»A Little Night-Musician«
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This is a poem I wrote in 2001. It's a pretty good example of how not to write poetry if you want to get published, haha. A Little Night-Musician Dark sanctuary, shelter from the light, This house, a hideout fit for Robin Hood, Affords a spot to sleep and wait for night. Nocturnal vagrants, of repute not good, Were welcome here, so it was understood, Until the current landlords, taking fright, Tossed out their undesirables, as would Befit us, refugees from human sight. Alone among les miserables I stayed Because, in entertaining all the rest, A song for summer evenings I had made. In stage debut it failed; I should have guessed. One critic’s bad review was thus expressed: “A little night musician! And he played About my bedroom while I got undressed,” The critic mocked my verses, I'm afraid. So, scorned by ingrates, I sought forest leaves, For in their shade would I evade the world. Thus hidden, out from under houses’ eaves, Admiring how, each leaf above each curled, The shadows undulate like flags unfurled, The coming windy autumn little grieves Me, for, when all the leaves have groundward twirled, I’m in their shade, but nobody perceives. The balcony has one inquiring “Who?” You like the singer and his name request, A name I thought that everybody knew, Unless you may be some infrequent guest-- Ignore those patrons calling me a pest! By music I arrange a rendezvous: When, after shadows lengthen from the west, I sing again, my voice will summon you. When evening falls, I step before the throng And hear a single shout: “Let’s keep him! Bring A jar!” Now to the landlords I belong. In glass they showcase me, a famous thing-- Say “Who?” not henceforth, owl of silent wing. Play Don Giovanni? No, the lyric’s wrong: Without an orchestra I’ll have to sing My nachtmusik, a chirping cricket’s song. posted by holy_of_holies |
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| in-my-opinion.orgEntertainment & SportsMy own pic, my own art, my short storyA Little Night-Musician |
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 When I read the first part I thought it was a cockroach and visions from  Archy and Mehitabel
I like the story of the poem. I also like the "a-b-a-b-b-a-b-a". But why do you say holy_of_holies: It's a pretty good example of how not to write poetry if you want to get published Do you mean to say you'll live out the poem? 
Incidentally, have you heard the piece Eine Kleine Nachtmusik? posted by ryder |
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 ryder: When I read the first part I thought it was a cockroach and visions from Archy and MehitabelHaven't read that one... maybe I'll check it out. ryder: I like the story of the poem. I also like the "a-b-a-b-b-a-b-a". Thanks. The rhyme scheme took me forever, since I refuse to use rhyming dictionaries, and I still have a file with about fifteen extra stanzas to this poem that I cut out because they didn't make sense. ryder: But why do you say holy_of_holies: It's a pretty good example of how not to write poetry if you want to get published Do you mean to say you'll live out the poem? I just said that because there is a huge prejudice in American letters against rhymed poetry. I guess people that like to rhyme just become songwriters these days instead of poets. As for your question, the poem is autobiographical. ryder: Incidentally, have you heard the piece Eine Kleine Nachtmusik? Yes, I love Mozart, and even if I hadn't listened to him a lot, Eine Kleine Nachtmusik is on commercials and TV shows all the time here, so most people would know it if you played it for them, whether or not they had intentionally listened to Mozart ever. Thanks ryder! posted by MindSlave |
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MindSlave: Haven't read that one... maybe I'll check it out. You most definitely should. MindSlave: and I still have a file with about fifteen extra stanzas to this poem that I cut out because they didn't make sense Oh, how did that happen? You went on and on and then realized they didn't? Or, you created everything separately at different points of time? Or, you wrote some parts in one mood and the others in a different mood?... MindSlave: the poem is autobiographical. I was wondering. MindSlave: I love Mozart Ah, something else we share. GP said he played "Zero7" music for his daughter and the thread had an article that quoted Mozart as being played, and I hadn't heard of the band Zero7 and went on about Mozart until he cleared things up and I went 
I wonder what the unconnected stanzas looked like though. Do you consider this as one stanza or is it a compilation of a few? You seem to have a penchant for taking my posts to pieces..
posted by ryder |
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ryder: MindSlave: and I still have a file with about fifteen extra stanzas to this poem that I cut out because they didn't make sense Oh, how did that happen? You went on and on and then realized they didn't? Or, you created everything separately at different points of time? Or, you wrote some parts in one mood and the others in a different mood?... No, it had more to do with the difficulty of the rhyme scheme tending to obscure the sense of the poem, so I ended up writing quite a few of those stanzas that made no sense whatsoever.  ryder: I wonder what the unconnected stanzas looked like though. Do you consider this as one stanza or is it a compilation of a few? You're right, it is technically a single stanza since there are no breaks. I guess a better term would be "rhyming units," of which I count five in the poem. The stanzas I cut out were just nonsense, trust me, they may have worked as Pink Floyd lyrics or something, but not as a traditional poem.
