Sunday 27 January 2013

Song


Song


Conceived by the current.
Content is understanding,
the words their own hope
to assist performers
to better understand themselves,
usually associations elsewhere –
song attempts to cover that void.

Volume is meant to fill a void:
song does an admirable job
given the attention span of most.


Philip Harvey’s entry in the ‘Prose/Sculpture 2 (Writing Within Writing)’ section of the Melbourne International Franco-Anglais Poetry Festival, October 2008.

Source:

Book review by Brad Eden (University of California, Santa Barbara) of Researching the Song: a Lexicon, by Shirlee Emmons and Wilbur Watkin Lewis. New York : Oxford University Press, 2006. xliii, 507 p. ISBN 0-19-515202-6 $74

In: Fontes Artis Musicae: Journal of the International Association of Music Libraries, Archives and Documentation Centres (IAML) = Journal de l’Association Internationale des Bibliothèques, Archives et Centres de Documentation Musicaux (AIBM), Volume 54/4, October-December 2007, pp. 609-610.

Found text with the poem’s words in red, in order as required by the terms of the competition: 

Researching the Song: a Lexicon. By Shirlee Emmons and Wilbur Watkin Lewis. New York : Oxford University Press, 2006. xliii, 507 p. ISBN 0-19-515202-6 $74

This book was essentially conceived and constructed by the late Stanley Sonntag. The current authors have taken much of his content, rewritten most of it, and, after more than ten years of work, have finally published this lexicon. One of the major challenges for vocalists and singers is the understanding and researching of the words of a song, often in a different language than their own and related to a vastly different culture and time period. The authors hope to assist classical music performers to better understand the poetry of the great art songs, and, through this, the songs themselves, with the publication of this book.

A lexicon is usually defined as a technical dictionary that focuses on a particular aspect of a discipline. This lexicon focuses on the relationship between art songs and their associations, such as a poet, writer, concept, dance type, song form, poetry type, genre, or reference that might appear in a song. The book does not provide research information on composers, as this is readily available elsewhere. Nor is this book intended to be a history of the song. According to the authors, there is no one volume that is currently devoted to the poets who wrote the texts, or to literary allusions contained in art song; this book attempts to cover that void. Explanations of many literary, mythological, geographical, and historical references, including the gods and goddesses of ancient Greece and Rome, make up the majority of the content. The authors even provide a useful short guide to using the volume, focused on doing preliminary research on the song using conventional methods, then referring to this book to assist in learning about names, terms, and phrases that are unfamiliar or out of context. For instance, over 50 entries are given for Scottish phrases that are often incomprehensible to most Westerners.

Some of the more interesting and extensive entries in this book are the ones on Faust (with a short synopsis of the original work, as well as subsequent songs inspired by it); Don Quixote (short synopsis of work); Magelone Lieder (all 15 narrations are included); and Thursday Angels (related to Henry Purcells’ The Fairie-Queene). On a lighter note, entries for “Fairies”, “Diotima”, “Kecskemet”, “Osier,” and “Schwager” are included as well.

This volume is meant to fill a void in the current literature surrounding research on unfamiliar or hard-to-find terms, concepts, and people in the area of the art song. In that sense, this book does an admirable job. Of even greater assistance would be the inclusion of an appendix/index that lists the art songs that are related to the items in the book, thus providing an invaluable and quick guide to the use of the work. Without this appendix/index, the volume becomes very difficult to use, and that, given the attention span of most undergraduate and graduate students, may limit its adoption and usefulness.

Brad Eden, Ph.D.
University of California, Santa Barbara


Song


Conceived by the current.
Content is understanding,
the words their own hope
to assist performers
to better understand themselves,
usually associations elsewhere –
song attempts to cover that void.

Volume is meant to fill a void:
song does an admirable job
given the attention span of most.

