Tag Archives: Sunday Mix

SUNDAY MIX – LOTUS MEDITATION

November 1, 2015 Feminatronic

On the day when the lotus bloomed, alas, my mind was straying,
and I knew it not. My basket was empty and the flower remained unheeded.

Only now and again a sadness fell upon me, and I started up from my
dream and felt a sweet trace of a strange fragrance in the south wind.

That vague sweetness made my heart ache with longing and it seemed to
me that is was the eager breath of the summer seeking for its completion.

I knew not then that it was so near, that it was mine, and that this
perfect sweetness had blossomed in the depth of my own heart.

Rabindranath Tagore (1861 – 1941)

A sea of foliage girds our garden round,
But not a sea of dull unvaried green,
Sharp contrasts of all colors here are seen;
The light-green graceful tamarinds abound
Amid the mango clumps of green profound,
And palms arise, like pillars gray, between;
And o’er the quiet pools the seemuls lean,
Red—red, and startling like a trumpet’s sound.
But nothing can be lovelier than the ranges
Of bamboos to the eastward, when the moon
Looks through their gaps, and the white lotus changes
Into a cup of silver. One might swoon
Drunken with beauty then, or gaze and gaze
On a primeval Eden, in amaze.

Sonnet – Toru Dutt (1856 – 1877)

How mutable is every thing that here
Below we do enjoy? with how much fear
And trouble are those gilded Vanities
Attended, that so captivate our eyes?
Oh, who would trust this World, or prize what’s in it,
That gives, and takes, and changes in a minute?

Philip Pain (1667)

If the day is done,
if birds sing no more,
if the wind has flagged tired,
then draw the veil of darkness thick upon me,
even as thou hast wrapt the earth with the coverlet of sleep
and tenderly closed the petals of the drooping lotus at dusk.

Rabindranath Tagore (1861 – 1941)

Electronic Music, Poetry, Sunday Mix

SUNDAY MIXES – BIRDS

October 4, 2015 Feminatronic

I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,
When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,–
When he beats his bars and he would be free;
It is not a carol of joy or glee,
But a prayer that he sends from his heart’s deep core,
But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings–
I know why the caged bird sings!

Sympathy – Paul Lawrence Dunbar (1872 – 1906)

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

Hope is the Thing with Feathers – Emily Dickinson (1830 – 1886)

When April bends above me
And finds me fast asleep,
Dust need not keep the secret
A live heart died to keep.

When April tells the thrushes,
The meadow-larks will know,
And pipe the three words lightly
To all the winds that blow.

Above his roof the swallows,
In notes like far-blown rain,
Will tell the little sparrow
Beside his window-pane.

O sparrow, little sparrow,
When I am fast asleep,
Then tell my love the secret
That I have died to keep

I Love You – Sara Teasdale (1884 – 1933)

Do you ask what the birds say? The Sparrow, the Dove,
The Linnet and Thrush say, “I love and I love!”
In the winter they’re silent—the wind is so strong;
What it says, I don’t know, but it sings a loud song.
But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny warm weather,
And singing, and loving—all come back together.
But the Lark is so brimful of gladness and love,
The green fields below him, the blue sky above,
That he sings, and he sings; and for ever sings he—
“I love my Love, and my Love loves me!”

Answer to a Child’s Question – Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772 – 1884)

Sunday Mix

SUNDAY MIX – MEMORIES

August 30, 2015 Feminatronic

This month the Sunday Mix is based loosely on the idea of memories and the feeling that can occur of otherworldliness and a kind of a journey that you take, when a memory strikes.

The music reflects that feeling…

I remember
The crackle of the palm trees
Over the mooned white roofs of the town…
The shining town…
And the tender fumbling of the surf
On the sulphur-yellow beaches
As we sat…a little apart…in the close-pressing night.

The moon hung above us like a golden mango,
And the moist air clung to our faces,
Warm and fragrant as the open mouth of a child
And we watched the out-flung sea
Rolling to the purple edge of the world,
Yet ever back upon itself…
As we…

Inadequate night…
And mooned white memory
Of a tropic sea…
How softly it comes up
Like an ungathered lily.

