Jacques Ibert Modernism Born: 15 August 1890, Paris, France Nationality: French Died: 5 February 1962. Paris, France
Ibert was a composer of classical music. He studied at the Paris Conservatoire and won the Prix de Rome, despite the interruption of active service in the First World War. Ibert is best known for his orchestral work such as Escales (1922)
Over the first half of this year my house mate and I have been taking stock and finding ways we can make our home and lives a bit more planet friendly. The changes we have made have had little impact on our lives unless you count a huge reduction in plastic wastage as we avoid single-use plastics as much as possible etc.
Going Green-ish Form: Loose Sapphic with refrain
Planet earth is hurting because of the things I do without thinking of the consequence of each little impact of my living life I can’t change the world
The world is in crisis but will turning out a light before I got to bed really help turning the TV off and not to stand-by I can’t change the world
Plastic cartons filling up carrier bags there must be another way, milk bottles on the door-step and the plastic waste going down I can’t change the world
The EPV instead of petrol fumes on the garage forecourt and solid blocks that burn bio-degradable fuel instead of coal I can’t change the world
Insulated walls before scaffolding poles with guys climbing up to the roof to fit solar panels renewable electric I can’t change the world
And no, I can’t change the world, I’m just one guy, but I can change the way I live just a bit to lessen my impact on my Mother Earth I can’t change the world
Thy various works, imperial queen, we see, How bright their forms! how deck’d with pomp by thee! Thy wond’rous acts in beauteous order stand, And all attest how potent is thine hand.
From Helicon’s refulgent heights attend, Ye sacred choir, and my attempts befriend: To tell her glories with a faithful tongue, Ye blooming graces, triumph in my song.
Now here, now there, the roving Fancy flies, Till some lov’d object strikes her wand’ring eyes, Whose silken fetters all the senses bind, And soft captivity involves the mind.
Imagination! who can sing thy force? Or who describe the swiftness of thy course? Soaring through air to find the bright abode, Th’ empyreal palace of the thund’ring God, We on thy pinions can surpass the wind, And leave the rolling universe behind: From star to star the mental optics rove, Measure the skies, and range the realms above. There in one view we grasp the mighty whole, Or with new worlds amaze th’ unbounded soul.
Though Winter frowns to Fancy’s raptur’d eyes The fields may flourish, and gay scenes arise; The frozen deeps may break their iron bands, And bid their waters murmur o’er the sands. Fair Flora may resume her fragrant reign, And with her flow’ry riches deck the plain; Sylvanus may diffuse his honours round, And all the forest may with leaves be crown’d: Show’rs may descend, and dews their gems disclose, And nectar sparkle on the blooming rose.
Such is thy pow’r, nor are thine orders vain, O thou the leader of the mental train: In full perfection all thy works are wrought, And thine the sceptre o’er the realms of thought. Before thy throne the subject-passions bow, Of subject-passions sov’reign ruler thou; At thy command joy rushes on the heart, And through the glowing veins the spirits dart.
Fancy might now her silken pinions try To rise from earth, and sweep th’ expanse on high: From Tithon’s bed now might Aurora rise, Her cheeks all glowing with celestial dies, While a pure stream of light o’erflows the skies. The monarch of the day I might behold, And all the mountains tipt with radiant gold, But I reluctant leave the pleasing views, Which Fancy dresses to delight the Muse; Winter austere forbids me to aspire, And northern tempests damp the rising fire; They chill the tides of Fancy’s flowing sea, Cease then, my song, cease the unequal lay.
Phillis Wheatley Born: 8 May 1753, West Africa Nationality: African-American Died: 5 December 1784, Massachusetts, USA
Wheatley was the first African-American author of a book of poetry. She was born in West Africa, sold into slavery, and transported to North America at the age of seven or eight. Purchased by the Wheatley family, they taught her to read and write, encouraging her poetic talent. On a trip to London with her master’s son in 1773, she was aided in meeting prominent people who became her patrons. The publication of her ‘Poems on Various Subjects, Religious and Moral’ brought her fame in England and the American colonies. Wheatley was emancipated shortly after the publication. She married around 1778 and had three children, two died in infancy. Her husband was imprisoned for debt in 1784 and Wheatley fell into working poverty and died of a resulting illness. Her last son died soon after
Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love to show, That the dear she might take some pleasure of my pain, Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make her know, Knowledge might pity win, and pity grace obtain, I sought fit words to paint the blackest face of woe; Studying inventions fine, her wits to entertain, Oft turning others’ leaves, to see if thence would flow Some fresh and fruitful showers upon my sun-burnt brain. But words come halting forth, wanting invention’s stay; Invention, nature’s child, fled step-dame Study’s blows, And others’ feet still seemed but strangers in my way, Thus, great with child to speak, and helpless in my throes, Biting, my truant pen, beating myself for spite, “Fool”, said my Muse to me, “look in thy heart, and write.”
As a poet, I often write on the theme of love in some form or another. Language, therefore, is quite an important factor in what I do, the language of poetic love is a whole different thing. My job is then to express my love of someone, something, somewhere or whatever so my reader knows what it looks like, sounds like, tastes like, smells like, or what it is like to the touch. At the outline stage, this involves a lot of gobbledygook such as lalalala de dum de dum diddly doobie do and so on. Meaningless sounds that need to be made meaningful. In my research for this week’s song lyric, I found this. So I am going to run with it.
John D. Loudermilk (1934-2016) was a singer/songwriter, In the 1950s and 1960s he had a successful singing career and he also wrote songs for artists such as Eddie Cochran, The Casinos, and Roy Orbison. “Language of Love” was released in 1961.
Oh, two lovers parked on lovers lane Just a watchin’ the stars above They don’t have to say a thing They’re speaking the language of love.
Oh, two lovers sipping on a chocolate shake You can tell what they’re thinking of Their eyes are saying little secret things They’re using the language of love
Oh, two lovers sitting in English class Don’t know what the teachers speaking of Ain’t learned no English but they’re learning fast The language of love
Beneath the shady breezed kissed stock, The mind takes stock and looks for thee, My thee, my love, my heartbeat's clock, The ticking clock I cannot see.
The passing hour that moves too slow, So slowly turn the hands of time, And like wild thyme on winds doth blow, Love blows the breeze of sweet sublime.
Upon the breeze, I hear thy voice, Oh, sweet thy voice that calls the flame, Thy flame that makes my heart rejoice, Rejoicing love within thy name