a short lament

Sooo I wrote an English Dance tune this morning... now I have to scour my MP3 collection and search the internet and inquire of dancing folk to find out where I've heard it before. :} It's kinda' sad, being so entirely unoriginal that the best I can hope for is to inadvertently copy someone else's genius...

...have other tune writers had this problem?!

Exponential Enjoyment ~ "The Lady of Shalott"

(great thing) x (great thing) x (great thing) = (great thing)3 = exponential enjoyment
Poor mathematics, I know, given that what I describe in the following post is more like addition than multiplication... but surely you understand my sentiment. :]

Great Thing #1
I was first exposed to Lord Alfred Tennyson's poetic narrative "The Lady of Shalott" as a little girl watching Anne of Green Gables. One part of the movie that always stood out to me was Anne Shirley's dramatic reenactment of the voyage of the Lily-Maid. You know, the part where she drifts across the pond in an oarless skiff, encounters a major leak, clings to a bridge support for dear life, and inadvertently traumatizes her friends by her apparent untimely death until returning to them unharmed, having been rescued by Gilbert Blythe... that part. ;] Being immersed in the reenactment-gone-awry, I never took much note of the original poem being acted out, but very much enjoyed this humorous scene. That being said, in more recent times I have read several of Tennyson's other poems and have felt an immediate fondness for them. Tennyson's skill in the crafting of words is enthralling.

Great Thing #2
I've long loved the artwork of John William Waterhouse, particularly "Miranda - The Tempest" and "Windflowers". Though I've been intrigued by his painting "The Lady of Shalott" since first seeing it in a pocket-sized art book, it was only this week that I learned Waterhouse had painted not one, not two, but three scenes from Tennyson's poem. Oddly enough, the title figure's appearance is not consistent within this trio - her hair color and clothing styles change drastically between scenes, and her facial features are altered so far as to indicate the portraits being of entirely different maidens. Still, each one of Waterhouse's paintings is beautifully detailed and full of feeling - very much a pleasure to view and to contemplate.
[Note: my current favorite Waterhouse painting, "'I am half sick of shadows,' said the Lady of Shalott", concludes this post for your further viewing enjoyment.]

Great Thing #3
I've been listening to the music of Loreena McKennitt for as long as I can remember - and, in all likelihood, longer still. :] Her album The Book of Secrets is a favorite of mine, though it was comparatively recently that I began to appreciate the poetry of "The Highwayman" and ceased to be disquieted by the melancholy tale it presents. Loreena McKennitt's singing style is a magical blend of dulcet clarity and shadowed mystery; her music is a realm of bittersweet visions brought to life by haunting melodies and entrancing vocalizations. I'll leave you to deduce whether I'm fond of her recordings. :]

Three long-time favorites.
Lord Alfred Tennyson - a potent poet.
John William Waterhouse - a poignant painter.
Loreena McKennitt - a superlative singer.
Years after being introduced to each of these artists individually, I've happened upon a lovely combination of some of their finest works. Words do not do justice to my delight. :]

Disclaimer: a characteristic common to several of the paintings used in this slideshow is apparel made of semi-transparent material and/or with wide drooping shoulder lines.

As in all things, viewer discretion is advised.

The Lady of Shalott
by Lord Alfred Tennyson

On either side the river lie

Long fields of barley and of rye,

That clothe the wold and meet the sky;

And through the field the road runs by

            To many-towered Camelot;             

And up and down the people go,              

Gazing where the lilies blow              

Round an island there below,              

            The island of Shalott.              

Willows whiten, aspens quiver,              

Little breezes dusk and shiver              

Through the wave that runs for ever              

By the island in the river             

            Flowing down to Camelot.             

Four grey walls, and four grey towers,              

Overlook a space of flowers,             

And the silent isle imbowers              

            The Lady of Shalott.             

By the margin, willow-veiled,             

Slide the heavy barges trailed              

By slow horses; and unhailed             

The shallop flitteth silken-sailed              

            Skimming down to Camelot:              

But who hath seen her wave her hand?            

Or at the casement seen her stand?

Or is she known in all the land,              

            The Lady of Shalott?              

