12 February 2011

Mt Ainslie

I wrote this poem walking down Mt Ainslie a week or so ago. I marched up listening to the whole of Beethoven's Piano Concerto No 5 in E Flat. Glorious music for marching. And listening to classical music with trees is wonderful, I highly recommend it as a pastime. Try Vivaldi's Four Seasons if you like, a suggestion potentially lacking in imagination, but it really works. Those dudes who carried gramaphones into the jungle had the right idea, except for the shooting the elephants bit.

Walking down the hill - for it ain't much of a mount - I took a side path and played my new flute. I have only had it two weeks I think, but I am getting better at making the sound I hope to hear. There was a fairly epic improvisation on top of Satie's Gymnopedies and Gnossiennes in my living room the other night. The neighbours barbecuing in the courtyard did not complain at least. It is all about embouchure, which just requires regularity. (It took a while to work out how to spell that - google thought i was looking for umeboshi plums.) Anyway, the poem:

At evening
The sun pours
Orange pink
Into the cup
Of the hills
And I dip
My pen
Into this
Glorious ink
To compose
A letter
To tomorrow.

This is cool - my photo and poem on the RiotACT.

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