"Flickans årstider" or "Arioso" - Ture Rangström (1884 - 1947)

Swedish                                                                                 English translation courtesy of Hyperion Records/recmusic lieder

Flickan gick en vintermorgon                                           That your happiest days are gone!
I den rimbeströdda lunden,                                              You have lived, you have enjoyed,
Såg en vissnad ros och talte:                                             You have known spring and gladness
"Sörj ej, sörj ej arma blomma,                                          Before the winter cold reached you.
Att din sköna tid förflutit!                                                 My heart has suffered a worse fate,
Du har levat, du har njutit,                                  
Du har ägt din vår och glädja,
Innan vinterns köld dig nådde.
Värre öde har mitt hjärta,                                                  knowing both spring and winter together:
Har på en gång vår och vinter:                                         My lover's eyes are its spring;
Gossens öga är dess vårdag                                               And my mother's eyes its winter.
Och min moders ärdess vinter.
"Sorj ej, arma blomma,                                                     Weep not, weep not, poor flower,
att din sköna tid förflutit!"                                               That your happiest days are gone!"
 
---------------------- 

Snowy day and a heart full of both spring and winter.

This is my mood today.   

A Song for St. Cecilia's Day, 1687 - John Dryden (1631-1700)

 FROM harmony, from heavenly harmony,
      This universal frame began:
  When nature underneath a heap
      Of jarring atoms lay,
    And could not heave her head,
The tuneful voice was heard from high,
    'Arise, ye more than dead!'

Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry,
  In order to their stations leap,
     And Music's power obey.
From harmony, from heavenly harmony,
   This universal frame began:
   From harmony to harmony
Through all the compass of the notes it ran,
The diapason closing full in Man.

What passion cannot Music raise and quell?
    When Jubal struck the chorded shell,
  His listening brethren stood around,
    And, wondering, on their faces fell
  To worship that celestial sound:
Less than a God they thought there could not dwell
    Within the hollow of that shell,
    That spoke so sweetly, and so well.

What passion cannot Music raise and quell?
    The trumpet's loud clangour
      Excites us to arms,
    With shrill notes of anger,
      And mortal alarms.

  The double double double beat
      Of the thundering drum
      Cries Hark! the foes come;
  Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat!

    The soft complaining flute,
    In dying notes, discovers
    The woes of hopeless lovers,
Whose dirge is whisper'd by the warbling lute.

    Sharp violins proclaim
  Their jealous pangs and desperation,
  Fury, frantic indignation,
  Depth of pains, and height of passion,
    For the fair, disdainful dame.

    But O, what art can teach,
    What human voice can reach,
      The sacred organ's praise?
    Notes inspiring holy love,
  Notes that wing their heavenly ways
    To mend the choirs above.

  Orpheus could lead the savage race;
  And trees unrooted left their place,
    Sequacious of the lyre;

But bright Cecilia rais'd the wonder higher:
When to her organ vocal breath was given,
  An angel heard, and straight appear'd
    Mistaking Earth for Heaven.

GRAND CHORUS.

As from the power of sacred lays
  The spheres began to move,
And sung the great Creator's praise
  To all the Blest above;
So when the last and dreadful hour
This crumbling pageant shall devour,
The trumpet shall be heard on high,
The dead shall live, the living die,
And Music shall untune the sky!

At Mile 3

Here
Finally reeling from the elevation, I did not think I'd make it.
The horizon is more beautiful than any I've seen before.
Where there is no mark of another boot.
Where I am suddenly and abruptly aware of my blistered feet.
I could stay and rest.
I could stop.

Here
Pulling the air into my lungs, maybe I can breathe a mountain.
Where I can smell the perfumed
scent of the wildflowers at the summit.
Where I can almost see the top though lost in the trees.
I am not stopping here.
I can not remain here.

There
One more swig of water, I am walking again. 
Where I can spread my wings and fly. I am destined for there.
I have worked hard to get there, not here.
I will not stop until I reach there.

There
Raise my arms above my head
And gather the strength of the wide world to support me.
Where the horizon is limitless. Where all possibilities exist.
I am heading there.
I am on my way there.

Completed Sunday, November 17, 2013 on realizations from the last 1/2 mile up Crow Peak.
Finally owning it all.

Sure Sign

Sculpture in the Boboli Gardens, Florence, Italy circa July 2004

I have come to the end
of all that I know.
I trust that there is a plan.
A path for me to follow.

You have sought me out when
I tried to run, to flee.
To climb so far into my own self
my need, my poverty.

You broke down my walls.
Left me trembling in shame
Patched up my cracks
Poured Yourself to fill me again.

You have brought me thus far.
Though I be scarred and shattered
A broken useless vessel,
You say that does not matter.

You have given much to me
A priceless miraculous gift
I know what You ask of me
But I am completely adrift.

You have done it all for love
although I do not merit.
I ask You only guide my path
Your love, evermore will I share it.

I am Yours

When all my hopes and dreams have been betrayed
I stand before you, my hands are empty

I am yours, if you are mine
I am yours, if you are mine

I fall and stumble flat on my face
And I'm shamed and humble in disgrace

I am yours, if you are mine
I am yours, if you are mine

When voices call me to question my faith
When misperception taints my love with hate

I am yours, if you are mine
I am yours, if you are mine

When time decides it won't stop for me
When the hawks and vultures are circling

I am yours, if you are mine
I am yours, if you are mine.


 Tracy Chapman - I am Yours - from "Let it Rain"

Lead Kindly Light

Graeme Skinner photography

Lead, Kindly Light,
amid the encircling gloom,
Lead me Thou on!

The night is dark,
and I am far from home,
Lead Thou me on!

Keep Thou my feet;
I do not ask to see the distant scene;
one step is enough for me.

I was not ever thus,
nor pray'd that Thou shouldst lead me on;
I loved to choose and see my path,
but now lead Thou me on!

I loved the garish day,
and, spite of fears,
pride ruled my will:
remember not past years.

So long Your power hath blest me,
sure it still will lead me on,
o'er moor and fen,
o'er crag and torrent, till the night is gone;

and with the morn
those angel faces smile
which I have loved long since,
and lost awhile.

