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Μουσική - Κινηματογράφος - Τηλεόραση - Πολιτισμός
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<blockquote data-quote="Δημοκηδής" data-source="post: 1056710517" data-attributes="member: 522"><p>Είναι ενδιαφέρον ότι ο Φρανκ έγραψε όλα τα σημαντικά έργα του τα τελευταία δέκα χρόνια της ζωής του ... ο μύθος το φέρει ότι την δημιουργικότητα του πυροδότησε ο έρωτας για κάποια νεαρή μαθήτρια του... Το υπόψη έργο είναι πραγματικά υπέροχο με αβίαστα εξελισσόμενη μελωδική ροή, με σαφείς επιρροές από τον Μπραμς, ενώ πράγματι σαν συμφωνικό ποίημα κατορθώνει να αποδώσει έξοχα με μουσικά μέσα τις ''εικόνες'' του ποιήματος του Ουγκώ, προσομοιάζοντας ωστόσο, ως σωστά επισημάνθηκε, σε πιάνο κονσέρτο, αφού η νύχτα και το ζοφερό κλίμα περιγράφονται από την ορχήστρα, ενώ ο χορός των δαιμόνων αλλά και τα εναλλασσόμενα συναισθήματα του ποιητή από το πιάνο... </p><p>Ο δίσκος της bis που αναφέρεται στο αρχικό ποστ είναι πραγματικό απόκτημα περιέχοντας εξαιρετικές εκτελέσεις και των άλλων δύο αριστουργημάτων του Φρανκ, ιδιαίτερα του prelude, chorale and fugue ...</p><p>Ας βάλω και το ποίημα : </p><p>Walls, town</p><p>And port,</p><p>Refuge</p><p>From death,</p><p>Gray sea</p><p>Where breaks</p><p>The wind</p><p>All sleeps.</p><p></p><p>In the plain</p><p>Is born a sound.</p><p>It is the breathing</p><p>Of the night.</p><p>It roars</p><p>Like a soul</p><p>That a flame</p><p>Always follows.</p><p></p><p>The higher voice</p><p>Seems a shiver.</p><p>Of a leaping dwarf</p><p>it is the gallop.</p><p>He flees, he springs,</p><p>Then in cadence</p><p>On one foot dances</p><p>At the end of a stream.</p><p></p><p>The murmur approaches,</p><p>The echo repeats it.</p><p>It is like the bell</p><p>Of a cursed convent,</p><p>Like a crowd sound</p><p>That thunders and rolls</p><p>And sometimes crumbles</p><p>And sometimes swells..</p><p></p><p>God! The sepulchral voice</p><p>Of the Djinns! What noise they make!</p><p>We flee beneath the spiral</p><p>Of the deep staircase!</p><p></p><p>My lamp has already died,</p><p>And the shadow of the ramp,</p><p>Which crawls along the wall,</p><p>Ascends to the ceiling.</p><p></p><p>The swarm of Djinns is passing,</p><p>And it whirls, hissing.</p><p>Old conifers, stirred by their flight,</p><p>Crackle like burning pine.</p><p>Their herd, heavy and swift,</p><p>Flying in the vacant space,</p><p>Seems a livid cloud</p><p>With lightning flashing at its edge.</p><p></p><p>They are so near! We keep closed</p><p>This room where we defy them.</p><p>What noise outside! Hideous army</p><p>Of vampires and dragons!</p><p>The beam of the loosened ceiling</p><p>Sags like soaked grass,</p><p>And the rusted old door</p><p>Trembles, unseating its hinges.</p><p></p><p>Cries from hell! voice that roars and weeps!</p><p>The horrible swarm, driven by the north wind,</p><p>Doubtless, or heaven! assails my home.</p><p>The wall bends under the black battalion.</p><p>The house cries out and staggers tilted,</p><p>And one could say that, ripped from the soil,</p><p>Just as it chases a dried-out leaf,</p><p>The wind rolls it along in a vortex!</p><p></p><p>Prophet! If your hand spares me</p><p>From these impure demons of the night,</p><p>I would go prostrate my bald forehead</p><p>Before your sacred incense burners!</p><p>Make their breath of sparks</p><p>Die on these faithful doors,</p><p>And make the talons of their wings</p><p>Scrape and cry in vain at these black windows!</p><p></p><p>They have passed! Their cohort</p><p>Takes flight and flees, and their feet</p><p>Stop beating on my door</p><p>With their multiple blows.</p><p>The air is filled with a sound of chains,</p><p>And in the nearby forests</p><p>All the great oaks tremble</p><p>Bent beneath their fiery flight!</p><p></p><p>The beating of their wings</p><p>Fades in the distance.</p><p>So vague in the plains,</p><p>So faint, that you believe</p><p>You hear the grasshopper</p><p>Cry with a shrill voice</p><p>Or the hail crackling</p><p>On the lead of an old roof.</p><p></p><p>Strange syllables</p><p>Still approach us.</p><p>Thus, of the Arabs,</p><p>When the horn sounds,</p><p>A chant on the shore</p><p>Rises up in moments,</p><p>And the dreaming child</p><p>Has dreams of gold.