Neruda songs

Lorraine Hunt Lieberson (1954-2006)

Amor mío, si muero y tú no mueres,
amor mío, si mueres y no muero,
no demos al dolor más territorio:
no hay extensión como la que vivimos.

Polvo en el trigo, arena en las arenas
el tiempo, el agua errante, el viento vago
nos llevó como grano navegante.
Pudimos no encontrarnos en el tiempo.

Esta pradera en que nos encontramos,
oh pequeño infinito! devolvemos.
Pero este amor, amor, no ha terminado,

y así como no tuvo nacimiento
no tiene muerte, es como un largo río,
sólo cambia de tierras y de labios.

"I am so grateful for Neruda's beautiful poetry, for although these poems were written to another, when I set them I was speaking directly to my own beloved, Lorraine." (Peter Lieberson)

In the Purcell tercentenary year 1995 I heard Lorraine Hunt in The Fairy Queen: I remember the conductor Roger Norrington stopping the open rehearsal and making her repeat an aria just to hear again the sheer beauty of her singing. Her recordings of Bach and, especially, of arias from Handel's Theodora are amongst the most moving of all.

She and the composer Peter Lieberson met and fell in love in 1997. He wrote for her settings of five Neruda sonnets in 2005, and she recorded them a few months before her death, after a long illness.

Knowing of these circumstances, I find the setting of the sonnet above almost unbearable to listen to.

The perfect Scots poem

Thinking of Burns; looking forward to the Burns supper I've been invited to tonight (vegetarian haggis, of course: thank you, Helen and Matt); having been happily reminded of my favourite Borges fiction; what comes to mind this morning is for me the most perfect Scots poem of all; a poem whose emotional connection with me remains as strong as when, as a schoolboy, I first found it. Apparently the composer James Macmillan has been inspired by this poem many times: I must seek out his pieces. Anyway, I've posted this before but, when we're celebrating the immortal memory I want to remember also William Soutar.

The Tryst

O luely, luely, cam she in
And luely she lay down:
I kent her be her caller lips
And her breists sae sma' and roun'.

A' thru the nicht we spak nae word
Nor sinder'd bane frae bane:
A' thru the nicht I heard her hert
Gang soundin' wi' my ain.

It was aboot the waukrife hour
When cocks begin to craw
That she smool'd saftly thru the mirk
Afore the day wud daw.

Sae luely, luely, cam she in
Sae luely was she gaen;
And wi' her a' my simmer days
Like they had never been.

To the immortal memory

Is there for honest poverty
That hings his head, an a' that?
The coward slave, we pass him by -
We dare be poor for a that!
For a' that, an a' that!
Our toils obscure, an a' that,
The rank is but the guinea's stamp,
The man's the gowd for a' that.

What though on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hodden grey, an a' that?
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine -
A man's a man for a' that.
For a' that, an a' that,
Their tinsel show, an a' that,
The honest man, tho e'er sae poor,
Is king o men for a' that.

Ye see yon birkie ca'd a lord,
Wha struts, an stares, an a' that?
Tho hundreds worship at his word,
He's but a cuif for a' that.
For a' that, an a' that,
His ribband, star, an a' that,
The man o independent mind,
He looks an laughs at a' that.

A prince can mak a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, an a' that!
But an honest man's aboon his might -
Guid faith, he mauna fa' that!
For a' that, an a' that,
Their dignities, an a' that,
The pith o sense an pride o worth,
Are higher rank than a' that.

Then let us pray that come it may
(As come it will for a' that),
That Sense and Worth o'er a' the earth,
Shall bear the gree an a' that.
For a' that, an a' that,
It's coming yet for a' that,
That man to man, the world, o'er
Shall brithers be for a' that.

David Smith at Tate Modern

Spent a pleasant afternoon at Tate Modern, catching the David Smith sculpture exhibition before it closed. A wonderful early face in the first room: circular saw blade with part of a pair of shears providing eye and nose, and a sieve as the other eye. Otherwise work that I admire rather than love: I feel it to be very much of its time. But the shimmering surface of the Cube pieces at the end of the show were lovely, and the play between two and three dimensions was always interesting. And when I came out of the show, I'm sure it was Smith's painted metal sculptures which made me aware of the pink cranes on the opposite bank of the river.