Only reapers, reaping early             

In among the bearded barley,             

Hear a song that echoes cheerly              

From the river winding clearly,              

            Down to towered Camelot:              

And by the moon the reaper weary,             

Piling sheaves in uplands airy,             

Listening, whispers “ ’Tis the fairy              

            Lady of Shalott.”      

There she weaves by night and day             

A magic web with colours gay.           

She has heard a whisper say,              

A curse is on her if she stay              

            To look down to Camelot.              

She knows not what the curse may be,              

And so she weaveth steadily,             

And little other care hath she,             

            The Lady of Shalott.             

And moving through a mirror clear              

That hangs before her all the year,              

Shadows of the world appear.            

There she sees the highway near              

            Winding down to Camelot:             

There the river eddy whirls,

And there the surly village-churls,               

And the red cloaks of market girls,             

            Pass onward from Shalott.                            

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,             

An abbot on an ambling pad,              

Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad,              

Or long-haired page in crimson clad,              

            Goes by to towered Camelot;              

And sometimes through the mirror blue              

The knights come riding two and two:            

She hath no loyal knight and true,              

            The Lady of Shalott.             

But in her web she still delights              

To weave the mirror’s magic sights,             

For often through the silent nights              

A funeral, with plumes and lights            

            And music, went to Camelot:              

Or when the moon was overhead,              

Came two young lovers lately wed;             

“I am half sick of shadows,” said             

            The Lady of Shalott.             

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,              

He rode between the barley-sheaves,

The sun came dazzling through the leaves,             

And flamed upon the brazen greaves              

            Of bold Sir Lancelot.              

A red-cross knight for ever kneeled              

To a lady in his shield,            

That sparkled on the yellow field,             

            Beside remote Shalott.             

              

The gemmy bridle glittered free,            

Like to some branch of stars we see

Hung in the golden Galaxy.             

The bridle bells rang merrily               

            As he rode down to Camelot:              

And from his blazoned baldric slung              

A mighty silver bugle hung,              

And as he rode his armour rung,              

            Beside remote Shalott.             

              

All in the blue unclouded weather             

Thick-jewelled shone the saddle-leather,

The helmet and the helmet-feather             

Burned like one burning flame together,              

            As he rode down to Camelot.             

As often through the purple night,              

Below the starry clusters bright,              

Some bearded meteor, trailing light,              

            Moves over still Shalott.              

              

His broad clear brow in sunlight glowed;             

On burnished hooves his war-horse trode;

From underneath his helmet flowed             

His coal-black curls as on he rode,             

            As he rode down to Camelot.              

From the bank and from the river              

He flashed into the crystal mirror,              

“Tirra lirra,” by the river              

            Sang Sir Lancelot.             

              

She left the web, she left the loom,             

She made three paces through the room,

She saw the water-lily bloom,              

She saw the helmet and the plume,              

            She looked down to Camelot.              

Out flew the web and floated wide;              

The mirror cracked from side to side;              

“The curse is come upon me,” cried              

            The Lady of Shalott.             

              

In the stormy east-wind straining,

The pale yellow woods were waning,              

The broad stream in his banks complaining,

Heavily the low sky raining              

            Over towered Camelot;              

Down she came and found a boat              

Beneath a willow left afloat,              

And round about the prow she wrote              

            The Lady of Shalott.             

              

And down the river’s dim expanse,             

Like some bold seër in a trance              

Seeing all his own mischance--

With a glassy countenance             

            Did she look to Camelot.             

And at the closing of the day              

She loosed the chain, and down she lay;              

The broad stream bore her far away,              

            The Lady of Shalott.              

              

Lying, robed in snowy white              

That loosely flew to left and right –

The leaves upon her falling light –

Through the noises of the night              

            She floated down to Camelot:               

And as the boat-head wound along               

The willowy hills and fields among,              

They heard her singing her last song,              

            The Lady of Shalott.              

              

Heard a carol, mournful, holy,             

Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,              

Till her blood was frozen slowly,

And her eyes were darkened wholly,              

            Turned to towered Camelot.               

