Скачать или смотреть Dreams in War Time (2019) - Michael Robert Smith

Composer: Michael Robert Smith.
Ensemble: Mouthscape, SFCM Early Music Ensemble.
Conductor: Bobby Chastain.
Soprano Soloist: Winnie Nieh.
Ensemble:
Wilton Huang, violin.
Alyssa Wright, violin.
Paul Hersh, viola.
Stephanie Li, cello.
Hyejin Cho, double bass.
Óskar Magnússon, guitar.
Geoffrey Lee, harpsichord.
World Premiere performance.
February 23rd, 2019.
Caroline H. Hume Concert Hall, SFCM.

I. Introduction: 0:00
II. I wandered through a house: 3:05
III. I dug a grave: 8:02
IV. I gambled with silver money: 11:20
V. I painted the leaves of bushes red: 15:20
VI. I followed a procession of singing girls: 20:45
VII. I wished to post a letter: 25:20
VIII. I had made a kite: 27:40

Text:
Dreams in War Time
By Amy Lowell
I
I wandered through a house of many rooms.
It grew darker and darker,
Until, at last, I could only find my way
By passing my fingers along the wall.
Suddenly my hand shot through an open window,
And the thorn of a rose I could not see
Pricked it so sharply
That I cried aloud.

II
I dug a grave under an oak-tree.
With infinite care, I stamped my spade
Into the heavy grass.
The sod sucked it,
And I drew it out with effort,
Watching the steel run liquid in the moonlight
As it came clear.
I stooped, and dug, and never turned,
For behind me,
On the dried leaves,
My own face lay like a white pebble,
Waiting.

III
I gambled with a silver money.
The dried seed-vessels of “honesty”
Were stacked in front of me.
Dry, white years slipping through my fingers
One by one.
One by one, gathered by the Croupier.
“Faites vos jeux, Messieurs.”
I staked on the red,
And the black won.
Dry years,
Dead years;
But I had a system,
I always staked on the red.

IV
I painted the leaves of bushes red
And shouted: “Fire! Fire!”
But the neighbors only laughed.
“We cannot warm our hands at them,” they said.
Then they cut down my bushes,
And made a bonfire,
And danced about it.
But I covered my face and wept,
For ashes are not beautiful
Even in the dawn.

V
I followed a procession of singing girls
Who danced to the glitter of tambourines.
Where the street turned at a lighted corner,
I caught the purple dress of one of the dancers,
But, as I grasped it, it tore,
And the purple dye ran from it
Like blood
Upon the ground.

VI
I wished to post a letter,
But although I paid much,
Still the letter was overweight.
“What is in this package?” said the clerk,
“It is very heavy.”
“Yes,” I said,
“And yet it is only a dried fruit.”

VII
I had made a kite,
On it I had pasted golden stars
And white torches,
And the tail was spotted scarlet like a tiger-lily,
And very long.
I flew my kite,
And my soul was contented
Watching it flash against the concave of the sky.
My friends pointed at the clouds;
They begged me to take in my kite.
But I was happy
Seeing the mirror shock of it
Against the black clouds.
Then the lightning came
And struck the kite.
It puffed—blazed—fell.
But still I walked on,
In the drowning rain,
Slowly winding up the string.