John Henry Newman (1801-1890)

______

At about this time last year, I performed the Howard Goodall setting of this piece. We'd just come through Hurricane Sandy. Today was one of those days where a million things had to get done, and some how by the grace of God, they all got done. One step at a time, one foot in front of the other.

12 Blessures

2 removed too much bone
overgrowth, hardening
calcification extracted
which allowed me to dance

3 removed too much blood
overgrowth, strangling
nests of capillaries excised
which allowed me to walk

6 removed too much guts
overgrowth, poisonous
cancer expelled
which allowed me to thrive

And 1
1 was the portal for 2 heavenly bodies
threshold for sun and moon
a miracle
which allowed me to fly

Wading in

The reeds stand silently
motionless in the heavy night air.
There is no breeze to stir them,
Only a slow cricket chirp
vibrating through the expanse.

The cool still water beckons,
singularly lit by the ever full moon.
It seems a pathway is illuminated
out across the dark, impenetrable waters.
This time I am ready.

I have come to this shore a thousand times
stood under this unblinking moon
felt the pull of the water
the promise of consummation
letting go and being fully embraced, surrounded.

But that would mean giving up control.
So I have waited and turned away,
back to my life, yet always unfulfilled, desiring.
So afraid to even poke a toe in.
I've run or trudged or been dragged from here 999 times.

I have returned as a doe.
Skittish, yet here I am.
I have taken off my shoes and feel the cool mud between my toes
I will not run or leave.
You know, I have nowhere else to go.

And even if I could, my thoughts and heart
always return here. You know they do.
It has always been this way.
You have always been waiting, the only place that is home.
Now, I am ready.

I bless you for your patience.
I praise you for your mercy.
I adore you for your sacrifice.
I thank you for your love.
My words are weak and falter.

I am wading in.

2 poems by W. B. Yeats

Cosmic clouds emitted from the Heart Nebula IC 1805 - near constellation Cassiopeia

He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

A Deep Sworn Vow

Others because you did not keep
That deep-sworn vow have been friends of mine;
Yet always when I look death in the face,
When I clamber to the heights of sleep,
Or when I grow excited with wine,
Suddenly I meet your face. 
____________________________

These two poems figure heavily in a song cycle that I am working up for the coming season.
Somehow, I fall in love with them more and more with every practice session.

The first poem is especially important to me at this time of year, just before my studio season starts. I read it to remind myself as a teacher that my students are coming to me with their dreams. I have the responsibility to them to nurture and honor their efforts and help them recognize their own triumphs.

The second poem is because after almost 18 years I reached out and received an answer, one of mutual respect and friendship and that is all I really ever needed...

Blue Moon

Duncan Campbell - South Beaver Creek, OR

Surrounded by their lazy chirp,
these crickets in the cool August evening
await the rise of a solitary traveler.

Reaching into the darkened sky
accustomed to silence for her prayers
eyes gaze aloft for answers only You can give

Dropping low to the open field
crystalline light bathes every blessed cell
slowing breezes, stillness returns, breathing settles

Confronting a fully honest face
her wearied heart senses its wounds bound up
by every silver beam radiating downward.

Remaining here she is at peace.
Her face a grain of sand on the vast beach
yet illuminated by Your willingness to stoop.

That is Your secret, is it not?
We are imperfect reflections of light.
Honesty, vulnerability, humility
She offers You these and her dreams
 for the gift of Your love.

Psalm Concerning the Castle - Denise Levertov

Let me be at the place of the castle.
Let the castle be within me.
Let it rise foursquare from the moat's ring.
Let the moat's waters reflect green plumage of ducks, let the shells of swimming turtles break the surface or be seen through the rippling depths.
Let horsemen be stationed at the rim of it, and a dog, always alert on the brink of sleep.
Let the space under the first storey be dark, let the water lap the stone posts, and vivid green slime glimmer upon them; let a boat be kept there.
Let the caryatids of the second storey be bears upheld on beams that are dragons.
On the parapet of the central room, let there be four archers, looking off to the four horizons.
Within, let the prince be at home, let him sit in deep thought, at peace, all the windows open to the loggias.
Let the young queen sit above, in the cool air, her child in her arms; let her look with joy at the great circle, the pilgrim shadows, the work of the sun and the play of the wind.
Let her walk to and fro. Let the columns uphold the roof, let the storeys uphold the columns, let there be dark space below the lowest floor, let the castle rise foursquare out of the moat, let the moat be a ring and the water deep, let the guardians guard it, let there be wide lands around it, let that country where it stands be within me, let me be where it is.

__________

I sang three masses today for the Feast of the Assumption. That means three times through Psalm 45.
Yesterday I had lunch with one of my oldest and dearest friends. He told me that I seemed different, settled and serene.
I have been working very hard on my inner fortress, and I am very grateful that someone who knows me so well has noticed my progress. 

August

The cicada shell
clings to a day in the past
it's broken lantern
dusty with evening light.

Walking alone toward the house,
my life is a moon
in the frail blue branches
of my veins.


by Ted Kooser 
from Sure Signs

Love and Breath: Deconstructed

Requiem - by Nathalia Suellen

It is neither strength, nor weakness that can be blamed.
In the end the fault lies in need.
In desperation.

Beauty can not be forced, though beauty be a force.
Trust. It is enough.
You are enough.

You who want it so badly, who yearn to control and contain.
You take on too much and must push, squeezing to the limits of your strength.
Release your worry.

Or, You with a tepid heart, who are shallow or threadbare.
You can not even conceive how far you are from what you desire, passionless and banal you will remain.
Open your eyes.

When awareness meets an open heart, there is a flow.
Love is magnified, shared and multiplied.

But it can not come from the poverty of an impoverished heart. From the need to prove, or move and least of all from the lack of will.
There is no ego in this. Take off your mask. Give up yourself and dive in.

Love is all we really have in this world. Everything else we borrow.
But our love is the only thing that is really ours to give and receive.
It is an active force, constantly pulsing and radiating
It comes from within and the trust comes first.

