In music and art I often find,
I prefer the classical kind.
Those incredible lives so poor and tragic,
fill heart with moments of magic.
To recall them, one by one,
gives me many moments of great fun.
Often people will say play us,
something by Wolfgang Amadeus
or, agree there was none more prolific than,
the very eccentric, Ludwig Van.
Whilst Hungarians will always insist,
that, Franz should be top of the Lizst.
For music with charms and babes in arms,
how could you do any better Brahms.
If you like your music sweeter,
then try Tchaikovsky, known as Peter.
An Austrian tall and meek,
wrote his music for Haydn and seek.
Whilst all those in Viennese houses,
were playing polkas and waltzes by Strauss’s.
German shoemakers lived in the past,
Saying, “We need music to make our trade last,
off we must go and find a new man”,
so being cobblers, they called in a Schumann.
“Write me ballet music”, said Nijinsky,
“Of Korsakov”, said a Russian named Rimsky.
It’s not often known, to people like you,
but a dog, once tried writing to,
of course he never made the mark,
but he would very Offenbach.
If you like something you can sing,
try sixteen hours of Wagner’s Ring.
A butcher whose music was constantly floppin’,
To remember his trade, called himself, Chop…in.
One who could have written more, he found it easy,
yet this Frenchman was always. Bizet.
Opera’s many, long and wordy,
are attributed to Guiseppe Verdi,
Who would tell, William about his Overture,
Rossini himself was not very sure.
His Barber could not figure it out, I am told,
nor could Puccini, his tiny hands were so cold.
But, at least he had a try,
he went to see a Butterfly.
Gounod said simply, “You’re all very soused,
I’ve managed the answer, really quite, Faust.
When it come to Art,
there’s an Englishman for start.
Who painted so many landscapes, he could not stop,
I can’t recall his name, but I think he was a cop.
There were those who tried to restore Art to the heights,
and called themselves the Pre-Raphaelites.
The Dutch have a few that I like,
to start with, there’s one called Van Dyke.
Then there’s Rembrandt, who amongst his pals,
knew a Cavalier, named Hals.
Another friend that he held dear,
Was what’s his name, without the ear.
Renoir grew old and walked with a peg,
whilst, Laurtec, was short in the leg.
It’s rare but Henri, was rich from the start,
so, all his paintings were straight from the heart.
Another who painted life so true and bonnie,
was never known to ask for Monet.
In Italy, Botticelli,
painted bosom and naked belly.
To busy himself, Canaletto,
Painted The Cathedral Orvieto.
another Italian, on his back
Covered up the Sistine crack.
Traditionalists say, “Picasso……baloney”,
that leaves us then, with Annigoni.
These names in our minds forever planted,
let’s not take the arts for granted.
Be it music or, paintings to enjoy at leisure,
They’ve given us a Golden Treasure,
which fill our homes, halls and portals,
to make these men…….merely immortals
Anthony Irving: I have enjoyed writing writing humorous (some people agree) poetry as a hobby for some years now. My other hobby is photography and have been teaching it as a donation of my time, to children with learning difficulty and downs syndrome.