Friday, September 07, 2007

A Tribute to a Loved Giant: Luciano Pavarotti

The New York Times wrote: "Luciano Pavarotti, the Italian singer whose ringing, pristine sound set a standard for operatic tenors of the postwar era, died Thursday at his home near Modena, in northern Italy. He was 71."

Read more here....

Thanks to Barney Leith for the link below:
Credit: David Henderson


  1. Dear Bilo:

    Thank you so much for posting this tribute on your blog. The passing of Luciano Pavarotti is a great loss to the Opera world, but his beautiful voice will still be heard all over the world on CD's and all kinds of media. Egypt also lost its greatest singer Om Kolthum but she's very much alive in our hearts and we listen to her on a regular basis so were the loss of Abdul Halim Hafez, Abdul Wahab, Farid El Atrach, Laila Murad, Asmahan, Fayza Ahmad and so on. God Bless their souls as they entertained generations of people and enriched the lives of many. Those were unique souls who were put on this earth to bring so much happiness and joy to millions of people through their arts.

  2. People like them help refresh our spirit and gladden the heart of humanity. They are gifts for everyone to enjoy!

  3. my mother enjoyed his music... She considered him to be "second coming" of Enrico Caruso...

    Opera buffs would understand :-)

  4. At a memorial gathering for Luciano Pavarotti this past Sunday, Sept 9, the poem, "A Rose From Homer's Grave", was read. Although it was written by Hans Christian Andersen in 1842, it was as if it was written especially for Pavarotti....

    A Rose from Homer’s Grave
    by Hans Christian Andersen (1842)

    "All the songs of the east speak of the love of the nightingale for the rose in the silent starlight night. The winged songster serenades the fragrant flowers.

    "Not far from Smyrna, where the merchant drives his loaded camels, proudly arching their long necks as they journey beneath the lofty pines over holy ground, I saw a hedge of roses. The turtle-dove flew among the branches of the tall trees, and as the sunbeams fell upon her wings, they glistened as if they were mother-of-pearl. On the rose-bush grew a flower, more beautiful than them all, and to her the nightingale sung of his woes; but the rose remained silent, not even a dewdrop lay like a tear of sympathy on her leaves. At last she bowed her head over a heap of stones, and said, “Here rests the greatest singer in the world; over his tomb will I spread my fragrance, and on it I will let my leaves fall when the storm scatters them. He who sung of Troy became earth, and from that earth I have sprung. I, a rose from the grave of Homer, am too lofty to bloom for a nightingale.” Then the nightingale sung himself to death. A camel-driver came by, with his loaded camels and his black slaves; his little son found the dead bird, and buried the lovely songster in the grave of the great Homer, while the rose trembled in the wind.

    "The evening came, and the rose wrapped her leaves more closely round her, and dreamed: and this was her dream.

    "It was a fair sunshiny day; a crowd of strangers drew near who had undertaken a pilgrimage to the grave of Homer. Among the strangers was a minstrel from the north, the home of the clouds and the brilliant lights of the aurora borealis. He plucked the rose and placed it in a book, and carried it away into a distant part of the world, his fatherland. The rose faded with grief, and lay between the leaves of the book, which he opened in his own home, saying, “Here is a rose from the grave of Homer.”

    "Then the flower awoke from her dream, and trembled in the wind. A drop of dew fell from the leaves upon the singer’s grave. The sun rose, and the flower bloomed more beautiful than ever. The day was hot, and she was still in her own warm Asia. Then footsteps approached, strangers, such as the rose had seen in her dream, came by, and among them was a poet from the north; he plucked the rose, pressed a kiss upon her fresh mouth, and carried her away to the home of the clouds and the northern lights. Like a mummy, the flower now rests in his “Iliad,” and, as in her dream, she hears him say, as he opens the book, “Here is a rose from the grave of Homer.”


Your opinion is valuable. Please share your thoughts.