posted by MindSlave |
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 Ok, my interest is peaked. How does it relate to your life? I think the main reason why I don't post in your poem threads hoh, it's not because I don't think they're great. They're great, but I really can only grasp half of the meaning. I'm just like...yeah...good stuff...no comment. posted by sangu |
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Okay I'll take the poem apart and show you how it works and what it means, in addition to answering your question about the poem's relation to my life. As ryder said, the rhyme-scheme , i.e. what rhymes with what, is ABABBABACDCDDCDC ... This means that in each eight-line unit, the first, third, sixth, and eighth lines all rhyme with each other, and the second, fourth, fifth, and seventh lines rhyme with each other as well. This is a rather strange rhyme-scheme by most standards, but I liked it and went with it. The meter , meaning the way the words sound, is alternating-stress , which is the most common meter in English-language poetry - for example, this is the meter Shakespeare used for much of his drama and poetry. Alternating-stress is a pattern in which an unstressed, or lightly pronounced, syllable is followed by a stressed syllable, so the line "Nocturnal vagrants, of repute not good," is pronounced "Noc turn al vag rants, of re pute not good ," with the text in bold being the stressed syllables. There are ten syllables in each line in the poem. Here is an explanation of the meaning of each unit: holy_of_holies: Dark sanctuary, shelter from the light,
This house, a hideout fit for Robin Hood, Affords a spot to sleep and wait for night. Nocturnal vagrants, of repute not good, Were welcome here, so it was understood, Until the current landlords, taking fright, Tossed out their undesirables, as would Befit us, refugees from human sight. The narrator describes a house he has lived in as being a good place to hide during the day, where those who travel by night used to sleep, until the people who now own it became afraid and got rid of the ones they did not want in the house. holy_of_holies: Alone among les miserables I stayed
Because, in entertaining all the rest, A song for summer evenings I had made. In stage debut it failed; I should have guessed. One critic’s bad review was thus expressed: “A little night musician! And he played About my bedroom while I got undressed,” The critic mocked my verses, I'm afraid. The narrator says that only he among the former tenants of the house was allowed to stay there, because of a song he wrote for the others who stayed there. The narrator calls the former tenants "les miserables," which is French for, "the miserable ones," a reference to Victor Hugo's novel of the same name, which deals with issues of poverty and justice. Then the narrator says that his song failed when he performed in on a stage, and describes the reaction of one critic to the song. The critic calls the narrator, "a little night-musician," the title of the poem, in a reference to the piece of music by Mozart called Eine Kleine Nachtmusik , which means "A Little Night-Music" in German. holy_of_holies: So, scorned by ingrates, I sought forest leaves,
For in their shade would I evade the world. Thus hidden, out from under houses’ eaves, Admiring how, each leaf above each curled, The shadows undulate like flags unfurled, The coming windy autumn little grieves Me, for, when all the leaves have groundward twirled, I’m in their shade, but nobody perceives. The narrator describes how, after the bad review of his song, he fled to a forest because he wanted to hide from the world in the darkness under its leaves. He describes how the shadows of the leaves move like flags do in the wind, and says that, when Autumn comes and the leaves all fall to the ground, he is somehow still in their shade. holy_of_holies: The balcony has one inquiring “Who?”
