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Décor (Albert Giraud)
Les grands oiseaux de pourpre et d’or,
Ces voletantes pierreries,
Breughel les pose, en ses féeries,
Sur les arbres bleus du décor.
Ils vibrent, et leur large essor
Jette une ombre au ras des prairies,
Les grands oiseaux de pourpre et d’or,
Ces voletantes pierreries.
Le soleil perce avec effort,
De ses jaunes orfévreries,
L’azur vert des branches fleuries,
Et sa lumière avive encore
Les grands oiseaux de pourpre et d’or.
Décor (roughly translated into English by the composer)
The large purple and golden birds,
These fluttering gems,
Captured by Breughel in his paintings,
In a setting of blue trees.
They vibrate and their wide flight
Casts a shadow on the meadows,
The large purple and golden birds,
These fluttering gems.
The sun penetrates with force,
With its yellow riches,
Through the green-blue of flowering branches,
And its light further animates
The large purple and golden birds.
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Les Nuages (Albert Giraud)
Comme de splendides nageoires
De célestes poissons changeants
Les nuages ont des argents
Des ors, des nacres, des ivoires.
Ils s’irisent devant les gloires
Mourantes des soleils plongeants,
Comme de splendides nageoires
De célestes poissons changeants
Mais la Nuit, sur ses barques noires,
Lance des pêcheurs affligeants,
Qui dans leurs filets émergeants
Prennent les ondoyantes moires,
Comme de splendides nageoires.
Clouds (Roughly translated by the composer)
Like splendid fins
Of celestial, iridescent fish
The clouds are full of silvers,
Of golds, pearls, ivories.
They glimmer against the dying glories
Of setting suns
Like splendid fins
Of celestial, iridescent fish
But Night, in its black boats,
Launches rabid fishermen,
Who, in their emerging nets,
Take in rippling reflections,
Like splendid fins.
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Coucher de Soleil (Albert Giraud)
Le soleil s’est ouvert les veines
Sur un lit de nuages roux:
Son sang, par la bouche des trous,
S’éjacule en rouges fontaines.
Les rameaux convulsifs des chênes
Flagellent les horizons fous:
Le soleil s’est ouvert les veines
Sur un lit de nuages roux.
Comme, après les hontes romaines,
Un débauché, plein de dégoûts,
Laissant, jusqu’aux sales égouts,
Saigner ses artères malsaines,
Le soleil s’est ouvert les veines!
Sunset (Roughly translated by the composer)
The sun has opened its veins
On a bed of rust-colored clouds:
His blood, through the wounds,
Spurts in red fountains.
The convulsing branches of oaks
Whip against the mad horizons
The sun has opened its veins
On a bed of rust-colored clouds.
Just like after the Roman orgies,
A debauched man, full of self-loathing,
Letting his sickened arteries
Bleed into the filthy gutter,
The sun has opened its veins!
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He was often stern,
He was often hard,
He was always difficult,
But we loved him.
He was rarely home,
He was rarely pleased,
He was never simply proud,
But he loved us.
Remember his pipe?
His slippers, his frown?
His newspapers stacked on the table?
Remember his laugh?
The spark in his eyes?
His smile when you'd finally done something right?
He was often stern,
He was rarely pleased,
He was always difficult,
But we loved him.
May he rest in peace.
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"You Are Happy" (Margaret Atwood)
The water turns
a long way down over the raw stone,
ice crusts around it
We walk separately
along the hill to the open
beach, unused
picnic tables, wind
shoving the brown waves, erosion, gravel
rasping on gravel.
In the ditch a deer
carcass, no head. Bird
running across the glaring
road against the low pink sun.
When you are this
cold you can think about
nothing but the cold, the images
hitting into your eyes
like needles, crystals, you are happy.
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released May 31, 2011
