird in a cage,
Let it loose,
Because it sings its most beautiful song
When it’s free;
Yes, my friend,
Friendship is like freedom,
Boundless and limitless,
Like space in human thoughts;

When a raindrop falls on your palm,
Know that it fell on the palms on many
Like a young friend;
When sorrow comes knocking at your door,
Speaking of the world’s injustice,
Know that you are not alone,
Because my heart beats
Just like yours;

When the wind whispers to you
About its thousand years of wandering
And loneliness,
Know that you are not alone,
Because it whispers to me too.

Yes, my distant friend,
Solitude is not ugly
If it isn’t forced upon you,
Just like friendship
Isn’t friendship
If it is forced upon you.
Wonderful is the friendship
Linked by spontaneity
Like a bird’s link to freedom;
Wonderful is the friendship
Linked by space
And nature;
Yes, my distant friend,
We do not have to see each other
To know each other,
Because if we do not meet during our lives,
Our souls will doubtlessly
Meet in the white heavenly fields.