Word: lyricizing
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...gathering of images so personal that, they defy any outsider's attempt at explanation. In both structure and phrasing, the song is partially reminiscent of Hendrix's "And the Wind Cries Mary," without the latter's cosmic reverberations. Nothing concrete can be said about the song's lyric. It's been reliably reported that the song combines images of Belfast. Van's hometown, and San Francisco, his new home, into a statement on the condition of his life at the present...
...painter to go west, was the German-born Albert Bierstadt, who joined an expedition to the Rockies in 1859 and later worked up a series of big landscapes from his sketches. Estes Park, Colorado, 1869, is a magnificently rhetorical painting, but the hyperbole was constrained by Bierstadt's lyric exactness of eye as it roved across the calm lake and the billowing mist and crags behind. Such, the brush insists, are the lineaments of an earthly paradise...
...sheer pretension of the man! The bravado of his lyric, the daring of his melodies. Porter's talent knew no bounds, his wit knew no shame. He was an egregious anachronism. No, not that either, for it is hard to think of any time when he might have been completely at home, totally at ease. This man who made Scott Fitzgerald look like Jonathan Edwards lived in an age and a world unto himself...
...that Friedman wrote his first song, and in 1965 that he made his first album (with the help of Arrangers Matty Matlock and Billy May). Nowadays he often works through the night, laying a lyric like the following on his wife's breakfast tray...
Stanley Kunitz, one of the finest lyric poets of our time, introduced himself quietly as if to establish not only his own identity but his separateness. First he read one of his own poems. "The Illumination," and immediately I was aware of the music of poetry, a music not heard all evening. Kunitz appeared very relaxed as he switched microphones to read one of his "translation adaptations" of Yevtushenko, "An Attempt at Blasphemy." The poem, he explained before reading it, "has more of a witty, metaphysical turn than most of Yevtushenko's poems." The angelic choir crooned in with race...