After listening to the wistful and nostalgic tone of Francis Poulenc’s Mélancolie, it may not surprise you to know that it was composed in 1940, while Poulenc was living in war torn France. This performance is by Neil Rutman for Noontime Concerts, which streams a new concert from its archives every Tuesday at 12:30.
Originally posted on Parhelion:
By Rebecca Moon Ruark The osprey came back. They came back, like they do each Spring, to perch where they will, high above the marine yard, atop the athletic field light poles, and in the stern of an abandoned sailboat on the river. The osprey own that boat now; it will never again sail the Bay, but the osprey don’t care. I have secretly loathed my fish hawk neighbors, for their shrieking cries that wake me before five in the morning. But I’m happy for them now, happy they’re keeping to their seasonal schedule of migration and procreation. Social media is speculating how many people babies will come from COVID-19-induced isolation. I can’t say, but there will be osprey babies again next year, screeching things that will draw graceful arcs in the sky like their parents and grandparents, before. They will protect their own, hunt, eat, and probably never experience ennui. The osprey came back, as did the daffodils, which I once thought of as only cheap harbingers of tulips, my…
Earlier this month, as the impeding pandemic was just looming on the horizon in the US, my husband and I were traveling through Georgia. We stopped in Macon for an overnight stay, intending to continue on to Florida the next day. Ultimately we made the decision to turn around and return home the next day as news of the coronavirus’s spread intensified. We were however, fortunate enough to visit the Ocmulgee Mounds National Park before heading home. Fittingly, it is a testament to the resilience of humanity, as the park is home to a pre-historic American Indian site. Occupied by many different cultures for thousands of years, the Mounds were constructed around 900 CE, during the Mississippian era for tribal elites. Normally I would edit down the large amount of photos I take during a visit to a park or event, but since many of us are stuck inside and unable to travel, I decided to include more then usual, to create a virtual tour of sorts.
The vultures stare, what does it mean? Does something wicked this way come? Nothing is as it seems they gather silently in the trees no one knows where from they peck at my heart upon my sleeve The vultures stare, what does it mean? gray in judgment: cold in blood Nothing is as it seems Love is blind, and lovers cannot see Rough winds do shake the darling buds The vultures stare, what does it mean? happiness takes his leave. rain pounds earth into mud Nothing is as it seems To be, or not to be? the tides surge and valleys flood The vultures stared, what did it mean? Nothing is as it seemed
faint shapes and shadows the world is a watermark becoming a stain