Friday 4 January 2013

Roma


Roma
READ ONLY MEMORY AGAIN

       the wakeup phone anticipated, watching third floor the crowd weave
when will the Italians (read, Europeans) ever perfect the shower nozzle?
       tiny hotel soap pops from the wax wrap to the tiles
let alone the tap, a great dial off a ship’s bridge
       nonetheless unconscious harmonies subside, the blur dream goes down the cracks
blue squares inside white some broken, the water under surface sound
       at windows, in place again, the old forms of the world
a puff of Tuscany stings and softens, a deodorant smooths mysteriously
       reassurances against a multitude of noses cleaving their censorious daily expectations
footloose in Padua then dragged through Arezzo backwards, we are here
       one day in a million or this time around or both
dumb facts of marble glossy underfoot waken cranial memories of home
       in this mountain city, the mountains brought to the river plain
home is wherever we stand? is where foot arch fits, spreads?
       outside the early roar asks no questions, this is the centre
papers report suicide increase, a fact of life here like encyclicals
       but birds waddle on shelves of stone like there’s no tomorrow
high tail and down pour and crumb chase and wing shutter
       downstairs over acrid orange juice we learn who else is staying
shy Copenhagens, a prepossessing Lyonnais, motormouth Chicago couples, the artful Londoner
       what on Earth was really going on then, we ask ourselves
before we know, the perimeter sky lifts up its oval breadth
       the whole stadium before our tootsies comes late in the story
tend to forget, but we all forget in our voracity, vivacity
       a pulley system is hoisting a wheelbarrow to a vacant doorway
in the highest deck of dreck, repairs continue year after year
       though how far we go with a ruin is another matter
is it anymore a ruin or a reconstituted relic? resurrected wreck?
       power being the simple answer, power was expression and expressed casualties
imagine Grand Final crowds yelling for the thrill of more blood
       lions being gutted, leopard gore soiling the fresh sand, elephants terrified
dark continents it took their minds centuries to contend with, uselessly
       we take photos for American students standing with their thumbs down
Michigan State, Harvard or Yale, Notre Dame they’re all the same
       convinced of a secret an imperium can bestow in its own
the crumblies of Vespasian don’t change, only our theories about them
       like, this was the funnel for World Beater’s own tortured failures
this was the real Fall, never a way forward or back
       people are amazing, everyone else talking to the cat, sunning himself
across brickwork he stretches on his serpentine back to four corners
       that woman in purple goes and pokes him with her umbrella
why would someone do that, just so, in front of everybody?
       you say your annoyance, her meanness, its gratuitousness, then we circumnavigate
nimbly traipse over rocky Bay 13 the hirsute heavies left behind
       outside, two centurions open a hansom for dodgy doges in time-freeze
if once you say you don’t belong you feel you do
       a bag lady arrives with her box of Whiskas and offcuts
cats fixate, they pick their way through mint and millennial paving
       giving being a means to life, like taking, like hunting down
while Vespas’ whiney circuits charm us back to the postwar renaissance
       on a clammy wall at Colosseo Metro posters pasted fullscale oxidise
omaggio a Balthus Accademia Valentino Piazza Mignanelli 23, nymphet with cat
       missing are the cushiony accordions of Paris, London’s rastas busking reggae
humidity increases, accretion, grime awaits the next hose down, blood sample
       “I got me some horses to ride on, to ride on …”
you sing Tori Amos, “they say your demons …,” on Ottaviani underground
       split level sixties sleazy low water dribbling from the concrete rivets
“can’t go there, so I got me some horses to ride …”
       we review how locals maintain perfect interiors and perfect-issimi dress sense
underground faces the world over, same expressionless heads bent or turned
       staring at the blasted rock, will they come back to light?
waiting for a hand, Virgil’s, to lead them from infernal thoughts
       up the escalator of hope, through the turnstile of redemption, uscita
eating, smoking, begging, all vietato on Spanish Steps these days, Frenchkissing?
       a big red line through everything, like a Picasso sexual pun
fearful to sit down and get the white-belt police making gestures
       we notice how lazy Lazios leave exteriors to fend for themselves