Technological doubt

Having lost my internet connection a few days ago, I've endured not only the hassle of visits to computer shops whose enthusiastic assistants who, when I sought advice, couldn't even read the boxes as well as me, but have also had the quite irrational worry that it would never work again. When technology fails I always feel this doubt, as if the fridge or washing machine or computer was part of some Eden from which I have been forever exiled, and I am always surprised when repair or replacement proves quick and simple. When I was writing large-scale computer programmes, especially those machine-code programmes with limited diagnostics where any change inevitably required a fortnight's debugging, I remember the feeling when I made a significant alteration that I had broken the programme and would never be able to restore it. And despite my years of experience that the world is not so, I still have feel a lack of security in technology, that it is a temporary gift that can be taken away at any time.

Nostagie de la boue

I woke in the middle of last night with, in my head, Germont's aria from Act II of La Traviata. (Curiously enough, Traviata was discussed on Radio 3 this morning, as I was having breakfast - entirely a coincidence unless I had picked up something from the ether while sleeping.) It's sung by the hero's father, who has come from Provence to try to save his son from the dissipated life into which he has fallen in Paris. I remember listening in bed to Dmitri Hvorostovsky's recording of this, for the first time, almost twenty years ago: it made me cry then, and still does so. Not just because of the beauty of Hvorostovsky's singing, but for some personal connotation which I don't fully understand.

Di Provenza il mar, il suol
Chi dal cor ti cancello?
Al natio fulgente sol
Qual destino ti furo?
Oh, rammenta pur nel duol
Ch'ivi gioia a te brillo;
E che pace cola sol
Su te splendere ancor puo.
Dio mi guido!

I associate the song with my maternal grandfather, who spent his life in a small town on the west coast of Scotland. Girvan has sea, but it does not have the sun of Provence: rather, it has strong winds and cool summer days. My grandfather spent his life in public service and his spare time in painting. I have no reason to suppose that he would object to my life in the city, but the aria reminds me of the distance I have travelled.

I regret not talking more with my grandfather, whose deafness was discouraging. I remember being close to him one Saturday afternoon, when we watched together the Scottish football team being demolished by England, and shared in the wry amusement that we could ever have expected otherwise.

My attribution of a simple life, confident in his values, is of course a vast over-simplification. My grandfather spent time in the mud of the trenches in Flanders, for which I hardly feel nostalgic. That must have raised questions about his faith and his patriotism. His position as town clerk must have been stressful; his apparent lack of any ambition for recognition of his painting may have been more complicated than it seemed.

So why does hearing even the first few notes of the introduction of this aria bring to my mind a feeling that I have let my grandfather down? Rationally, I have no reason to suppose that he would be critical of my life. Why do I have this longing for more confident times, when life wa simpler, religion was unquestioned, and quantum physics and Godel's Theorem hadn't impinged on my consciousness? I don't have and don't want the values of small-town Scotland of the last century, so why my guilt when I hear this music? I suppose I am regretting my rejection of some of my grandparents' values, in the same way as, without wishing to abandon it, I regret that my vegetarianism prevents me from sharing my father's pleasure in steak.

(I'll post the recording when castpost allows me to upload it!)

An unfortunate child

Happily, writing poetry is not one of the vices to which I am particularly inclined: here is a cautionary tale about one of those who was not so fortunate.

Isaac Watts (1674-1748) is probably best known today as the victim of Lewis Carroll's parodies like "How doth the little crocodile", but deserves to be remembered also as the author of "When I survey the wondrous cross" and many other fine hymns. I was amused to discover an anecdote about his childhood. Apparently he so loved verse that he conducted most of his everyday conversations in rhyme. Understandably, this irritated his father, who having threatened young Isaac with a whipping if he continued to do this, was about to carry out this threat. Poor Isaac, in tears, went down on his knees and begged:

"Pray, father, do some pity take
And I will no more verses make."

I would never condone child abuse, but if Isaac's father did beat him on that occasion, I have a certain amount of sympathy.

Crystal Palindrome

This gorgeous photograph and its title are stolen unashamedly from Doves at Dawn.