Trust brings the balance to the elements:
Anticipation and Desire
Inspiration and Liberation
Exhale into creation.

You are a force of nature.
You are fearfully and wonderfully made.
You were given a gift to share.
Time to step up.

Angel in pink light

I opened my eyes and saw a bright pink light.
"What is that?" I thought, unwitting that I had said it aloud.
A voice, "What do you see, hon?"
Who's voice was this? Do I know this voice?
"Who are you?" I asked. "Is the pink the curtain? or the sky?"
The voice answered, "The curtain is pink, but I pulled it back, the pink light is dawn. It is Saturday morning. My name is José. Are you thirsty?"

Saturday. I had made it to Saturday. I had lived through it.
"José, can I see the sky?"
"Let me adjust your table, I can't sit you up, but I can angle you. Do you want some jello?" José asked.
"No, jello thank you, just sky. Can I have my glasses?"
I felt my wedding band on my finger. It hadn't been a dream. Jason had been there. He had seen me. Did I remember seeing him? or dream it.
"He fainted, didn't he?"
José pushed my glasses onto my nose. The window came into view, and the blazing pink rushed into focus. I was alive. It was Saturday, July 29, 2006 and I was alive.
"My babies???"
José answered, "About two hours ago, we did a quick heart beat monitor. They were fine, two strong heartbeats. By 8 am, there will be a team here with an ultrasound, you'll see them today. The anesthesiologist was sure they were fine. You were monitored very closely. You had a rough night. You're husband and mom were here, your husband was a little scared. Your mom took him home. Are you in pain?"
I never saw José, he was silhouetted in the pink light. Jason had kissed me, he had put my band back on my finger, than he said 'i am gonna faint.' and the nurse got him a chair just in time. I hadn't dreamed it.
"No, no pain, not like before anyway. I have my babies, I have my life. We will be okay."
José showed me how to use the PCA, and I did use it, but before I slipped back into sleep, I saw the dawn. Literally, the dawn of a new day for us. Later Jason came in, as I was transferred to an ICU room. He was there for the ultrasound. We cried together. The babies were kicking and squirming as before.

Naïvite and Wagner Camp

I am spending 10 days studying under the magnificent Jane Eaglen and her assembled team of super-Wagner colleagues.

My performance assignments are Sieglinde in Die Walküre (Act 1, Scene 3)
and Elsa of Brabant in Lohengrin (Act 2, Scene 2)

Twice I have been in conversations with a director or coach where the word naïve came up as the quality that these ladies, and I have very mixed regards to this word. It has an underlying implication of some mental deficiency. Being a strong willed (read:stubborn) woman of a relatively high IQ, despite being a natural blonde this sits very uneasily with me. I've fought stereotypes my whole life. So, I started to deconstruct the women I'm playing in order to serve them better.

Both of these ladies are pretty much victims of circumstance and crimes perpetrated by forces they can not understand or overcome.
But does that make them naïve?

Sieglinde, having been separated at birth from her twin Siegmund describes in colorful language her plight in the first 2 lines of her monologue "Der Männer Sippe".
The way I translate it:
The clansmen sat there in the hall for Hunding's wedding summoned
His suitor, a woman that all unasked, the rapists gave him to wife.

So, already we know Sieglinde is damaged. Emotionally, she was forced into a marriage to Hunding by a pack of his tribesmen.
Hunding and his pals sit around and drink as she weeps in misery, knowing that she is powerless to change her fate.
She goes on to describe the only time she can remember someone looking at her tenderly, with pity. As it turns out this was her father, Wotan, who himself was unable to save her from this fate.
The best he could do is plunge a sword into the Ash tree and declare that whomever draws it forth can have it and Sieglinde as a rightful spouse.
So, basically she is living as a sex slave to a warlord. She's desperate, she is the epitome of vulnerable, and Dear God is she damaged... but I don't see this as naïve.
When her hero comes to the door, she doesn't ask questions, at least not until she is already wooed by his words. She speaks to him in the same warlike gruff heroic tones in her monologue, because this is the only language she knows for strong emotion.
This makes Siegmund's "Winterstürme" even more of a revelation to her. Someone can use words of spring and love, and flowers and tenderness and convey a passionate emotion that has nothing to do with war or rape. This is what leads her into her outpouring of "Du bist der Lenz", she has never been spoken to in this way. Is it any wonder that despite finding out he is her twin brother she still runs off with Siegmund? No, he's her ticket out.


On to Elsa -
The case for Elsa's naïvité is really a lot harder to discount in today's society.
If someone one makes your brother disappear and then blames you for his murder, you may be suspicious of them.
But, if we believe Elsa is so accused and therefore spends hours in prayer, as she says in her dream aria from Act 1, she has no time to be suspicious of anyone else.
She is wrapped up in prayers for her brother's return and the dream of a champion who can rescue her and clear her name. This may seem ridiculously innocent, but consider she is living in Belgium in the 10th Century. She is a faithful Catholic. It does not help that she is being duped by a pagan priestess.
I've been doing a lot of reading lately, and it strikes me how much the Gospels refer to Christ's desire for us to become like little children to enter into his kingdom. What does that mean? "Become like a little child"?
Well, I have two young kids and I can tell you my thoughts.
Young kids from a loving home are (mostly) born with a strong sense of justice.
They believe in the good of all people, and though they get warnings about bad things and strangers and evils, their first instinct is to trust and love everyone they meet. If someone is sad or hurt they seek to console, they do not view them as threats.
In this scene with Ortrud in Act 2, Scene 2, despite all of the warnings she may be getting from the orchestra Elsa continues to show love and mercy towards Ortrud. This is definitely a Catholic tenet. Turn the other cheek, forgive, console the brokenhearted.
So, is being a good Catholic akin to being naïve or weak?
Well, I would say definitely not weakness, if anything more strength is drawn from her faith.
As for naïvité, let me go to confession and I'll get back to you on that.


That is really all I have from Wagner Camp. Tonight I sing on a master class for Tim Mussard. I'll be singing Elsa's dream from Act I of Lohengrin called "Einsam in trüben Tagen".

