Author of light (by the composer)

Author of light (by the composer)

Author of light revive my dying sprite,
Redeem it from the snares of all-confounding night.
Lord, light me to thy blessed way:
For blind with wordly vain desires, I wander as a stray.
Sun and moon, stars and underlights I see,
But all their glorious beams are mists and darkness
being compar’d to thee.

Fountain of health my soul’s deep wounds recure,
Sweet show’rs of pity rain, wash my uncleanness pure.
One drop of thy desired grave
The faint and fading heart can raise, and in joy’s bosom place.
Sin and death, hell and tempting fiends may rage;
But God his own will guard,
and their sharp pains and grief in time assuage.

Awake, awake, thou heavy sprite (by the composer)

Awake, awake, thou heavy sprite,
That sleep’st the deadly sleep of sin;
Rise now and walk the ways of light:
‘Tis not too late yet to begin.
Seek heaven early, seek it late:
True faith still finds an open gate.

Get up, get up thou leaden man,
Thy tracks to endless joy, or pain,
Yields but the model of a span,
Yet burns out thy life’s lamp in vain.
One minute bounds thy bane, or bliss,
Then watch, and labour while time is.

Come cheerful day (by the composer)

Come cheerful day, part of my life to me:
For while thou view’st me with thy fading light,
Part of my life doth still depart with thee,
And I still onward haste to my last night.
Time’s fatal wings do ever forward fly,
So ev’ry day we live, a day we die.

But O ye nights, ordain’d for barren rest,
How are my days depriv’d of life in you,
When heavy sleep my soul hath dispossess’d,
By fained death life sweetly to renew?
Part of my life in that you life deny,
So ev’ry day we live, a day we die.

Nightpiece (by James Joyce)

Gaunt in gloom,
The pale stars their torches,
Enshrouded, wave.
Ghostfires from heaven's far verges faint illume,
Arches on soaring arches,
Night's sindark nave.
Seraphim,
The lost hosts awaken
To service till
In moonless gloom each lapses muted, dim,
Raised when she has and shaken
Her thurible.
And long and loud,
To night's nave upsoaring,
A starknell tolls
As the bleak incense surges, cloud on cloud,
Voidward from the adoring
Waste of souls.

Trois poèmes de Paul Verlaine

I. Résignation

My desire conjured, where the gold roofs soar,
To music’s strains, where fragrances entice,
Endless harems, bodily paradise!

Calmer these days and yet no less ardent,
Knowing life, how one’s obliged to be,
So be it, if greatness eludes intent,
I’m forced to curb such lovely folly,
A dreaming child,
And I always hated a woman merely pretty!

II. Couleur des cieux (from “À Clymène”)

Mystic barcarolles,
Songs without words,             Ah! Because your entire existence,
My darling, because your eyes,   Like music that pervades all,
The color of the heavens,        Nimbuses of former angels,
                                 Tones and perfumes,
Because your voice, strange
Vision that upsets               Has, in wondrous cadences,
And troubles the horizon         Attracted into a connection
Of my reason                     My subtle heart:
                                 Let it be praised! Amen.
Because the wonderful aroma
Of your swan-like pallor.
And because the distinctness
Of you fragrance

III. Un homme fait en rêve (from “Adieu”)

I wasn’t made for such hatred
For that contempt stronger than me that I have.
Why making me this lamb without wool                 I was, I am born to please noble souls
And why this heart so outraged?                      To console them of an impure world

I was born to please every proud soul,               Me the Knight
Kind of man in dream, capable of the best,           I was born to please every proud soul,
Sometimes all of smiles, sometimes all of prayers,   Kind of man in dream, capable of the best,
Softened skies in the eyes;                          Softened skies in the eyes;

Your mother was my tender accomplice,                Me who has to die of a soft
She didn’t like that I suffered from you.            and chaste death
She died and I held on her grave;                    For which the swan
But I doubt she approves                             and the eagle will still be jealous.

