The Choristers has commissioned thrice Grammy nominated Kile Smith to compose an 18-20 minute work with choir divisi (SSAATTBB) accompanied by a chamber orchestra of 1 flute, 1 oboe, 1 clarinet, 1 bassoon, 1 French horn, 1 trumpet, timpani, organ, and strings. The working title of the piece is Even The Grass Must Sing, setting to music four poems by Jane Flanders (1940-2001).
Flanders was born and raised in Pennsylvania and those roots influenced her works. She received a B.A. in music from Bryn Mawr College and M.A. in English from Columbia University. Because of a prior commission from the Flanders family, Smith was aware of these exquisite poems and the estate quickly agreed to the use of these poems as text for the commission.
Four Selected Poems by Jane Flanders
1 Ukiyo-e (Pictures of the Floating World)
Three laborers sat by the water,
listening to the water scour grey rocks,
watching a sickle moon mow green cliffs,
talking of mighty warriors.
Three warriors sat by the water,
listening to the water invade grey rocks,
watching a sickle moon pierce green cliffs,
talking of fabulous princes.
Three princes sat by the water,
listening to the water command grey rocks,
watching a sickle moon crown green cliffs,
talking of celebrated poets.
Three poets sat by the water,
listening to the water address grey rocks,
watching a sickle moon sketch green cliffs,
talking of august philosophers.
Three philosophers sat by the water,
listening to the water explain grey rocks,
watching a sickle moon probe green cliffs,
talking of common laborers.
Three by the water. Rocks, moon, cliffs.
So Katsushika Hokusai depicted them,
near Edo, under Tokugawan rule,
during a peace that lasted 250 years.
2 August Philosophers
“Be generous,” says the loosestrife,
flinging its coarse silks over the grass.
“Move on,” says the stream
through a mouthful of silt.
Across the road a little music school
opens its doors and windows to summer.
And seven children with shiny flutes
Play do, then re, then mi.
3 Planting Onions
It is right
that I fall to my knees
on this damp, stony cake,
that I bend my back
and bow my head.
Sun warms my shoulders,
the nape of my neck,
and the air is tangy with rot.
Bulbs rustle like spirits in their sack.
I bury each one
a trowel’s width under.
May they take hold,
rising green in time
to help us weep and live.
4 Even the Grass
Even the dry grass can speak from fields,
from the edge of the road through the woods,
oats, timothy, even the grass of no name,
hanging heavy-headed with seed at the place
where the road curves up towards the familiar,
where timber speaks,
where the wind speaks hysterically,
without subject or need of it
across the small abyss. Their speech
is untranslatable. Even the grass
that lies down under the snow
rises, bent and bleached, with no word for sorrow.
When milkweed spreads its wings
and flies exquisitely off
even the grass must sing
of falling over and over again
towards new lives, no less beautiful.