Here is a link to the aria sung by Eleanor Steber http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r7wH2qiXboU

Monna Innominata: A Sonnet of Sonnets - by Christina Georgina Rossetti (1830-1894)

1 


Lo dì che han detto a' dolci amici addio. - Dante 

Amor, con quanto sforzo oggi mi vinci! - Petrarca 


Come back to me, who wait and watch for you:--

Or come not yet, for it is over then, 

And long it is before you come again, 

So far between my pleasures are and few. 

While, when you come not, what I do I do 

Thinking "Now when he comes," my sweetest when:" 

For one man is my world of all the men 

This wide world holds; O love, my world is you. 

Howbeit, to meet you grows almost a pang

Because the pang of parting comes so soon;

My hope hangs waning, waxing, like a moon

Between the heavenly days on which we meet: 

Ah me, but where are now the songs I sang

When life was sweet because you call'd them sweet? 



2


Era già 1'ora che volge il desio. - Dante

Ricorro al tempo ch' io vi vidi prima. - Petrarca 


I wish I could remember that first day,

First hour, first moment of your meeting me, 

If bright or dim the season, it might be 

Summer or winter for aught I can say; 

So unrecorded did it slip away, 

So blind was I to see and to foresee, 

So dull to mark the budding of my tree 

That would not blossom yet for many a May. 

If only I could recollect it, such

A day of days! I let it come and go 

As traceless as a thaw of bygone snow;

It seem'd to mean so little, meant so much;

If only now I could recall that touch, 

First touch of hand in hand--Did one but know! 




3 


O ombre vane, fuor che ne l'aspetto! - Dante 

Immaginata guida la conduce. - Petrarca
I dream of you to wake: would that I might

Dream of you and not wake but slumber on; 

Nor find with dreams the dear companion gone, 

As summer ended summer birds take flight.

In happy dreams I hold you full in sight, 

I blush again who waking look so wan; 

Brighter than sunniest day that ever shone,

In happy dreams your smile makes day of night. 

Thus only in a dream we are at one, 

Thus only in a dream we give and take 

The faith that maketh rich who take or give;

If thus to sleep is sweeter than to wake, 

To die were surely sweeter than to live, 

Though there be nothing new beneath the sun.




4 


Poca favilla gran fliamma seconda. - Dante

Ogni altra cosa, ogni pensier va fore, 
E sol ivi con voi rimansi amore. - Petrarca 


I lov'd you first: but afterwards your love 

Outsoaring mine, sang such a loftier song 

As drown'd the friendly cooings of my dove. 

Which owes the other most? my love was long, 

And yours one moment seem'd to wax more strong;

I lov'd and guess'd at you, you construed me-- 

And lov'd me for what might or might not be 

Nay, weights and measures do us both a wrong.

For verily love knows not "mine" or "thine;" 

With separate "I" and "thou" free love has done, 

For one is both and both are one in love: 

Rich love knows nought of "thine that is not mine;" 

Both have the strength and both the length thereof,

Both of us, of the love which makes us one. 




5 


Amor che a nullo amato amar perdona. - Dante 

Amor m'addusse in sì gioiosa spene. - Petrarca


O my heart's heart, and you who are to me

More than myself myself, God be with you, 

Keep you in strong obedience leal and true 

To Him whose noble service setteth free, 

Give you all good we see or can foresee, 

Make your joys many and your sorrows few,

Bless you in what you bear and what you do, 

Yea, perfect you as He would have you be.

So much for you; but what for me, dear friend? 

To love you without stint and all I can 

Today, tomorrow, world without an end; 

To love you much and yet to love you more, 

As Jordan at his flood sweeps either shore; 

Since woman is the helpmeet made for man. 




6


Or puoi la quantitate 
Comprender de l'amor che a te mi scalda. - Dante 

Non vo' che da tal nodo mi scioglia. - Petrarca 


Trust me, I have not earn'd your dear rebuke,

I love, as you would have me, God the most;

Would lose not Him, but you, must one be lost,

Nor with Lot's wife cast back a faithless look 

Unready to forego what I forsook; 

This say I, having counted up the cost, 

This, though I be the feeblest of God's host, 

The sorriest sheep Christ shepherds with His crook. 

Yet while I love my God the most, I deem 

That I can never love you overmuch;

I love Him more, so let me love you too; 

Yea, as I apprehend it, love is such

I cannot love you if I love not Him,

I cannot love Him if I love not you. 




7 


Qui primavera sempre ed ogni frutto. - Dante 

Ragionando con meco ed io con lui. - Petrarca 


"Love me, for I love you"--and answer me, 

"Love me, for I love you"--so shall we stand 

As happy equals in the flowering land 

Of love, that knows not a dividing sea. 

Love builds the house on rock and not on sand, 

Love laughs what while the winds rave desperately; 

And who hath found love's citadel unmann'd? 

And who hath held in bonds love's liberty? 

My heart's a coward though my words are brave 

We meet so seldom, yet we surely part

So often; there's a problem for your art! 

Still I find comfort in his Book, who saith,

Though jealousy be cruel as the grave, 

And death be strong, yet love is strong as death. 




8 


Come dicesse a Dio: D'altro non calme. - Dante

Spero trovar pietà non che perdono. - Petrarca 


"I, if I perish, perish"--Esther spake: 

And bride of life or death she made her fair 

In all the lustre of her perfum'd hair 

And smiles that kindle longing but to slake.

She put on pomp of loveliness, to take 

Her husband through his eyes at unaware; 

She spread abroad her beauty for a snare, 

Harmless as doves and subtle as a snake. 

She trapp'd him with one mesh of silken hair,

She vanquish'd him by wisdom of her wit, 

And built her people's house that it should stand:-- 

If I might take my life so in my hand, 

And for my love to Love put up my prayer, 

And for love's sake by Love be granted it! 