we swear off visiting the Vatican money-changers and their exorbitant rates
       fluoro white fingers restored, the man who never knew a woman
at the Exchange you rearrange your midriff and come up trumps
       we chuckle at the lines of lire zeroes, like self-made millionaires
rows of mouths laughing at the theatre starring umpteen arlecchino republics
       analysis and appraisal ends up with the same colonnades, doing U-ies
Pincio ascended, we crunch over carrara gravel, buckled cans, gooey condoms
       dead summer’s impressions, bone pavement, broken  limestone (click) the pine shadows
chestnuts fill the gutters, rain has passed but everything still gleams
       teenagers’ graven text(a)s left on heads of civilization, networking their sigla
you collect passing forms in a camera to recall pinnacles, crests
       potential limitations (click) tackled by giant earthworks to mend privet paths
dreamily we order coffee and almond cakes in the glass pavilion
       level of interest plateaus, always something impossibly original through the trees
midmorning conversation’s the best, emperors and junkies and waiters and pontiffs
       plenty of time, with no conjunctions, for friends’ amours, co-workers’ concatenations
marchesa Iris Origo (my book) and Nuala Ni Dhomnaill (your book)
       doubts went on under those white domes you wouldn’t read about
remuneration was a house, the woods, the sky, exile from feeling
       while the skullcap of St Peter’s contains circuitry engaged in self-affirmation
conclusion is orange walls, peeling cones, flounced grass where lovers hid
       Roma? aroma, rumour, Room A, rheum, trauma, vrooma-vrooma, rammer, rhymer, reams
every day’s a good day to be born, said John twenty-three
       every day’s a good day to die, or just have coffee
coming down via Veneto, at handbag shop number 8 you finally choose
       humming, but at least it’s not Torrid Aimless, of course Björk
this leather jacket is just the ticket, hidden pockets, foldaway studs
       on mezzanine railings geraniums are sprayed by a smiling hotel porter
we stop at un bar, the buzzing ceiling harbour to passions
       mozzarella carozza, the sweet egg, the bitter crust, the ripe filling
come all this way to learn perfection’s no substitute for simplicity
       hard to believe a world food summit’s on in this city
till inevitably bookshops, the decline and fall of the roaming inspired
       and what’s this? Joyce’s Ulisse (“…voglio Sì”), darned Miss Emily’s compacts
Io non sono nessuno! Tu chi sei? Anche tu – sei – nessuno?
       spend the plastic on Leopardi the friendless hunchback, Zanzotto’s zizzy semantics
then we happen upon Piazza Mignanelli and elect to go upstairs
       you wonder why the mirror is held up to her face
what does she see? the mirror is not held toward us
       nor do we see her reflection bending away in lovely extreme
Tiber temptresses spend more time at the register browsing expensive art books
       like Piero della Francesca’s formal arrangement where something’s about to happen
or has happened, like his graces who read in chairs, the secret?
       Rousseau is there, forceful naïveté that is adult escapism, events eluded
the drawings we like emphatically the least, thank you, shadows only
       the hand is there but this is not Degas, Géricault
after the overview we are back with the main ten paintings
       what is this thing anyway with nubile girls stretched on couches?
watched by a feline ready to play, there for the symmetry
       celestial summers when far off intemperate cicadas suggest lovemaking through siesta
or simply a page turning, the scratch of a conté pencil
       absorbed in that silence found in Esquilino after locking three doors
summertime, or autumn in the alps after the snowline and before
      we gazed for hours through the first snows, descending to Padua
indoors, but here domesticity is put to the test, secrets upended
       dregs, when the bottle is lain sideways, go to the head
the Ancients said what was sacred and profane, not the same
       peace under the grape trellis, lust that turns humans into animals
somewhere, most vulnerable place of submission, the sofa in the afternoon
       the profound earhole, the twitchy nostril, the infinite eyesocket, eating sensuousness
so far so good insofar as good is soh fah ti
       a dreamer’s beginning, a child’s escape and recollection, trained for life
everything you said dear person, the train through Arezzo and before
       how would it sound put on its back and remarked upon?
legs of the couch hold up the whole body of experience
       then we were in Emerald one gloomy winter, a red maple