For ere she reached upon the tide              

The first house by the water-side,              

Singing in her song she died,              

            The Lady of Shalott.             

              

Under tower and balcony,             

By garden-wall and gallery,             

A gleaming shape she floated by,

Dead-pale between the houses high,              

            Silent into Camelot.              

Out upon the wharfs they came,             

Knight and burgher, lord and dame,              

And round the prow they read her name,              

            The Lady of Shalott.              

Who is this? and what is here?              

And in the lighted palace near              

Died the sound of royal cheer;              

And they crossed themselves for fear,

            All the knights at Camelot:              

But Lancelot mused a little space;              

He said, “She has a lovely face;              

God in his mercy lend her grace,              

            The Lady of Shalott.”

Friends! Romans! Countrymen!

Lend me your ears!
(to which the obvious response is neither a borrower nor a lender be - but I digress.)

I commend you for your patience in awaiting another magnificent musical manuscript.
And I condemn you for your total indifference with regards to the same.
(Loan oft loses both itself and friend...)

I might possibly write more if there were an interest amongst readers.
There might possibly be an interest amongst readers if I wrote more.
(To write, or not to write... THAT is the question.)

Classic Blunders

Last Sunday I was contentedly completing a homework assignment for the music theory class I'm in, when suddenly I noticed that I'd repeatedly broken one of the fundamental rules of writing suspensions. (Incidentally, the whole point of the exercise was to use suspensions...)

Ordinarily, I'd find such a failure upsetting.

In this instance, I rejoiced.

It provided the perfect excuse for writing three paragraphs full of movie references. :]

The text from above, enlarged for your convenience and viewing enjoyment:

Not the most intellectual of posts, this... but then, which of mine ever has been? ;)

I found it amusing, anyway, and thus deemed it worthy of posting.

Additional Note: I just now noticed that I also neglected to read the directions fully, and thus wrote the exercise for four voices rather than the three called for. :}

Verily, A New Hope

Hast e’er thou bethought how ‘twould sound

If by sharp wit and skilled pen a tale were rendered in

Yet another mode than that in which ‘twas first writ?

Would not thou stand astounded if met with a tale of the stars

And the galactic forces at war therein, yet told

In a manner befitting the air of noble playwright

William Shakespeare? For such hath been found, aye, and when found

Brought with gladsome haste to our goodly abode,

Whereupon we set with eagerness of heart to peruse

This volume so singularly significant.

For since my first days as one seeing merit

In literary works of satire or parody,

Ne’er yet have I seen such skill in style set

To such a worthy end.

                                                Aye, this classic pair,

The timeless nature of Star Wars films

Mixed yet with seamless Shakespearean style,

Hath quick taken hold of my thought this day,

And hath firmly rooted in the mould of mine mind

As ranking beyond the common lot of words multiplied,

In an instant becoming a favorite.

‘Tis through influence of volume by Ian Doescher,

Goodly man of capacity vast, that now

My thoughts be ever bent towards galaxies distant

And to the sorrows and strivings therein. Moreover,

Attention turns perforce to writing style grand;

I here seek to convey the flavor, yet whilest knowing

My words be but an echo and a shadow thereof.

Pentameter, iambic or otherwise, is not as yet

Accounted among my strengths – and yet – methinks

That with the passage of time, and opportunity availed,

I may still come to learn this skill.       ‘Tis said

The pen be mighty beyond strength of sword, yea, e’en perhaps

Past power held by saber of light; and if ‘tis true,

I’ll train in its use until ready and full fit to write

In style belike the bard – or mayhap in style finer still!

To thee, O Reader, may I in closing advice impart –

For in closing it must be, else thou shalt soon

Bethink thyself of hasty departure, and flee –

If thou liking hast for words poetic yet clear,

For lines in stately measure writ, for tale familiar

And yet sublime: thou shouldst with haste

Convey thyself to a seller of books, and search

For one so named Verily, A New Hope; thus thou shalt find

A volume to thy delight, diverting thee for hours to come.

Be swift! Glad thou shalt be made by this matter,

If gladdened thou canst be made by the written word.

With grateful heart I thank thee for thy time, trusting

That it shall not have been spent in vain.