9 


O dignitosa coscienza e netta! - Dante 

Spirto più acceso di virtuti ardenti. - Petrarca 


Thinking of you, and all that was, and all

That might have been and now can never be, 

I feel your honour'd excellence, and see 

Myself unworthy of the happier call: 

For woe is me who walk so apt to fall, 

So apt to shrink afraid, so apt to flee, 

Apt to lie down and die (ah, woe is me!) 

Faithless and hopeless turning to the wall.

And yet not hopeless quite nor faithless quite, 

Because not loveless; love may toil all night, 

But take at morning; wrestle till the break 

Of day, but then wield power with God and man:-- 

So take I heart of grace as best I can, 

Ready to spend and be spent for your sake. 




10


Con miglior corso e con migliore stella. - Dante 

La vita fugge e non s'arresta un' ora. - Petrarca


Time flies, hope flags, life plies a wearied wing;

Death following hard on life gains ground apace;
Faith runs with each and rears an eager face, 

Outruns the rest, makes light of everything, 

Spurns earth, and still finds breath to pray and sing; 

While love ahead of all uplifts his praise, 

Still asks for grace and still gives thanks for grace,

Content with all day brings and night will bring. 

Life wanes; and when love folds his wings above 


Tired hope, and less we feel his conscious pulse,
Let us go fall asleep, dear friend, in peace: 

A little while, and age and sorrow cease; 

A little while, and life reborn annuls 

Loss and decay and death, and all is love.




11 


Vien dietro a me e lascia dir le genti. - Dante

Contando i casi della vita nostra. - Petrarca 


Many in aftertimes will say of you 

"He lov'd her"--while of me what will they say? 

Not that I lov'd you more than just in play, 

For fashion's sake as idle women do.

Even let them prate; who know not what we knew 

Of love and parting in exceeding pain, 

Of parting hopeless here to meet again, 

Hopeless on earth, and heaven is out of view. 

But by my heart of love laid bare to you, 

My love that you can make not void nor vain, 

Love that foregoes you but to claim anew 

Beyond this passage of the gate of death, 

I charge you at the Judgment make it plain 

My love of you was life and not a breath. 




12


Amor, che ne la mente mi ragiona. - Dante

Amor vien nel bel viso di costei. - Petrarca 


If there be any one can take my place 

And make you happy whom I grieve to grieve, 

Think not that I can grudge it,
but believe 
I do commend you to that nobler grace, 

That readier wit than mine, that sweeter face; 

Yea, since your riches make me rich, conceive 

I too am crown'd, while bridal crowns I weave, 

And thread the bridal dance with jocund pace. 

For if I did not love you, it might be 

That I should grudge you some one dear delight;

But since the heart is yours that was mine own, 

Your pleasure is my pleasure, right my right, 

Your honourable freedom makes me free,
And you companion'd I am not alone. 




13


E drizzeremo gli occhi al Primo Amore. - Dante 

Ma trovo peso non da le mie braccia. - Petrarca 


If I could trust mine own self with your fate,

Shall I not rather trust it in God's hand? 

Without Whose Will one lily doth not stand, 

Nor sparrow fall at his appointed date; 

Who numbereth the innumerable sand, 

Who weighs the wind and water with a weight, 

To Whom the world is neither small nor great, 

Whose knowledge foreknew every plan we plann'd.

Searching my heart for all that touches you, 

I find there only love and love's goodwill 

Helpless to help and impotent to do, 

Of understanding dull, of sight most dim; 

And therefore I commend you back to Him 

Whose love your love's capacity can fill. 




14 


E la Sua Volontade è nostra pace. - Dante 

Sol con questi pensier, con altre chiome. - Petrarca 


Youth gone, and beauty gone if ever there

Dwelt beauty in so poor a face as this; 

Youth gone and beauty, what remains of bliss?

I will not bind fresh roses in my hair, 

To shame a cheek at best but little fair,--

Leave youth his roses, who can bear a thorn,--

I will not seek for blossoms anywhere,

Except such common flowers as blow with corn.

Youth gone and beauty gone, what doth remain? 

The longing of a heart pent up forlorn, 

A silent heart whose silence loves and longs; 

The silence of a heart which sang its songs 

While youth and beauty made a summer morn,

Silence of love that cannot sing again.

________________________________

Pulled back into the Pre-Raphaelite goodness of Dante Gabriel Rossetti and his sister Christine today, by the auction of "Proserpine" and ensuing discussion with George Wallace.
This, gentle reader, is the reason I am completely unsuccessful at any and all attempts at love poetry.
What more could be added?

515

Horse corrals
Picket fence
Slanting rays
Fallen trees

Wood fire smoke
Ancient pines
Beaver dam
Swampy marsh

Narrow Bridge
Fall Clean-ups
Parsonage
Old Snufftown

Sagging barns
Rusted cars
Piled rock walls
Lonely hearth

Crooked cross
Secret graves
Wagon ruts
Iron mines

6 mile thread
Winding road
Pathway home
Solace found

Jennifer D. Behnke - July 10, 2013 - On driving to my current home from childhood home, with my own children in the backseat with the same views 30 years later.

Hiking Crow Peak

On the blade of a knife
she walks into unknown
there is no other path
but this, her own.


Desolate pit below
a bloodied stumble lies
there is no light ahead
save from her eyes.


Does she walk stooped, trembling?
Fists in rage or fear clenched?
No, arms are heavenward raised
Soul in love drenched.


She clings to Love through pain,
doubt, scorn and betrayal.
Burning, breathing, hoping
ever faithful.


Maiden knight, armor clad
heroine of the world
What you carry in you
Mercy unfurled.


Jennifer D. Behnke - July 2, 2013. 
On returning home from Spearfish, SD, finishing the diary of St. Faustina, watching the Passion of St. Joan, and singing some Wagner.

Secret Garden

Moss covered passage slumbers  entangled in dense ivy.
Door long forgotten or ignored immured in lush walls of green.

Decades passed without gentle gardener's care.
Overgrown or withered in grief thick with brush and storm ravaged.

Years, hence fallen oak's lightning smashed limbs, den for vermin or barren plot, once rife with roses and lilies.

But a skilled farmer glimpses possibility, wishing to rebuild with persistence and grace, hinges creak, he assesses devastation.

