The Brooklyn Bridge

Art has this incredible ability to tell a story. Whatever form, size, location, or audience it is in, there is some type of story behind it, be it short and silly or emotional and long. When Antonio Vivaldi composed The Four Seasons, he was able to capture two forms of art, music and poetry,  and bring them in to his own. He saw the artistic beauty of nature, and the dramatic way it affects our lives. Secondly, he saw significance in descriptive poetry and transposed the images into music. The first movement of the “Winter” Concerto perfectly personifies the perils of winter with an energetic melody, strong harmony, and thick texture.  The movement begins with a rather daunting suspense. Just like the feeling of winter approaching, you know something new and chilly is coming. The notes make you shiver, as frost nipping you on the ears. Overall, the melody is consistent, creating a full and complete feeling for the piece. The movement maintains a similar timbre all the ...

A tug on my hand, A kiss on my forehead. A tear on my cheek, And plenty on my my mind. One day we'll understand Why we chose this instead. We'll find what we seek And won't have to rewind. That day isn't today, At least not for me. Au jour d'hui, Tu me manques. It'll be okay, It'll be lovely. Tu es mon ami, Le futur est quelconques.

Sometimes we do assignments in English and it's fun. He's a tastefully tacky one I wrote, to express a majorly passionate love. There is a man, whose words are nice to hear. They might make you laugh, or even shed a tear. The play's the thing, all the world's a stage, His wise words move without exclusion or age. So all I have to say, is thank you, William Shakespeare.

I felt a Funeral, in my Brain, And Mourners to and fro Kept treading – treading – till it seemed That Sense was breaking through –  And when they all were seated, A Service, like a Drum –  Kept beating – beating – till I thought My Mind was going numb –  And then I heard them lift a Box And creak across my Soul With those same Boots of Lead, again, Then Space – began to toll, As all the Heavens were a Bell, And Being, but an Ear, And I, and Silence, some strange Race Wrecked, solitary, here –  And then a Plank in Reason, broke, And I dropped down, and down –  And hit a World, at every plunge, And Finished knowing – then – 

Okay words, your turn. Flow and don't be so stern. My pen is ready for your voice. Go ahead and make a choice. Plenty of emotions are here to flare, So don't make me sit here and stare. I know you How do you do? I'm so thirsty, parched from this lack. Please words, come on back. I promised you that I am devoted! And noted, Brooklyn

ODE TO MY SOCKS Pablo Neruda Mara Mori brought me a pair of socks which she knitted herself with her sheepherder's hands, two socks as soft as rabbits. I slipped my feet into them as if they were two cases knitted with threads of twilight and goatskin, Violent socks, my feet were two fish made of wool, two long sharks sea blue, shot through by one golden thread, two immense blackbirds, two cannons, my feet were honored in this way by these heavenly socks. They were so handsome for the first time my feet seemed to me unacceptable like two decrepit firemen, firemen unworthy of that woven fire, of those glowing socks. Nevertheless, I resisted the sharp temptation to save them somewhere as schoolboys keep fireflies, as learned men collect sacred texts, I resisted the mad impulse to put them in a golden cage and each day give them birdseed and pieces of pink melon. Like explorers in the jungle who hand over the very rare green deer to the spit and eat...