for soprano, harp and two violoncelli
Text by Lindsay Mason
Artwork by Timothy Goertzen
Music by Tyler Versluis
Maeve Palmer, soprano
Angela Schwarzkopf, harp
Amahl Arulanandam, Amina Holloway, violoncelli
Tyler Versluis, direction
Text by Lindsay Mason
Artwork by Timothy Goertzen
Music by Tyler Versluis
Maeve Palmer, soprano
Angela Schwarzkopf, harp
Amahl Arulanandam, Amina Holloway, violoncelli
Tyler Versluis, direction
READING LATE
“Another … is a mere labyrinth of letters, but the next-to-last page says Oh time thy pyramids.”
–Jorge Luís Borges
O time thy pyramids! the grains
of light
fall pollen
among the bookstacks.
Heavily, the old mind
wears the spine and sighs:
the iterating, iterating pages
tannic and thin
as moths.
One’s eyes grow tired.
Leaves litter the rooms
of the library go on forever,
drifting with gold
without roses. The grains
of light drift slow,
snow
in an hourglass.
In that dark, the familiar
and comfortable
tinkering of old thoughts.
“Another … is a mere labyrinth of letters, but the next-to-last page says Oh time thy pyramids.”
–Jorge Luís Borges
O time thy pyramids! the grains
of light
fall pollen
among the bookstacks.
Heavily, the old mind
wears the spine and sighs:
the iterating, iterating pages
tannic and thin
as moths.
One’s eyes grow tired.
Leaves litter the rooms
of the library go on forever,
drifting with gold
without roses. The grains
of light drift slow,
snow
in an hourglass.
In that dark, the familiar
and comfortable
tinkering of old thoughts.
WINTERING
It is snowing
on the face of the earth and children
are out in their moonsuits.
Oh, how the sound of laughter is like weeping.
The light falls thinly, early,
as frost
veils the surface of the pond.
The children disperse
in the dark, return
from the world to yellow windows.
I turn too
to the wintering place,
dark and formless,
earthed in against the cold eye
of stars.
It is snowing
on the face of the earth and children
are out in their moonsuits.
Oh, how the sound of laughter is like weeping.
The light falls thinly, early,
as frost
veils the surface of the pond.
The children disperse
in the dark, return
from the world to yellow windows.
I turn too
to the wintering place,
dark and formless,
earthed in against the cold eye
of stars.
SALT
Salt
dissolves in water.
We turn
our faces to
anything else.
Still
no one touches the cup.
Still
no one can drink it.
Salt
dissolves in water.
We turn
our faces to
anything else.
Still
no one touches the cup.
Still
no one can drink it.
SLEEPING ALONE
Did you call my name
or was I dreaming of snow? I woke
into a world and there you were, snowing.
It fell on my hair and in my arms, your silence,
heavy with the way
you hum in your sleep,
unknowingly. I knew you,
I knew your winged feet.
In dreams, I dreamed you
again and then your seams were fragile
and anxious to tear. The dull crunch at my ear:
Your bowed head, and you left across the frozen lake.
Did I hear your whisper?
Or was it a dream of snow. I woke
into a world and there you were.
Did you call my name
or was I dreaming of snow? I woke
into a world and there you were, snowing.
It fell on my hair and in my arms, your silence,
heavy with the way
you hum in your sleep,
unknowingly. I knew you,
I knew your winged feet.
In dreams, I dreamed you
again and then your seams were fragile
and anxious to tear. The dull crunch at my ear:
Your bowed head, and you left across the frozen lake.
Did I hear your whisper?
Or was it a dream of snow. I woke
into a world and there you were.
INTUITION
Pillar of light, the night moths
flame together.
Elsewhere,
the moon distills silver.
Who is too good
to be a fool of love?
The night trees exhale, the women . . .
Cool leaves pass
as hair through a long comb.
We flame together, whisper
in the dark.
Some things pass
from the world
with light.
Some become
in this night meeting.
Here our heavenly
bodies come to knowing,
believing
when we cannot see.
Pillar of light, the night moths
flame together.
Elsewhere,
the moon distills silver.
Who is too good
to be a fool of love?
The night trees exhale, the women . . .
Cool leaves pass
as hair through a long comb.
We flame together, whisper
in the dark.
Some things pass
from the world
with light.
Some become
in this night meeting.
Here our heavenly
bodies come to knowing,
believing
when we cannot see.
Text © Lindsay Mason
Art © Timothy Goertzen
Music © Tyler Versluis/ Lindsay Mason