A Memory – Lola Ridge (1873 – 1941)

And I gave myself to the poem.
And the poem gave to me.
And I gave myself to the sky.
And the sky gave to me.
And I gave myself to the wind.
And the wind took what I gave
and passed it to the sky.

And I gave myself to women.
And women gave to me.
And I gave myself to the wound.
And the wound gave to me.
And I gave myself to hope.
And hope took what I gave
and passed it to the wound.

And I gave myself to wine.
And wine gave to me.
And I gave myself to candlelight.
And candlelight gave to me.
And I gave myself to memory.
And memory took what I gave
and passed it to candlelight.

And I gave myself to music.
And music gave to me.
And I gave myself to the tree.
And the tree gave to me.
And I gave myself to change.
And change took what I gave
and passed it to the tree.

And I gave myself to silence.
And silence gave to me.
And I gave myself to light.
And light gave to me.
And I gave myself to night.
And night took what I gave
and passed it to the stars.

In Vino Veritas – Howard Altmann (2013)

But with the sentence: “Use your failures for paper.” Meaning, I understood, the backs of failed poems, but also my life. Whose far side I begin now to enter— A book imprinted without seeming season, each blank day bearing on its reverse, in random order, the mad-set type of another. December 12, 1960. April 4, 1981. 13th of August, 1974— Certain words bleed through to the unwritten pages. To call this memory offers no solace. “Even in sleep, the heavy millstones turning.” I do not know where the words come from, what the millstones, where the turning may lead. I, a woman forty-five, beginning to gray at the temples, putting pages of ruined paper into a basket, pulling them out again.

Waking the Morning Dreamless Long Sleep – Jane Hirshfield (1953)

Poetry courtesy of Academy of American Poets

Sunday Mix

SUNDAY MIX – SLEEP

August 2, 2015 Feminatronic

Once a month Feminatronic combines two favourite things, electronic music and poetry, to bring an oasis of calm and this month is no exception as the mix is about Sleep.

Sleep, little pigeon, and fold your wings,

Little blue pigeon with velvet eyes;

Sleep to the singing of mother-bird swinging—

Swinging the nest where her little one lies.

Away out yonder I see a star,—

Silvery star with a tinkling song;

To the soft dew falling I hear it calling—

Calling and tinkling the night along.

In through the window a moonbeam comes,—

Little gold moonbeam with misty wings;

All silently creeping, it asks, “Is he sleeping—

Sleeping and dreaming while mother sings?”

Up from the sea there floats the sob

Of the waves that are breaking upon the shore,

As though they were groaning in anguish, and moaning—

Bemoaning the ship that shall come no more.

But sleep, little pigeon, and fold your wings,—

Little blue pigeon with mournful eyes;

Am I not singing?—see, I am swinging—

Swinging the nest where my darling lies.

Japanese Lullaby – Eugene Field (1892)

Sleep, sleep, beauty bright,
Dreaming in the joys of night;
Sleep, sleep; in thy sleep
Little sorrows sit and weep.

Sweet babe, in thy face
Soft desires I can trace,
Secret joys and secret smiles,
Little pretty infant wiles.

As thy softest limbs I feel
Smiles as of the morning steal
O’er thy cheek, and o’er thy breast
Where thy little heart doth rest.

O the cunning wiles that creep
In thy little heart asleep!
When thy little heart doth wake,
Then the dreadful night shall break.

Cradle Song – William Blake (1757 – 1827)

O God! can I not save

One from the pitiless wave?

Is all that we see or seem

But a dream within a dream?

A Dream within a Dream – Edgar Allan Poe (1809 – 1849)

Sunday Mix

SUNDAY MIX – LISTEN

June 28, 2015 Feminatronic

This Sunday Mix is a little different as the focus is on a single poem and the music demands that you listen, to get the full benefit. So, get your headphones on and let’s begin with some words of wisdom from Eliane Radigue –

Listen. Put on morning.

Waken into falling light.

A man’s imagining

Suddenly may inherit

The handclapping centuries

Of his one minute on earth.

And hear the virgin juries

Talk with his own breath

To the corner boys of his street.

And hear the Black Maria

Searching the town at night.

And hear the playropes caa

The sister Mary in.

And hear Willie and Davie

Among bracken of Narnain

Sing in a mist heavy

With myrtle and listeners.

And hear the higher town

Weep a petition of fears

At the poorhouse close upon

The public heartbeat.