Brambles and rot cleared off, reveals moist and rich humus. Sun shines yet and rains fall, but the garden must heal herself.

Jennifer D. Behnke - June 3, 2013 - Illustration by Russell Barnett

Alone but not Lonely

I haven't a reason, a clue or a sign, I haven't the slightest idea of the shape of your heart or the state of your mind, Do you ever let anyone near? Do you ever reach out with arms open wide?
Do you ever jump in closing your eyes?
Or are you one of the fortunate kind, Alone but not lonely

Everyday on the street I study their faces, the ones who rush on through the crowd, towards their own quiet worlds, their separate places, somewhere I'm never allowed. 'Cause I've always been one to say what I need, And than the next thing it's done and I'm watching 'em leave, And I'm thinking, I wish I could be Alone but not lonely

So which one are you tonight? Do you change with the morning light?
Do you say more than what sounds right? Do you say what you mean?

There are moments in time that are meant to be held like fragile, breakable things
There are others that pass us, you can't even tell, such is their grace and their speed
And this one is gone in the blink of an eye, You can ask me the truth but tonight I will lie
Unflinching I'll tell you that I'm alone but not lonely

Mary Chapin Carpenter - Time*Sex*Love  - Alone but not Lonely

The Net

She brings them in
with outstretched hands
and pounding heart

She brings them in
with eyes raised
and full voice

She brings them in
with firm stance
and fixed gaze

She is the net for the fish
Cast her out into the seas
She will return you a full yield

Again and again
Throw her to calm waves
or angry seas.

She is made to last
of strong weave
and wondrous craft.

Stay alert
for signs of strain
Mend her or lose her.

She asks no share in the catch.
No meal in the evening.
Her reward is the use.


Jennifer D. Behnke  - May 28, 2013

El pozo - The Well by Pablo Neruda

A veces te hundes, caes en tu agujero de silencio,
en tu abismo de cólera orgullosa,
y apenas puedes
volver, aún con jirones
de lo que hallaste
en la profundidad de tu existencia.

Amor mío, qué encuentras en tu pozo cerrado?
Algas, ciénagas, rocas?
Qué ves con ojos ciegos,
rencorosa y herida?

Mi vida, no hallarás
en el pozo en que caes
lo que yo guardo para ti en la altura:
un ramo de jazmines con rocío
un beso más profundo que tu abismo.

No me temas, no caigas
en tu rencor de nuevo.
Sacude la palabra mía que vino a herirte
y déjala que vuele por la ventana abierta.
Ella volverá a herirme
sin que tú la dirijas
puesto que fue cargada con un instante duro
y ese instante será desarmado en mi pecho.

Sonríeme radiosa
si mi boca te hiere.
No soy un pastor dulce
como en los cuentos de hadas,
sino un buen leñador que comparte contigo
tierra, viento y espinas de los montes.

Ámame, tú, sonríeme,
ayúdame a ser bueno.
No te hieras en mí, que será inútil,
no me hieras a mí porque te hieres.
_________________________
At times you sink, you fall
into your hole of silence,
into your abyss of proud anger,
and you can scarcely
return, still bearing remnants
of what you found
in the depth of your existence.

My love, what do you find
in your closed well?
Seaweed, swamps, rocks?
What do you see with blind eyes,
bitter and wounded?

Darling, you will not find
in the well into which you fall
what I keep for you on the heights:
a bouquet of dewy jasmines,
a kiss deeper than your abyss.

Do not fear me, do not fall
into your rancor again.
Shake off my word that came to wound you
and let it fly through the open window.
It will return to wound me
without your guiding it
since it was laden with a harsh instant
and that instant will be disarmed in my breast.

Smile at me radiant
if my mouth wounds you.
I am not a gentle shepherd
like the ones in fairy tales,
but a good woodsman who shares with you
earth, wind, and mountain thorns.

Love me, you, smile at me,
help me to be good.
Do not wound yourself in me, for it will be useless,
do not wound me because you wound yourself.

Etiquetas: Pablo Neruda

I just purchased a copy of "The Captain's Verses" today, after a long and trying week. This is where the book 'hit me where I live'. #grateful

Twilight

Stillness comes
with the sun's dying rays and gold dissolves into darkest cerulean.

Suspended breezes
And prismatic jeweled plain. An expanse of sky and stars where I would remain.

Trees silhouetted
At once comforting and grotesque, taciturn anchors that mark my shipwreck.

Cloudless skies
Without bulwark or storm distraction, Only placidly suffocating grief of my own creation.

This is all that remains
Between me an eternity.
Acceptance. Absolution.

Jennifer D. Behnke - May 18, 2013

Communion - by Louise Erdrich - from "Baptism of Desire" - 'Sacraments'

It is spring. The tiny frogs pull their strange new bodies out of the suckholes, the sediment of rust, and float upward, each in a silver bubble that breaks on the water's surface, to one clear unceasing note of need.

Sometimes, when I hear them, I leave our bed and stumble among the white shafts of weeds to the edge of the pond. I sink to the throat, and witness the ravenous trill of the body transformed at last and then consumed in a rush of music.

Sing to me, sing to me.
I have never been so cold
rising out of sleep.

Louise Erdrich - from "Baptism of Desire" - 'Sacraments: Communion'

I recently gave a copy of 'Baptism of Desire' to one of my favorite contemporary composers at Christmas time. I am hoping he hears the music in this as vibrantly as I do.

Calling

My aim is to inspire
coax ember to fire

With intake of breath
to plot a heart's death

Wrong for me to break you
Perhaps I can just make you

Stop

Think

Feel

Whole.

A momentary glimpse of divine
Breath of life unleashed, sublime

Trust and an open heart
is all is required on your part

A vessel for the spirit
Although I do not merit

Gift eternally to share
this I do swear.

Jennifer D. Behnke
April 30, 2013 

I realize this is entirely self indulgent. And yet, a lot of projects on the horizon are forcing me to think and dream bigger than I ever have before.

May Day

On the brink of blossom azaleas wait
to open their blooms lustily burning
And maple trees completely saturate
the air with pollen yearning.