</p><p></p><p>The funerary Djinns,</p><p>Files of death,</p><p>In the shadows</p><p>Hurry their step;</p><p>Their swarm rumbles;</p><p>Thus, deep,</p><p>Murmurs a wave</p><p>That no one sees.</p><p></p><p>This vague sound</p><p>That falls asleep,</p><p>It is the wave</p><p>On the edge;</p><p>It is the moan,</p><p>Almost extinct,</p><p>Of a saint</p><p>For a death.</p><p></p><p>One doubts</p><p>The night </p><p>I listen: -</p><p>All flees,</p><p>All fades;</p><p>The space</p><p>Erases</p><p>The sound.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Δημοκηδής, post: 1056710517, member: 522"] Είναι ενδιαφέρον ότι ο Φρανκ έγραψε όλα τα σημαντικά έργα του τα τελευταία δέκα χρόνια της ζωής του ... ο μύθος το φέρει ότι την δημιουργικότητα του πυροδότησε ο έρωτας για κάποια νεαρή μαθήτρια του... Το υπόψη έργο είναι πραγματικά υπέροχο με αβίαστα εξελισσόμενη μελωδική ροή, με σαφείς επιρροές από τον Μπραμς, ενώ πράγματι σαν συμφωνικό ποίημα κατορθώνει να αποδώσει έξοχα με μουσικά μέσα τις ''εικόνες'' του ποιήματος του Ουγκώ, προσομοιάζοντας ωστόσο, ως σωστά επισημάνθηκε, σε πιάνο κονσέρτο, αφού η νύχτα και το ζοφερό κλίμα περιγράφονται από την ορχήστρα, ενώ ο χορός των δαιμόνων αλλά και τα εναλλασσόμενα συναισθήματα του ποιητή από το πιάνο... Ο δίσκος της bis που αναφέρεται στο αρχικό ποστ είναι πραγματικό απόκτημα περιέχοντας εξαιρετικές εκτελέσεις και των άλλων δύο αριστουργημάτων του Φρανκ, ιδιαίτερα του prelude, chorale and fugue ... Ας βάλω και το ποίημα : Walls, town And port, Refuge From death, Gray sea Where breaks The wind All sleeps. In the plain Is born a sound. It is the breathing Of the night. It roars Like a soul That a flame Always follows. The higher voice Seems a shiver. Of a leaping dwarf it is the gallop. He flees, he springs, Then in cadence On one foot dances At the end of a stream. The murmur approaches, The echo repeats it. It is like the bell Of a cursed convent, Like a crowd sound That thunders and rolls And sometimes crumbles And sometimes swells.. God! The sepulchral voice Of the Djinns! What noise they make! We flee beneath the spiral Of the deep staircase! My lamp has already died, And the shadow of the ramp, Which crawls along the wall, Ascends to the ceiling. The swarm of Djinns is passing, And it whirls, hissing. Old conifers, stirred by their flight, Crackle like burning pine. Their herd, heavy and swift, Flying in the vacant space, Seems a livid cloud With lightning flashing at its edge. They are so near! We keep closed This room where we defy them. What noise outside! Hideous army Of vampires and dragons! The beam of the loosened ceiling Sags like soaked grass, And the rusted old door Trembles, unseating its hinges. Cries from hell! voice that roars and weeps! The horrible swarm, driven by the north wind, Doubtless, or heaven! assails my home. The wall bends under the black battalion. The house cries out and staggers tilted, And one could say that, ripped from the soil, Just as it chases a dried-out leaf, The wind rolls it along in a vortex! Prophet! If your hand spares me From these impure demons of the night, I would go prostrate my bald forehead Before your sacred incense burners! Make their breath of sparks Die on these faithful doors, And make the talons of their wings Scrape and cry in vain at these black windows! They have passed! Their cohort Takes flight and flees, and their feet Stop beating on my door With their multiple blows. The air is filled with a sound of chains, And in the nearby forests All the great oaks tremble Bent beneath their fiery flight! The beating of their wings Fades in the distance. So vague in the plains, So faint, that you believe You hear the grasshopper Cry with a shrill voice Or the hail crackling On the lead of an old roof. Strange syllables Still approach us. Thus, of the Arabs, When the horn sounds, A chant on the shore Rises up in moments, And the dreaming child Has dreams of gold. The funerary Djinns, Files of death, In the shadows Hurry their step; Their swarm rumbles; Thus, deep, Murmurs a wave That no one sees. This vague sound That falls asleep, It is the wave On the edge; It is the moan, Almost extinct, Of a saint For a death. One doubts The night I listen: - All flees, All fades; The space Erases The sound. [/QUOTE]
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