Weathering

the program

the program will run uninterrupted, except for the marked pause. though applause is appreciated, we humbly ask that you reserve it for the end of each part.

part one

Solfeggio — Arvo Pärt (born 1935)

“…the world of music is a fictitious world, valid not in that it translates into tones what can be perceived, contemplated, felt, but in that it sublimates what has been perceived, contemplated, felt, into a language of truth entirely private, mysterious, but deeply moving and understandable to all…”

- Friedrich Blume, Classic and Romantic Music: A Comprehensive Survey

Vocalise — Sergei Rachmaninoff (1873-1943)

“Music rouses a series of intimate feelings, true but not clear, not even perceptual, only most obscure. You, young man, were in its dark auditorium; it lamented, sighed, stormed, exulted; you felt all that, you vibrated with every string. But about what did it—and you with it—lament, sigh, exult, storm? Not a shadow of anything perceptible. Everything stirred only in the deepest abyss of your soul, like a living wind that agitates the depths of the ocean.”

- Friedrich Blume, Classic and Romantic Music: A Comprehensive Survey

I Lie — David Lang (born 1957)

I lie down in bed alone

and snuff out my candle

Today he will come to me

who is my treasure

The trains run twice a day

One comes at night

I hear them clanging — glin, glin, glon

Yes, now he is near

The night is full of hours

each one sadder than the next

Only one is happy

When my beloved comes

I hear someone coming, someone raps on the door

Someone calls me by name

I run out barefoot

Yes! He is Come!

- poem in Yiddish by Joseph Rolnick, translated by Kristina Boerger

In Waves — Kion Heidari (born 1998)

It seems as though it was always like this.

Hollow vision-

the old scripture passed along,

a light to come to blind,

birthing this song:

“Blossoms give their hands

in glades of false gold.

Vines climb my limbs,

speaking words yet known

as the burrowing kings

consume my soul.

Drifting

Just drifting

Nothing to do but wait

For I know it comes in waves

It comes in waves

A boy of ice cracks

in a dim, distant home.

With only shadows to watch him

he loses control;

snow falls, and the night waits

to consume my soul.

Floating

Just floating

Nothing to do but sway

For I know it comes in waves

It comes in waves

The sun begins to gaze

and so Day starts its toll.

My soul rips and tears

through pits of fleshy coal,

boiling in my waters,

heaving rotten, molten bone.

The inferno burns my lungs

and consumes my soul.

Falling

Just falling

Nothing to do but pray

For I know it comes in waves

It comes in waves”

With each falling of the moon

or rising of the tide,

this cycle does not break.

I simply stand aside,

waiting for a day

when I might feel alive,

but-

it seems as though it was always like this.

- Sam Aldape

A Short Story of Falling — Piers Connor Kennedy (born 1991)

It is the story of the falling rain

to turn into a leaf and fall again

it is the secret of a summer shower

to steal the light and hide it in a flower

and every flower a tiny tributary

that from the ground flows green and momentary

is one of water’s wishes and this tale

hangs in a seed-head smaller than my thumb-nail

if only I a passerby could pass

as clear as water through a plume of grass

to find the sunlight hidden at the tip

turning to seed a kind of lifting rain drip

then I might know like water how to balance

the weight of hope against the light of patience

water which is so raw and earthy-strong

and lurks in cast-iron tanks and leaks along

drawn under gravity towards my tongue

to cool and fill the pipe-work of this song

which is the story of the falling rain

that rises to the light and falls again

- Alice Oswald

brief pause

part two

weathering — Steven Naylor (born 1999)

i. night driving

green light in the distance

becomes yellow light closer

becomes red light here

right here—

only red light

at night—

in the dark—

light hurts.

all-encompassing.

I cannot see the road ahead.

I see the headlights streaming past.

I see the white line of the shoulder.

I turn the dash lights down and focus.

I know there must be darkness,

limitless, absolute,

but I am blind to it.

streetlight in the distance

becomes headlight closer

becomes blinding.

I am not afraid of this light.

I am afraid of the darkness it hides in opulence.

the vast wide open spaces to which I am blind

when I am driving

in the dark

at night.

ii. droplets

iii. lifting

before the sun has a chance to rise,

a small blue car winds through hills.

driving south of Ithaca,

I move gently and carefully,

my vision of the road ahead veiled by a bright white morning fog.

the sweet taste of coffee lingers on my lips

and calm folk music plays through the car.

Noah and Andrew by my side, I am focused on the path ahead.

the blue glow of sunlight begins to appear,

and the view ahead lights up from the edges.

I speed up, just a little,

as the fog begins to lift.

trees materialize,

leaves dappled with red and orange,

glowing in the light.

an american flag,

a cross,

an arby’s,

standing watch over the road.

but I move past them, in my own world,

trusting the road ahead as it crystalizes.

I have miles to go—

and I will go—

but my way is clear and free.

iv. gilded

my clouds contain multitudes.

they lift and they soar,

at times trapping me in their blur,

at times releasing me to a clear vision of the world beyond.

but they are the most beautiful

from a dock on a lake

at a cabin in the mountains.

a fire pit glowing behind me,

surrounded by friends.

there, the clouds are gilded.

silver and pink and blue line the sky,

like paint strokes from a brush in a vast and unknowable hand.

from this distance, I am grateful for my clouds,

their many shades and storms,

the way they swirl and combine,

moments when they clear,

and the times they take over entirely.

I want to reach out and hold one—

just for a moment—

to understand.

but I am here, and they are there—

gilded, alive.

beautiful and unbound.

v. fly

american airlines

red eye

lax to jfk

a window seat

being set free.

ungrounded

we fly

and I fly

able to name the cloud

and feel

and just feel

the moon

stoic, gentle calm

a gentle companion

above the blanket of clouds.

the fog clears.

the wing cuts through the air

flying free.

we are so tiny,

and so free.