You give me your hand and beg me to keep
my heart with hope, love, fire open,
Blue eyes read my soul intense and deep
You've no idea how much I'm broken.

Completely disarmed and battle worn
my heart no longer blazed, but dimly smouldered.
Rekindling flames, you've banished the storm.
Now again, my sword I have shouldered.
Jennifer D. Behnke - April 29, 2013

This poem was partially inspired by listening to Strauss's "Allerseelen" today.
If this is how the poet felt by November, what must have happened in that May?
I've included the original YouTube of Kirsten Flagstad singing R. Strauss's "Allerseelen"poem below.

Allerseelen by Hermann von Gilm zu Rosenegg

Stell auf den Tisch die duftenden Reseden,
  Die letzten roten Astern trag herbei,
Und laß uns wieder von der Liebe reden,
    Wie einst im Mai.

Gib mir die Hand, daß ich sie heimlich drücke
  Und wenn man's sieht, mir ist es einerlei,
Gib mir nur einen deiner süßen Blicke,
    Wie einst im Mai.

Es blüht und funkelt heut auf jedem Grabe,
  Ein Tag im Jahre ist den Toten frei,
Komm an mein Herz, daß ich dich wieder habe,
    Wie einst im Mai.

Translation by Emily Ezust
All Soul's Day
Place on the table the fragrant mignonettes, Bring inside the last red asters, and let us speak again of love, as once we did in May. Give me your hand, so that I can press it secretly; and if someone sees us, it's all the same to me. Just give me your sweet gaze, as once you did in May. Flowers adorn today each grave, sending off their fragrances; one day in the year are the dead free. Come close to my heart, so that I can have you again, as once I did in May.

Peripheral vision

Lying on her back
beneath a curtainless window
the quiet breeze sifting though her hair
and the moon so bright.

Through the trees
and the breeze, the stars
too numerous seem to scatter
upon her direct gaze.

Throwing open those eyes
risking the glare of moon,
she drinks in the dim starlight
on the periphery of her sight.

Jennifer D. Behnke - April 25, 2013

Singer's Creed

This is my voice. There are no others like it, and this one is all mine. My voice is my best friend. It is my life. I must master it as I must master my life. My voice, without my thought, is useless. Without my voice, I am useless. I must use my voice in truth. I must not sing like anyone else, lest I be to my own voice untrue. I must sing with my voice with that soul which is in me, and not imitate anyone else. I will...

My voice and myself know that what counts in this world is not the roles we perform, the notes we sustain, nor the applause that we get. We know that it is the ability to move people. We will move them...

My voice is human, even as I, because it is my life. Thus, I will learn it as a lover. I will learn its weaknesses, its strength, its range, its dynamics, its breadth and its size. I will ever guard it against the ravages of criticism and damage as I will ever guard my legs, my arms, my eyes and my heart against damage. I will keep my voice limber and free. We will become part of each other. We will...

Before God, I swear this creed. My voice and myself are the defenders of my soul. We are the masters of my song. We are the singers of my story. So be it, until bad-singing is vanquished, and there is no auto-tune, but harmony!
Jennifer D. Behnke - February 9, 2011

written after a particularly frustrating audition experience 2 weeks prior

The Waters of March

A stick, a stone, it's the end of the road
It's the rest of a stump, it's a little alone
It's a sliver of glass, it is life, it's the sun
It is night, it is death, it's a trap, it's a gun

The oak when it blooms
A fox in the brush, the knot in the wood
The song of a thrush, the wood of the wind
A cliff, a fall, a scratch, a lump, it is nothing at all

It's the wind blowing free, it's the end of a slope
It's a beam, it's a void, it's a hunch, it's a hope

And the riverbank talks of the waters of March
It's the end of all strain, it's the joy in your heart

The foot, the ground, the flesh and the bone
The beat of the road, a slingshot stone
A fish, a flash, a silvery glow
A fight, a bet, the range of a bow

The bed of the well, the end of the line
The dismay in the face, it's a loss, it's a find
A spear, a spike, a point, a nail
A drip, a drop, the end of the tale

A truckload of bricks, in the soft morning light
The shot of a gun in the dead of the night
A mile, a must, a thrust, a bump
It's a girl, it's a rhyme, it's a cold, it's the mumps

The plan of the house, the body in bed
And the car that got stuck, it's the mud, it's the mud.

A float, a drift, a flight, a wing
A hawk, a quail, the promise of spring

And the riverbank talks of the waters of March
It's the end of all strain, it's the joy in your heart

A snake, a stick, it is John, it is Joe
It's a thorn in your hand or a cut on your toe
A point, a grain, a bee, a bite, a blink, a buzzard
A sudden stroke of night

A pin, a needle, a sting, a pain
A snail, a riddle, a wasp, a stain
A pass in the mountains, a horse and a mule
In the distance the shelves, grow three shadows of blue

And the riverbank talks of the waters of March
It's the promise of life in your heart, in your heart

A stick, a stone, the end of the load
The rest of the stump, a lonesome road
A sliver of glass, a life, a sun
A night, a death, the end of the run

And the riverbank talks of the waters of March
It's the end of all strain, it's the joy in your heart 
Antonio Carlos Jobim

____

The steam pictured above is one I had to cross twice daily for 12 years of my life. 
On days when I'm wrung out, or sung out I sometimes find myself drawn to crossing this little brook or walking its length which runs from a swampy marsh at the end of the pond so small it doesn't even warrant an entry on google maps, about 1/4 mile down into Highland Lake.

When as a teen, I needed to escape, I'd sit on these rocks, and hop from one to the next down to the shore or out to the rickety old dock to watch the sunset over the water. 

I posted this picture on April 1, 2013. A friend said "hey that reminds me of the 'Waters of March' song."  
Yes. In light of today, I just want to remember to hold on to all the moments and the safe places in my life, and don't let the fear steal joy.