And hear the children tig

And run with my own feet

Into the netting drag

Of a suiciding principle.

Listen. Put on lightbreak.

Waken into miracle.

The audience lies awake

Under the tenements

Under the sugar docks

Under the printed moments.

The centuries turn their locks

And open under the hill

Their inherited books and doors

All gathered to distil

Like happy berry pickers

One voice to talk to us.

Yes listen. It carries away

The second and the years

Till the heart’s in a jacket of snow

And the head’s in a helmet white

And the song sleeps to be wakened

By the morning ear bright.

Listen. Put on morning.

Waken into falling light.

Poem – Listen.Put on Morning by W.S.Graham – (1918 – 1986)

Poetry Foundation

Discovers, Introducing, Poetry, Sunday Mix

SUNDAY MIX – SOMETHING DIFFERENT

June 7, 2015 Feminatronic

So, I had a think about the Sunday Mixes…and I think to allow them to breathe and get some space, I am going to post one a month, starting with this month and this is a little different as I am highlighting a Poetry website and SoundCloud page from a Modern Pianist –

I have reblogged Lindy Karpestras’ poetry below but via her SoundCloud page I have discovered the ambient artist Madeleine Cocolas

Sunday Mix

SUNDAY MIX – THE MOON

May 31, 2015 Feminatronic 1 Comment

The moon was but a chin of gold
A night or two ago,
And now she turns her perfect face
Upon the world below.
Her forehead is of amplest blond;
Her cheek like beryl stone;
Her eye unto the summer dew
The likest I have known.
Her lips of amber never part;
But what must be the smile
Upon her friend she could bestow
Were such her silver will!
And what a privilege to be
But the remotest star!
For certainly her way might pass
Beside your twinkling door.
Her bonnet is the firmament,
The universe her shoe,
The stars the trinkets at her belt,
Her dimities of blue.

Emily Dickinson

The stars that round the Queen of Night

Like maids attend her
Hide as in veils of mist their light
When she, in full-orbed glory bright.
O’er all the earth shines from her height,

A silver splendour.

Sappho

A tiny moon as white and small as a single jasmine flower
Leans all alone above my window, on night’s wintry bower,
Liquid as lime-tree blossom, soft as brilliant water or rain
She shines, the one white love of my youth, which all sin cannot stain.

A White Blossom

D.H.Lawrence (1885 – 1930)

The stars around the fair moon fade
Against the night,
When gazing full she fills the glade
And spreads the seas with silvery light.

Sappho

Recommends, Soundcloud, Sunday Mix

SUNDAY MIX – RHYTHM AND DRUMBEATS

May 24, 2015 Feminatronic

This weeks’ Sunday Mix of Electronic Music and Poetry has the theme of Rhythm and Drumbeats and starts with a wonderfully rhythmic piece from an Electronic Pioneer.

I travelled over land and seas, until I came to laughter’s home.
I met a woman heavy with child,
‘you are heavy with child too,’ stated the woman.
‘Yes,’ said I. ‘Heavy with sound.’
I shared my sound, she bore a bouncing baby.

I travelled over land and seas,
Until I came to music’s home.
I met a village singer.
‘you must be the bringer of rhythm,’ stated the singer.
‘yes,’ said I. I bring you beats and music notes,
I shared my beats, the music had rhythm.

I travelled over land and seas,
Until I came to a children’s game,
the leader posing tricky riddles,
‘it talks, it sings and cheers but has no mouth.’
‘the drum, ‘ answered the children in unison.
I enjoyed my moment in the sun.

I travelled over land and seas,
Until I came before an old woman,
Wisdom marks in her beaming countenance,
She prepared a place for me next to her.
‘this is for you, oh! Messenger’ said she to me.

I travelled over land and seas,
Until I came to a ritual ceremony,
invited amidst ululation,
I showed them the drum beat,
I showed them how it brings harmony.

Tom Mukasa

Beat! beat! drums!—blow! bugles! blow!

Make no parley—stop for no expostulation,

Mind not the timid—mind not the weeper or prayer,

Mind not the old man beseeching the young man,

Let not the child’s voice be heard, nor the mother’s entreaties,

Make even the trestles to shake the dead where they lie awaiting the hearses,

So strong you thump O terrible drums—so loud you bugles blow.