You like the singer and his name request, A name I thought that everybody knew, Unless you may be some infrequent guest-- Ignore those patrons calling me a pest! By music I arrange a rendezvous: When, after shadows lengthen from the west, I sing again, my voice will summon you. This part is a strange one, but it is explained in the next part. The narrator is now speaking in the present tense, as if the events he describes are taking place right now. Presumably still in the forest, he imagines himself again on a stage, where someone in the "balcony," or upper deck of seats in an opera house, is saying "Who?", which the narrator interprets as a compliment for his song and a request for his name. He wonders who could possibly not know his name, and guesses that the one asking has not been to this place often since he doesn't know the name. The narrator tells the voice to ignore anyone here who calls him a "pest," and those who may call him this, he describes as "patrons," a word often used to describe people who go see an opera. He then tells the voice that he will call for him again by singing after the sun sets ("after shadows lengthen from the west," i.e. when the sun sets in the west, the shadows grow long from this direction, so after this has happened, it will be night.) holy_of_holies: When evening falls, I step before the throng
And hear a single shout: “Let’s keep him! Bring A jar!” Now to the landlords I belong. In glass they showcase me, a famous thing-- Say “Who?” not henceforth, owl of silent wing. Play Don Giovanni? No, the lyric’s wrong: Without an orchestra I’ll have to sing My nachtmusik, a chirping cricket’s song. Still in the present tense, the narrator says that night has come again and describes going in front of a crowd ("throng") and hearing someone yell, “Let’s keep him! Bring A jar!” It is that this point that his illusions start to crumble. He says he is held in captivity ("in glass") and exhibited as something well-known, and admits to himself that the one that said "Who?" in the forest was an owl who flies without making a noise (owls make a sound like "hooo" and have special feathers that don't make much sound when they fly.) The narrator imagines that he is asked to play Don Giovanni, the main character of Mozart's most famous opera, but turns down the role because he doesnt like the words ("the lyric.") He says he'll have to sing without any accompaniment, meaning without musical instruments playing, and finally describes his song as "nachtmusik" ("night-music") and reveals that he himself has been a cricket all along. So basically what you have in this poem is a cricket who remembers starting off as kind of a nobody, someone staying in someone else's house, as insects tend to do in the houses of humans. He stayed in this house until the people who live there cleaned the house and got rid of all the pests they had formerly allowed to stay there. He recalls that he alone was allowed to stay because of his song (male crickets make a chirping noise at night to attract females, and perhaps the people liked this song.) However, someone, a "critic," complained about the chirping noise, and the cricket left in anger and went to a forest, where he hid in the shade. Even when the leaves fell, the cricket was still in their shade since he could hide beneath the fallen leaves themselves on the forest floor. It is at this point that the cricket begins to imagine things - that he is back in the house, with the people listening to him again, and further imagines that these people are the audience in an opera house. The cricket hears the hoot of an owl in the trees above him, and imagines that someone in the highest seats in the imagined audience is asking his name. Among other things, he then tells the owl that he will perform again the next night and to meet him at the same spot in the forest. When night comes again, the cricket makes his appearance, only to be caught by the people of the house and put in a jar, in which they display him in a prominent place - making him "famous," so that he tells the owl not to say "Who?" anymore, since he is now well-known to everyone. Again imagining the opera-house, the cricket turns down an imaginary offer of the role of Don Giovanni in Mozart's opera, which he was never offered in the first place. The cricket says he turned down the offer because he doesn't like the lyrics to that opera, which in real life is about a Spanish male aristocrat who has many lovers, the one thing the cricket can't have no matter how much he chirps, since he is being held in the jar. The cricket finally says he'll have to sing without backing music, and admits to himself that he is just a cricket after all. So I think you can basically see how the story of the cricket, how he goes from vagabond to voluntary outcast to imaginary star to captive entertainer, is sort of like my life, in that I was kind of a seedy character in high school, then started to dislike the people around me in college, leading to the isolation which was the earliest sign of my illness, until finally I was held captive in the hospital and forced to admit that I would be a solo performer, i.e. a writer, and would never be truly free. Kind of a sad poem, but cathartic in a way. One final thing: this is my favorite of all my poems, and it took me several months to finish. I first submitted an edited version of the poem to the literary magazine published by my university, and they rejected it without comment, so I emailed it to the main poetry professor at the creative writing program in my university, and she too declined to comment on it, which further reinforced the feeling of rejection I describe in the poem. Just though that was ironic, that everyone rejects a poem about rejection! [CLICK HERE TO VIEW THIS PICTURE] [CLICK HERE TO VIEW THIS PICTURE] posted by MindSlave |
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 MindSlave: The stanzas I cut out were just nonsense, trust me, they may have worked as Pink Floyd lyrics or something, but not as a traditional poem. You'd still post'em, the less traditional, the better b/c then it's like a rebellious poem, those are the best, b/c they're not boring 
posted by a |
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That was very, very cool. Muy awesome. Muy. I love it. amazing allegory. But I have to tell ya, I would never have gotten any of that from reading the poem. And the whole meter thing (which I just started to learn in english class, and I think its annoying and incredibly hard since well, I don’t get it), I think that adds to the confusion the way the words are thrown about. But it adds to the whole flow and rhythm. When you sent it to those people, did you attach your explanation of it? Because, I’ll have to say, it’s hard to get. For me at least, get a second opinion. Great poem, now that i understand it. posted by sangu |
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I wrote my shortest poem ever today and it is also my favorite ever. I was trying to write like Here it is: My sword swings free, And none who see Survive; So stay my hand And leave this land -- Alive. Haha cool...I might turn it into a song. 
posted by MindSlavery Florida |
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The time now is 6 October 2008, 17:53 php B.B. |