Louis Angelini Louis Angelini Composer
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Louis Angelini Music


The music of meaning is
Verse, the telling sound of sense,
Ground basso of spoken feeling.
Borne by rhythms and rhyme, gathering
Firm light from shifting colors,
It is, above all, tone, the singing
Echo of insight.

The soul of meaning is
Music, mother of invention,
Profound Basso of all singing.
Born in rhythm's waters, rising to
Clear sight from deep passions,
It is, before all, pure spirit, the
Song of inner light.


Flashes of light and flame,
Minutes, places, forms and memories,
Cantos and festivals,
Freeze and fire, squeeze and liberate,
Burnishing, light-timeless sparks,
Music in space returning
A precious glow to
Our cool Mother.


If you would sing with me,
You will come to know that I
Sing with the voices of
My own piano.
In all that I know of
Knowing, of playing,
I know best that I
Must do my own saying
With my piano.

The notes, the melodies,
My rhythms and harmonies
Are the same,
However they travel,
Whatever they are
Made to sound,
But their deepest ground
Lies in the colors of
My instrument.

It is the sound of one voice made
Many voices in one,
The color board of my lore,
Legend of my Mother,
My Father, my story given
And gladly taken families;
It is the cogent sense,
The mark of my
Truest home.

What will I choose to sing?
How will I make sign to say it?
I must first and last play it on
My own piano.


If it is graceful,
Exquisite and fully ripened
Foolishness that you would wish to see,
With a cap placed quietly,
Gently in your hand,
You must stand and
So be for a time.
In sum, pretend for a while,
Relish the comic opera of the moment,
Play the child.

And after a while,
When charming folly is done,
When graceful fool and clever foolishness
Have become completely,
Comfortably one,
You may nod, respectfully,
Even gratefully
For the lesson relearned,
The moment won.

Refreshed, released, you may
Remove your hat to your head,
Deftly touching fingers to the brim
To signal goodbye,
The time to go,
And walk away, walk away
In that moment of
Clarity when you surely
Will know why.

Walk away looking ahead,
Yet always behind, to find
Grace and foolishness in kind.
Hold them fast,
Joined, parsed, above all, cherished.
Watch them as they point and turn,
Arm in arm,
Snap-Dancing the Fantango,
Marching, swaying,
Gliding and lurching
Forward and backward,
Each embraced, sustained by
The other,
Lost in the music.

They will forever
Cling together,
Gripped and caressed in
The supple care
Of your eye.


Milo has three arms,
I only have two.
This means that it is
Easier for him than
For me to brilliantly play
Some of my piano music.
Though, I must say, he is
A very good fellow,
Quite practical, too,
Not at all smug about
His extra appendage.

But, even if he were,
That might be a bit all right,
Because, I must warn you,
It takes much preparation,
Imagination to see
All three of Milo's arms
In action, especially
The third one.
Though I have only two,
There have been days when
Some have said the same of me.
Perhaps, two are enough.
Your mind, your volition
Will always find, fill in
What the eyes can not see

In conclusion,
I would like to say that
An organist is
A person with a
Curious occupation,
Requiring feet with the
Ability to walk, run
And scurry along
On air.
If Milo were an
Beyond any doubt,
He would also have
Three legs.

Variations on a Theme

Right you are
If you think you are!
And so are we all,
Tinker, thinker,
Melody maker,
Poet and painter,
Et al, et al,
And so we all
When we play upon
The fervent blue guitar.

When we think we know we are,
We say upon and we know thereon
Magic, in the bracing quite amazing music of
This ardent blue guitar that we are.
Thus, were we by blazing harmonies to ourselves formed
And forming are, deeply thus,
So too sing the agile and sage
Wily Luigi and Wallace.

We are the precise players of the all
Seeming, dreaming
Things near and far,
Feeling, hearing and
Healing things as
They really were and are
On the pluperfect blue guitar.

We, pray-ers some and players all, are
The colors, voices,
Fine word choices,
The strummers, drummers,
Blowers and bowers,
Sounders of the
Pipe and bell,
The horn and cymbal,
Et al, et al,
And wondrous all.

Bold, bright, young and old generations
Born and tested in solitary sadness,
We are tempered by the poetry of strong passions
To a steely soft gladness.
Anointed with the music of compelling waters,
Some might say by dour salvations,
We conjure light and mystery anyway
From uncommon fascinations.
Our private visions master things, complete,
Perhaps lieless, or if only nearly neat,
At least artfully guileless.
They shape us in a steady warming caress
To celebrate the true as well as we can view it,
To toast it all with a sprightly tune
And a blessed jigger or two of
Dulcet Johnian madness.

We are the prolific ones, the ingenious
Bell tones, the deep and high
Forever light in your eye tones,
The sweet and wry always
Spring budding here comes mud in your eye tones,
The all and et al tonalities
And all those easing tunes that please of
The ruddy-tinged, rugged blue guitar.

You and I are the wizard variations on a journeyman theme,
We are whitewater voyagers,
The maestros of vital rhythms,
Plucking the currents and crossflows,
Plunging headlong, deftly probing
Where the river of invention
Quickens and grows, carving
Iconic eldorados.
We chant our verbal music
And mental melodies,
Acute ariosos
Harnessing us in a
Gripping poly-metered ride
Over smooth and roiling rios.

We are brawny, steadfast oarsmen plying
Rainbowed water and air, oaring
Con brios making whoopee strumming
The strands of driven waters, singing
On a quicksilver glide down
That long-branched ultimate stream,
Robust merrymakers
Diving, rising and diving again,
Culling a sack of songs and dreams
Story-filled for story-made
Taletellers spin-juggling
Symbols in small and tall yarns,
Vivid fictions all woven with
A handful of nimble schemes.

You and I are
The singing me and you guitar,
The dancing skip to my lou guitar,
The always new and ever old
Blood in the majestic blue guitar.
We are perched immutably on the crest of
A holy, crimson, humble
And hubristled fantastarealytistic ride,
A dogged in and out, up, down and around tide of spirit
Flowing in a medley of the music of all our years,
The sacred songs of all our spheres.
If you listen well, you will hear it,
Bar by bar as it is played on
The one and only blue guitar,
On cue, the way we knew it would
Sound and fade and be played again by us
In our own special calculus,
With our own voluptuous touch on
This bloody, rugged blue guitar that
We are.

We Are!

� 2011 Angelini All rights reserved.