Where I am now

moving pictures in clouds and trees through which sunlight streams
evergreen towers in a quiet forest save the crunch of leaves underfoot
and a green so deep, i dive into the pockets of cool darkness beckoning

tell me your secrets and lead me further and further and beyond the light
past a forgotten grave site, and a broken cart wheel and ruins abound 
around a solitary scorched hearth, so dark i'd swear it was still smouldering
 
further beyond the iron mines and the battered pines
and the streams of water and light that run off the mountain to a cliff 
on which lies a vine, so long since fallen from its perch, a reminder of too many swings
 
before me a chasm so wide the way around long since abandoned
the other side is dim in haze and sunflecked leaves and the drop is a broken leg if not worse
but the pull to cross is so strong, as real as the blood coursing in my veins.

returned to this place, from which I ran so long and so far
beyond the forest and the mountain, and even the city where I've hidden these long years.
feeling the fear finally whither, so that the risk of not trying is a thousand deaths.

closing my eyes, whispering a prayer, a shaft of light appears, shimmering before me.  
A way beyond the fears and the chasm of doubt.
I drink in the light, and I bless it. I am whole, and the chasm but a memory.

Jennifer D. Behnke, April 2013
____________________________

I'm not really sure what this is, but it is something that has been swirling around in my head for a while. It needed typing tonight.

Bird Song

At dawn I hear the robin's first call
Clearing the clouds from the edge of the blue shot sky
Beckoning the bulbs to stir in the warmed earth.

By midmorning cardinals are singing in the pines
A sparrow's song trills from the apple limbs
Damp branches glistening with the palest green.

By noon there should be jays,
But were they there?
To my ears every bird would have cried out,
Did the wood still carry echos of
the thrush calling from deep within the forest.

Golgatha sounds like a crow's cry
or worse. I can not bear to imagine.
or was there only silence?
Had all the birds on earth stopped?
Like a held breath, mute and static.

When a heart breaks, is there a sound?
Surely, I have heard it.
A low, hollow tolling D.

And then?
My soul
A mourning dove.

The Avowel #4 - Denise Levertov (from Breathing the Water 1987)

God's wounded hand
reached out to place in hers
the entire world 'round as a ball,
small as a hazelnut'. Just so one day
of infant life remembered
her mother might have given
into her two cupped palms
a new laid egg, warm from the hen;
just so her brother,
risked to her solemn joy,
his delicate treasure,
a sparrow's egg from the hedgerow.
What can this be? the eye of her understanding marveled.

God for a moment in our history
placed in that five-fingered
human nest
the macrocosmic egg, sublime paradox,
brown hazelnut of All that Is -
made, and belov'd, and preserved.
As still, waking each day within
our microcosm, we find it, and ourselves.

___________________
I first read this poem during a summer program at Thomas More College in Merrimack, New Hampshire after my sophomore year of high school. I carried it with me to college and through my 20s... then my yellowed and tattered and stained paper disappeared in one move or another from some apartment to another. But I've never stopped searching for it. Finally, I found it tonight. #grateful

Stardust and Songs

In a quiet room off a grey hall,
the heavy wooden door is closed,
and the bed is not empty.
She is not there.

In a silent room full of windows
the city crawls under street lamps
and the river slides by through night
She is not there.

In a little house with her beloveds
the blankets pulled close about their ears
and the orange leaves pulled aground by rain
She is not there.

In a native forest where hides the moon
the ancient trees gripping the mountain
and the lake which drowns all its secrets
She is not there.

In a farmer's field alighted by bonfire
the smoking logs and the friends silhouetted
and crackling flames and the lowing cows.
She is not there.

She is the heart that beats and the ears that hear.
She is the pulse of the streets and the flow of the river.
She is the house that shields and the rains that tear.
She is the trees that grip and the water that overwhelms.
She is the fire that cleanses and friends who love.
And she is fearfully and wonderfully made of 
Stardust and Songs.

Jennifer D. Behnke, October 11, 2012 

The Fortress

That first blow
Rocked us to the core
Smashed the stone and gravel to dust
And the fears that were so long dreaded
And perhaps secretly desired
Were upon us.

The first blow
Blinding and blistering
Shoulders torn and jaws wrenched
Knees bent and bloodied
And the tears that were so long guarded
And perhaps willfully suppressed
Sprang forth.

And there was pain
And a dying off
A shredding of tenuous comfort
Of grasped innocence.

But the breaking was necessary
for the evolution, the re-creation of the barren terrain.

In the space of a breath
we were crushed
and remade.

March 7, 2013

Odds & Evens

Even though I dance before you
Odds are my legs should not support me.

Even though I sing a song of hope
Odds are my voice should have been silenced last year.

Even though I have dragged myself up a thousand times,
Odds are my toughest battles are still yet to come.

Even though you think you can beat me,
Odds are you have never encountered a being as strong as I.

Even now, I am changing the odds.
Even now.
Even now.

Jennifer D. Behnke - March 6, 2013

I wrote this today. It has been 6 years since my last back surgery, and I had to undergo some routine tests, having just been told by my neurologist that he still doesn't comprehend my recovery.

March Rain

Drink deep of the rain
silent earth,
slumb'ring bulbs
halted growth.

Frosted dust be quenched
worry not
frozen soil
parched plot

The rain will scatter
loosened grains
dried leaves
buried things

Unlock your secrets
Face erodes
Surface scarred
Shield corrodes

Yet clears the pathway
fields are hewn
cliffs soften
hope from ruin. ---- Jennifer D. Behnke 2012

Winter Sun

Pellucid, still
quiet, not shrill
Beckoning
Alluring
yet no comfort enduring.


Brightening days
Deceitful rays
Blazing vice
Mured in ice
Enshroud me with febrile chill.

Jennifer D. Behnke January, 2012

This is the first poem I shared with my good friend, Eric Hunter.
Eric set the piece to music and we had the great fortune of having it featured in a cabaret performance in January 2013. Heather Meyer premiered the work with Eric at the piano.
The video of the premier can be found here:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a8MKHIVygGE&feature=youtu.be

Mission Statement

I am creating this blog as a digital record of my projects, poetry, thoughts and dreams.

Honesty and beauty are givens, I can not promise much else. Here be dragons.