I was not made to say those things
Me whom speech always exhaled

Resonance (by Austin Smith)

The blackbirds are asleep in the belfries of the thistles.
The bells have been melted down into ore
and that ore poured into molds to make
little iron horses for the deaf.
And her little horse gallops valiantly on the sill.
And her mother folding linens grits her teeth.
When she is done playing the horse stands in perfect
stillness.
Her mother takes it and wraps it in linen.
Later her father walks violently into the meadow
carrying the bundle like an unwanted child
and buries it in the earth.

The birds he scares into the air resettle.
The thistles sway like poor people moved by music.
The girl looks for her horse for a few days,
then gives up and sits for hours
looking out the window at the meadow.
She pretends her hands are horses in love
and runs them along the sill, the four fingers
of their legs, the blind thumb of their heads.
One day she pulls the white linen off the black piano
and brings her hands down hard on the keys.
Something resonates. Her parents run into the room
wringing their hands, but they're too late.
She knows where her little horse is buried.

Lorca Songs

I. Leave Me Here Crying (Ah!)

The scream leaves on the wind
Its shadow of cypress.          Bitten by bonfires,
                                Lightless horizons,
Leave me here in these fields
Leave me here crying.           Leave me, I tell you,
                                In these fields here crying.
All has broken in the world,
Nothing remains but silence.

Leave me here in these fields
Leave me here crying.

II. Ditty of First Desire

In the green morning           In the vivid morning
I wanted to be a heart.        I wanted to be myself.
A heart.                       A heart.

In the ripe evening            And at the evening's end
I wanted to be a nightingale   I wanted to be my voice.
A nightingale.                 A nightingale.

(Soul,                         Soul,
turn orange-colored.           turn orange-colored.
Soul,                          Soul,
turn the color of love.)       turn the color of love.

Azulão

Go bluebird*, my companion, go!
Go and see my ungrateful love
Say that without her
The wilderness is no longer the wilderness!
Alas, fly bluebird,
Go and tell her, my companion, go!

Where You Go, I Will Be With You
(adapted by the composer from John Muir)

We do not want anything           I will follow,
from the Great White Father.      I will not leave,
The Great Spirit has given us     but be among the rocks,
all we need.                      the waterfalls,
Go then.                          the rivers,
Let us remain in the mountains,   and the winds.
where we were born.               Wherever you go, I will be with you.
Where ashes are given             You will not see but you will fear.
to the wind.                      Wherever you go, I will be with you.
You may kill me,                  The Great Spirit has spoken.
but you shall not have peace.

Evening Hymn (by William Fuller)

Now that the Sun hath veil'd his Light,
And bid the World good Night;
To the soft Bed, my Body I dispose,
But where shall my Soul repose?
Dear God, even in Thy Arms, and can there be
Any so sweet Security!
Then to thy Rest, O my Soul! And singing, praise
The Mercy that prolongs thy Days.
Hallelujah!

Evening Hymn

Now that the sun hath veil'd his light
And bid the world good night
To the soft bed, my body I dispose,
But where shall my soul repose?

This Bird (by the composer)

This bird following me           This bird sings me a song,
is making a way                  as if it was spring,
to seek its prey                 a melody lingering
incessantly.                     one note too long.
How strange. It must not see     How odd. It does not stop.
my whiskers and my teeth         I sigh and carry on
or notice my apathy.             despite this flying shawm
I don't look back                I would never feed on.
yet it keeps calling for me...   I took a glance;
Coo coo, coo coo, coo coo.       a moment of doubt,
                                 but not for long since it keeps
                                 singing to me...
                                 Coo coo, coo coo, coo coo.

Then I turned and tried to reply,       This bird, eyes full of glaze,
"I'm so confused.                       left in the silence
Why do you follow me                    and flew away.
when I'm the one who pursues?           How should a creature behave
Why not bees or butterflies or          when wooed with no constraint?
the leaves                              I gave the look I gave.
or feed on this prunus?                 I had somethings to say
Does a bird not normally                but it was too late.
perch on a tree                         It was not my place
while I hunch and crouch                to say it doesn’t work that way.
to hunt as they peck at the cherries?   This bird flew off.
Instead you choose me.                  The silhouette faded.
Yet we cannot be.                       I went my way
I wish you know what I'm thinking.      and yet
Why can't you just see?"                I feel the bird echoing:
                                        Coo coo, coo coo, coo coo...