Afterthought

Reflecting on why I was interested in the poems in the concert programme which I wrote about while too tired to be very coherent last night, I think the experience struck me because, although I know the Emily Dickinson poems well in their musical setting by Copland, seeing them in the programme for a ocncert I wasn't attending put them at an unusual angle: the lack of music made them almost, but not quite, into pure poetry again. But especially since the programme reprinted the words as set, with the composer's repetitions and recapitulation, it was a strange halfway-house between poetry and song.

Why do they shut me out of Heaven?

On the spur of the moment I go to two concerts tonight - young artists playing contemporary music. First the Lendvai String Trio playing Segerstam, Skempton, Frances-Hoad and Penderecki. They changed the order of the programme so it was a little confusing hearing the Skempton in the context of the programme note about Cheryl Frances-Hoad's piece based on a Ted Hughes poem, but four very enjoyable pieces (especially the last three), played with enormous skill (apparent even to a non-musician like me). Then a concert of music for piano and saxophone (Fiona Asbury and Paul Cassidy playing Turnage, Carpenter and Fitkin) and cello and piano (Charles Watt and Nathan Williamson playing Williamson, Skempton, Benjamin Wallfisch and Britten). Some fascinating music: a magic moment in the Turnage when Asbury played the saxophone directly into the piano as the pianist pedalled, causing wonderful reverberations.

The programme covered the whole week-long series of concerts of which these were the last two. so I found myself reading the texts for a vocal recital earlier in the week. Some contrast:

Heart, we will forget him
You and I, tonight.
You may forget the warmth he gave,
I will forget the light.

When you have done, pray tell me,
That I my thoughts may dim;
Haste! lest while you're lagging
I may remember him!

Emily Dickinson

Last night I drove a car
not knowing how to drive
not owning a car
I drove and knocked down
people I loved
went 120 through one town.
I stopped at Hedgeville
and slept in the back seat
excited about my new life.

Gregory Corso

Why do they shut me out of Heaven
Did I sing too loud?
But I can say a little minor
Timid as a bird.
Wouldn't the Angels try me just once more
Just see if I troubled them
But don't shut the door, don't shut the door.
Oh, if I were the gentleman in the white robes
and they were the little hand that knocked,
Could I forbid, could I forbid, could I forbid?
Why do they shut me out of Heaven,
Did I sing too loud?

Emily Dickinson

2am

Having gone to bed early, in a black exhaustion-fuelled mood, I wake and, despairing of sleep, come across a sonnet which brings multi-layered memories. After the contents, will I sleep content as the world goes on?

One of cummings

as freedom is a breakfastfood
or truth can live with right and wrong
or molehills are from mountains made
- long enough and just so long
will being pay the rent of seem
and genius please the talentgang
and water most encourage flame

as hatracks into peachtrees grow
or hopes dance best on bald men's hair
and every finger is a toe
and any courage is a fear
- long enough and just so long
will the impure think all things pure
and hornets wail by children stung

or as the seeing are the blind
and robins never welcome spring
nor flatfolk prove their world is round
nor dingsters die at break of dong
and common's rare and millstones float
- long enough and just so long
tomorrow will not be too late

worms are the words but joy's the voice
down shall go which and up come who
breasts will be breasts thighs will be thighs
deeds cannot dream what dreams can do
- time is a tree (this life one leaf)
but love is the sky and i am for you
just so long and long enough

e.e. cummings (1940)

In my pessimism about the state of the world I should remember just how black things must have seemed when this poem was written.

Happy New Year

The first day of 2007 has dawned bright and sunny, as the view from my window shows. Cold too, though with my ankle still dodgy I won't be making unnecessary trips outside.

So what's in store for 2007? With the long-feared global warming looking increasingly a reality, with the dreadful situations in Iraq and Afghanistan, with the National Health Service and other public services in the UK in disarray as the consequences of disastrous funding policies become apparent, it's hard to be optimistic. But at least we will have a new leader. I remember the hope with which we greeted the election of Blair ten years ago - his promises of an ethical foreign policy and an end to sleaze, both now laughable. Despite the lesson of that false hope - on New Year's Day one should be positive - I can wish for a return to the values of honesty and transparency, tolerance and respect, that have been notable for their absence in the British government of the last ten years.