Here's two versions of one of my favourite arias Nessun Dorma from Puccini's Turandot performed by Pavarotti solo & then with The Three Tenors: Pavarotti died yesterday & was a great artist who will be missed by many .
And with the Three Tenors:
Poem below dedicated to an old friend of mine David Rimmington who encouraged me to keep writing & to push my writing further into the realms of the imagination for which I am forever grateful. He also introduced me to other writers & artist & café intellectuals in the literary artistic community in Halifax -all of whom kept me energized & invigorated & even a little optimistic.It is odd because I had been on the verge of giving up writing altogether & there are those literary critics who wish I had but there you go-
It was because of him I began taking part in weekly public readings at various cafes of my work & taking part in the ongoing discussions & sometimes heated arguments about writing & art .Regular readings took place first & foremost at Café Mokka & The Green Bean & The Mauve Door & the infamous Café Apollinaire though few knew its location - & sometimes there were impromptu readings while standing on a table in some noisy bar like the old Sea Horse or at The Road House from which at various times I was gently shown the door -
Especially of note were Al McPherson & John Butters & the mysterious CAT ( Charlotte Taylor )& of course my patron JP who kept me going for quite awhile til the inevitable monetary crisis which is my 'leitmotif ' as it were. During that time I began writing longer pieces like " Night of a Thousand Hours " & the legendary epic poem " Tales From Café Apollinaire " which I have continued to work on for over a dozen or so years - & the more recent Epic For Our Time : A Requiem
Dedication :
& I wish I could dream as much
as he & Don Quixote
& not feel so much the burden
& indignities of my daily forays
into this world -
earthbound angel # 2
new age angel: muse of the Café Apollinaire
edited 01/11/02
Drifting from café to café
as light as air
his presence barely noticed
judges no one
accepts everything as possible
talking from midnight til dawn
gets exited when someone admits
to being a writer he asks for samples
praises all their efforts
it's all so subjective so who can tell
what is good & what is not
creating strange eccentric short plays
& stories & poems being put upon
the chopping block but he is humble
to an extreme & always says his little
works are second rate
as he writes about a Minotaur
& the farmer's daughter
& the traveling sales man
& engages in discussions
of secret Druidic Cults
of the lost knowledge of Atlantis
& Shangri-la
of guiding angels
of mystical mental powers
for healing & talking to the dead
for flying through the air
for gaining immortality
for seeing our past incarnations
for Vision Quests & Sweat lodges
& massage therapy & aroma therapy
& the magic power of lighting candles
& the cleansing effect of enemas
& sensory deprivation tanks
for floating listening to recordings
of the sounds of nature of ocean waves
of song birds & gentle streams
& Eastern monks & sages meditating
& chanting & standing on their heads
& walking up & down mountains
at such a pace no one can keep up
living to a hundred and fifty or more
deciding to die when they've seen
& done enough Or after having
the ultimate vision
& so my friend dreams of a lost Golden Age
of pure spirituality
shares tales about Edgar Cayce
& other mediums of Madame Blavatsky
& the Theosophists
& the Order Of the Golden Dawn
of Alister Crowley & Yeats seeing gnomes
& faeries in his garden
& in hushed tones speaks
of the Egyptian & Tibetan books
of the dead
sees only the good in everyone
prays for all who are wounded or slain
fears getting too tangled up
in the everyday mundane world
of the profane as he thinks
of all these wondrous things
as he folds clothes fills & empties
washers & dryers in the Laundromat
where he labors for his daily bread -
Take Care,
GORD.
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