They built two boxlike buildings there,
almost facing off. One they
fill
with fifty fulsome flutists, the other’s
stocked with sixty lusty
saxophones.
It seems when someone bangs a gong, both boxes
suddenly erupt, scaring
birds of every stripe,
the bears, and every other living beast. Just
once a day
those aching acres rest in peace: when they’re asleep.
By natural selection, only birds
with stomachs fit for saxophone and
flute
come back year after year. The rest
stay well away, content
with tamer acres, waiting.
When it seems the last of them has left,
a bear checks every single
car. A bird’s called down
to spread the news. For then, and only then,
do
all those gorgeous acres go absolutely wild.
-- Eric Braude
This day and age we're living in
Gives cause for apprehension
With
speed and new invention
And things like muscle tension.
Yet we grow a trifle weary
With Dr. Preston’s theory.
So we must
get resolution,
Relax and feel suspension
And no matter what the progress
Or what may YET be proved
The simple
facts of life are such
Baroque is in the groove.
You must remember this
A trill is just a trill,
Except when it’s
a mordent.
NO fundamental rules apply
in ornaments.
And when two flutists toot
The point is really moot.
For one is
playing French
The other has Italian style
In ornaments.
Turns or appoggiaturas
Straight or inegale?
Vibrate or not to
What
are we to do?
I’ll do it my way
And yours is out of date
So get
out of my way.
It's still the same old story
To play for love and glory
A case
of do or sigh
The music shapes the ornament
As time goes by.
-- Lea Pearson
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