or reclined on the back seat laughing over the family foibles
       in French, the divan: divine divider, diviner of dividends, devious design
these nubiles by contrast are given a moment of intimate knowing
       if either of us said what they knew, it’s our secret
us looking, not that there’s anywhere to sit in this gallery
       jelly legs before pictures of enigmas supine with book or mirror
you wanting to go while daylight still hangs on Flaminio trees
       stepping into the stream of traffic once, we step out wiser
being here with you makes it different, now is the moment
       we “set the wine down amongst the living”, quoting the line
amatriciana makes us homesick for Lygon or a quiet casalinga meal
       warm olives, beads of onion, bucatini, the tastebuds luxuriating in chianti
you will never cross Roman streets again, you protest vainly, while
       for me it’s hilarious how everyone must stop in a whirlpool
you are full now of the other world, friends, family postcards
       jotting you sing Frozen Orange Juice with the words all wrong
have we trodden the proper Jamesian path? it would seem not
       privately a pigeon walks like a bishop across the pockmarked portico
you observe how it bows reverently to a grain of wheat
       this version of Frozen Orange Juice is better than the original
at the dark apex of Piazza Navona clouds are black forest
       the clear half of sky shines with half a moon
fountain contortions of time hardly register with gelati slurpers, humbly preoccupied
       tomorrow the extended day of days and nights of time zones
you, who know your Latin better than I, simply enjoy nonverbally
       red lights flashing at Kuala Lumpur, exercising ankles in transit lounges
there is no hurry, the tesserae tell us bodies are warmer
       solidly doors fold into grooves, shutters fit shut into one another
luminous Palladian frontispieces, scrubbed whiter than the moon with laser technology
       to keep on gazing as if it were saying, these facts
why do they become memory? one day we may complain, strain
       to remember, plead for these fresh facts to come to us
fresh as now, where sway of bodies around bodies is home
       the day will finish when it is finished, take your time
this year’s colour is orange, camicia, scarpe, I mean bright orange
       our self-appointed guide called this Hadrian’s quarter, smiled at my Italian
it only made him talk the more, of Hadrian the fortress
       Hadrian the godsend, before his cashmere presence vanished up an alley
they were greedy for possession, generations constructing marble memories of snowlines
       but for us, autumn beauty of figures crossing the long square
in the clanky lift we kiss again, princes of infinite space
       remainders scanned, one page of each but nought catches fire, rest
capillaries aglow in the slumberous slow down, nerves retracting their sun grip
       nineteenth November nineteen ninety-six, what was and what we have seen
solenne e paffuto means solemn and overweight, not stately and plump
       there’s calcio, movie dubs, carpet ads, forty stations, nothing to watch
Richard Gere sounds like Marcello Mastroianni and Jodie Foster, Ornella Muti
       every day might be like this, this alone the one day
domani, first train start, the Smart world of thoughtless airport couches
       buy Colosseum tee-shirts to change into mid-flight, sweat glands constantly adapting
over millions of rooftops that will never know these area codes
       tonight wind pulls the cloudy black trees, paper slips and cavorts
gone to bed the birds, their mania retraced by acrobatic leaves
       the old churches, Maria Maggiore, are cold and black as mountains
a line of moonlight on their pediments could be first snow
       inside the hotel, you might say you’ve done this all before
designer couch like a medieval throne, best for shelving distended Joyce
       but this only makes Sevenhill more familiar, more impervious, more impossible
if you say you do belong you suddenly feel you don’t
       it’s our world that’s safe that includes Rome on the itinerary
you are in your world of sprinkling and puffing and coathangering
       we embrace, I kiss your temple, the mulberry silk of Padua
immersed in zen time you set the wakeup figure for domani
       naked I stand in the dark, watching trees half an hour
unworldly orange halogen beams let me analyse every steady turning leaf


[This poem is one in a continuing series using as the prime origin of inspiration towns and cities of Italy. Other of these poems have been published in Scripsi, Meanjin, and other Australian literary journals.]