keyboard chamber symphonic vocal choral
…and fall

Instrumentation: high voice, cello, and piano

i. Sleep
ii. Neighbors in October
iii. All Hallows
iv. Theme in Yellow
v. November Night

Recording coming soon!

i. Sleep

On the ridge above Skelp Road
bears binge on blackberries, and apples,
the Petersen's arbor to satisfy the sweet
hunger that consumes them. Just like us
they know the day must come when
the heart slows, when to take one
more step would mean the end of things
as they should be. Sleep is a drug;
dreams its succor. How better to drift
toward another world but with leaves
falling, their warmth draping us,
our stomaches full and fat with summer?
-Todd Davis

ii. Neighbors in October

All afternoon his tractor pulls a flat wagon
with bails to the barn, then back to the waiting
chopped field. It trails a feather of smoke.
Down the block we bend with the season:
shoes to polish for a big game,
storm windows to batten or patch.
And how like a field is the whole sky now
that the maples have shed their leaves, too.
It makes us believers–stationed in groups,
leaning on rakes, looking into space. We rub blisters
over billows of leaf smoke. Or stand alone,
bagging coal for the cold days to come.
-David Baker

iii. All Hallows

And now the evening rites begin.
The darkness deepens; bells
assemble solemn mourners.
The grasses bend in wintry breath;
the leaves, though dead, begin to curl
beneath the stones, as the pale moon arises.

While kneeling pray the veil be thinned
to cradle ghosts beloved,
unquiet souls awaken, and with borrowed
breath, through riven shroud they whisper
as their hands stretch out from the grave.
-Eric Choate

iv. Theme in Yellow

I spot the hills
With yellow balls in autumn.
I light the prairie cornfields
Orange and tawny gold clusters
And I am called pumpkins.
On the last of October
When dusk is fallen
Children join hands
And circle round me
Singing ghost songs
And love to the harvest moon;
I am a jack-o'-lantern
With terrible teeth
And the children know
I am fooling.
-Carl Sandburg

v. November Night

with faint, dry sound,
Like steps of passing ghosts,
The leaves, frost-crisp'd, break from the trees
And fall.
-Adelaide Crapsey

This title is available through E.C. Schirmer.
those winter sundays

Instrumentation: high voice and piano

Performers: Brian Thorsett, tenor; John Churchwell, piano

Sundays too my Father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blue black cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labour in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. Noone ever thanked him.

I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he'd call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,

Speaking indifferently to him
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.

What did I know, what did I know
of love's austere and lonely offices?
-Robert Hayden

.pdf score
the lake isle of innisfree

Instrumentation: high voice, cello, and piano

Performers: Ellen Leslie, soprano; Emil Miland, cello

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee;
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.
-W.B. Yeats

.pdf score
my cathedral

Instrumentation: high voice and piano

Like two cathedral towers these stately pines
Uplift their fretted summits tipped with cones;
The arch beneath them is not built with stones,
Not Art but Nature traced these lovely lines,
And carved this graceful arabesque of vines;
No organ but the wind here sighs and moans,
No sepulchre conceals a martyr's bones.
No marble bishop on his tomb reclines.
Enter! the pavement, carpeted with leaves,
Gives back a softened echo to thy tread!
Listen! the choir is singing; all the birds,
In leafy galleries beneath the eaves,
Are singing! listen, ere the sound be fled,
And learn there may be worship without words.
-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

.pdf score

Instrumentation: soprano and piano

Performer: Ellen Leslie, soprano

i. Les Grenades
ii. Les Pas
iii. Le Vin Perdu
iv. La Ceinture

I discovered the poetry of Paul Valery while studying composition in Paris. I immersed myself in the poetry of the great French Symbolists: Mallarme, Baudelaire, Verlaine, and Valery. When I discovered Valery's collection Charmes, I knew immediately that I wanted to set some of it to music.

Each poem in this collection uses objects and experiences to describe a poet waiting for his inspiration. Very often in French Symbolism the poet will choose words and sounds that have many different meanings, which inform one's interpretation of the poetry. For example, "Les Grenades," the title of the first of this cycle, means both "the pomegranates" and "the grenades." While these are completely different objects, the poem reveals Valery's implication of both meanings. The poet is awaiting inspiration, which comes in the form of a grenade exploding with ideas, or a pomegranate bursting with creative juices. Similarly, on the surface level, "Les Pas" suggests "footsteps;" however, "pas" is also a word used for negation. This expresses an existential question: was it the footsteps of a lover approaching a vigilant bed, or was it a nonexistence contained only in the mind of the poet? Again this poem is a metaphor for inspiration, now coming to the poet seductively in the night. "Le Vin Perdu" describes a scene in which the poet tosses wine into the sea (for reasons of which he is unsure) and in a trance, watches as the translucent red becomes enveloped in the salty water. "La Ceinture" describes a sash fluttering gracefully in the dim evening's light, which disappears as the night darkens. The double meaning here is "the belt," referring not only to the sash, but the band of light at a sunset.

To underline the double meanings that happen so frequently in these texts, my settings of these texts employ many musical "double meanings." Cross relations (chromatic contradictions between two simultaneously sounding tones) play an important role in the entire work by suggesting not either major or minor sonorities, but both. Likewise, the dialectical argument between key areas, as well as the way I chose to settle in tonalities that synthesize these arguments, suggests multiple intentions and musical meanings. All of these compositional devices exist within a sound world of gestures, harmonic patterns, and styles that allude to music of the great Fin de Siècle French composers, contemporaries of Mr. Valery, and my own poetic muses: Debussy, Ravel, and Lili Boulanger.

.pdf score
roethke songs

Instrumentation: soprano and piano

Performers: Chelsea Hollow, soprano

i. epidermal macabre
ii. the moment
iii. my papa's waltz

i. Epidermal Macabre

Indelicate is he who loathes
The aspect of his fleshy clothes, –
The flying fabric stitched on bone,
The vesture of the skeleton,
The garment neither fur nor hair,
The cloak of evil and despair,
The veil long violated by
Caresses of the hand and eye.
Yet such is my unseemliness:
I hate my epidermal dress,
The savage blood's obscenity,
The rags of my anatomy,
And willingly would I dispense
With false accouterments of sense,
To sleep immodestly, a most
Incarnadine and carnal ghost.

ii. The Moment

We passed the ice of pain
And came to a dark ravine,
And there we sang with the sea:
The wide, the bleak abyss
Shifted with our slow kiss.
Space struggled with time;
The gong of midnight struck
The naked absolute.
Sound, silence sang as one.
All flowed: without, within;
Body met body, we
Created what's to be.
What else to say?
We end in joy.

iii. My Papa's Waltz

The whiskey on your breath
Could make a small boy dizzy;
But I hung on like death:
Such waltzing was not easy.

We romped until the pans
Slid from the kitchen shelf;
My mother's countenance
Could not unfrown itself.

The hand that held my wrist
Was battered on one knuckle;
At every step you missed
My right ear scraped a buckle.

You beat time on my head
With a palm caked hard by dirt,
Then waltzed me off to bed
Still clinging to your shirt.
-Theodore Roethke

.pdf score