Beat! Beat! Drums!

Walt Whitman (1819 – 1892)

some waves
a wave of now
a trombone speaking to you
a piano is trying to break a molecule
is trying to lift the stage into orbit
around the red spotlights

a shadow
the shadows      of dancers
dancers     they are dancing    falling
out that space      made for dancing

they should dance
on the tables they should
dance inside of their drinks
they should dance on the
ceiling they should dance/dance

thru universes
leaning-moving
we are traveling

where are we going
if we only knew

with this rhythm    with
this banging     with     fire
with this     all    this    O
my god i wonder    where are
we going
sink into a room full of laughter
full of happiness     full of life
those dancers
the dancers
are clapping their hands
stomping their feet

hold back them tears
all those sentimental stories
cooked uptown if you can hold it for after

we are going
away-away-away
beyond these wooden tables
beyond these red lights
beyond these rugs & paper
walls beyond way past
i mean way past them clouds
over the buildings    over the
rivers    over towns    over cities
like on rails   but faster   like
a train    but smoother
away past stars
bursting with drums.

a sudden misunderstanding
a cloud
full of grayness
a body thru a store window
a hand reaching
into the back
pocket
a scream
a piano is talking to you
thru all this
why don’t you answer it.

Latin and Soul
Victor Hernández Cruz, 1949

Electronic Music, Poetry, Sunday Mix

THE SUNDAY MIX – THE SUN

May 17, 2015 Feminatronic

Here is this weeks mix of music and poetry and the subject this week is the Sun –

Great is the sun, and wide he goes
Through empty heaven with repose;
And in the blue and glowing days
More thick than rain he showers his rays.

Though closer still the blinds we pull
To keep the shady parlour cool,
Yet he will find a chink or two
To slip his golden fingers through.

The dusty attic spider-clad
He, through the keyhole, maketh glad;
And through the broken edge of tiles
Into the laddered hay-loft smiles.

Meantime his golden face around
He bares to all the garden ground,
And sheds a warm and glittering look
Among the ivy’s inmost nook.

Above the hills, along the blue,
Round the bright air with footing true,
To please the child, to paint the rose,
The gardener of the World, he goes.

Summer Sun – Robert Louis Stephenson

The Sun—just touched the Morning—
The Morning—Happy thing—
Supposed that He had come to dwell—
And Life would all be Spring!

She felt herself supremer—
A Raised—Ethereal Thing!
Henceforth—for Her—What Holiday!
Meanwhile—Her wheeling King—
Trailed—slow—along the Orchards—
His haughty—spangled Hems—
Leaving a new necessity!
The want of Diadems!

The Morning—fluttered—staggered—
Felt feebly—for Her Crown—
Her unanointed forehead—
Henceforth—Her only One!

The Sun – Just touched the morning – Emily Dickinson

How valuable it is in these short days,
threading through empty maple branches,
the lacy-needled sugar pines.

Its glint off sheets of ice tells the story
of Death’s brightness, her bitter cold.

We can make do with so little, just the hint
of warmth, the slanted light.

The way we stand there, soaking in it,
mittened fingers reaching.

And how carefully we gather what we can
to offer later, in darkness, one body to another.

Molly Fisk – Winter Sun

Ah Sunflower, weary of time,
Who countest the steps of the sun;
Seeking after that sweet golden clime
Where the traveller’s journey is done;

Where the Youth pined away with desire,
And the pale virgin shrouded in snow,
Arise from their graves, and aspire
Where my Sunflower wishes to go!

Ah Sunflower – William Blake

Poetry, Recommends, Sunday Mix

SUNDAY MIX – WALKING

May 10, 2015 Feminatronic

Every Sunday I put together a mix loosely based around a theme, as I think that music and poetry go so well together and since today I went for a stroll along the seafront to blow the cobwebs away, todays theme is Walking

My eyes already touch the sunny hill.
going far ahead of the road I have begun.
So we are grasped by what we cannot grasp;
it has inner light, even from a distance-

and charges us, even if we do not reach it,
into something else, which, hardly sensing it,
we already are; a gesture waves us on
answering our own wave…
but what we feel is the wind in our faces.

Rainer Maria Rilke (1875 – 1926)