Music and Poetry: A Celebration of National Poetry Month

WETA Classical is celebrating the 29th National Poetry Month the same week as William Shakespeare's 460th birthday and the 55th Earth Day. We will be playing music both inspired by poetry and directly in conjunction with poetry, some of which will be Shakespeare's, and some of which will be related to poets' fascination with nature.

One could argue that the greatest poetry doesn't need music; a great poet crafts the combination of words in such a way that it creates its own music that is revealed both when recited aloud and read silently to oneself. The greatest music doesn't need words or any verbal explanation, because a great composer can arrange their chosen notes in such a way that it takes the listener on a compelling journey unburdened by the need for a specific correlation to language-based semantics or a carbon-based narrative. For that matter, a great chef can prepare a vegetable or a piece of meat in such a way that they can bring out its inherent complexity of flavor and texture as a finished composition in itself, without the need for fat or much added seasoning; serving it with a sauce would be a culinary crime, obscuring the purity of flavor and the excellence of the chef's technique with indulgent overkill. 

But of course chefs have used sauces for centuries, because not all chefs are the very greatest. and not all food is available or affordable in conditions so pristine that it couldn't use some help. And the combination of poetry and music has been around since the earliest surviving examples of both. Shakespeare was one of many authors who wrote both poetry meant to be unaccompanied by music as well as poetry explicitly meant to be sung or recited over music. And even the greatest composers of "absolute music" also wrote music primarily intended to be a conduit for the specific meanings of the words being sung to it or the poetry that inspired it.

In the realm of classical music there is a long tradition of the art song, in which composers put music to poetry that already existed, but we'll begin with a tradition that's even older and is still thriving today, in which the poet and composer are the same person. In fact, many of these artists are actually triple threats since they frequently perform their own songs, and you can add a fourth threat if they sing while accompanying themselves on a keyboard or plucked string instrument. These days we call them singer-songwriters, but from the 12th to 14th centuries they were known as troubadours. There were many kinds of troubadours throughout Europe, who drew on a variety of influences from Arabic poetry to the Celtic bardic tradition. The subjects of their songs ran the gamut from tales of chivalry to courtly love to social satire to philosophy. We begin with a composer from the troubadour tradition named Guillaume de Machaut. It's perhaps a stretch to call him a troubadour, but remember that most of the actual troubadours didn't write anything down, relying on their memory like countless bards before them maintaining oral tradition. Machaut was perhaps the first composer in the modern sense of leaving behind a large body of notated music in a variety of genres, and while he was clearly influenced by the troubadours he contributed his own sophistication and innovation to the tradition. Today we'll hear one of his most famous and enigmatic works, Ma fin est mon commencement, which translates as:

My end is my beginning, and my beginning my end.
This is what I truly hold onto:

My end is my beginning.
My third melody three times only reverses itself, and thus ends.
My end is my beginning, and my beginning my end.

While this sounds like either a mysterious metaphysical statement or a clever riddle, it's actually a cogent analysis of the music itself. There are three voices: the top voice sings a melody, the second voice sings that same melody backwards, and the third line has a different melody that's half as long as the other melody so there's time to sing it twice while the other melody is runs its course, but the second time they sing it backwards. Fortunately, it sounds like music and not like math.

I don't know how Machaut figured this out without a computer back in the 14th century, but he had time on his hands, since one of the reasons he was so prolific is that he was forced to stay home due to the Black Plague - which is also the reason the troubadour tradition died out and gave way to a new kind of composer like Machaut and a new style of music that in fact was called Ars Nova - the new art. 

Let's leap forward a couple of centuries to the Renaissance. The synthesis of poetry and music reached its perfect form in the madrigal, which flourished just around the same time Shakespeare was writing. Shakespeare doubtless worked with many different musicians and it's reasonable to assume that he had some musical talent himself, since that was as essential to the craft of an actor of his time as dancing and fencing. One musician we know he worked with was one of the most successful musicians of the Elizabethan period, Thomas Morley. The first madrigal he published was a setting of this quatrain:

April is in my Mistress' face,
And July in her eyes hath place
Within her bosom is September,
But in her heart a cold December,

It's not great poetry, but it has a clear structure and metaphorical narrative that is made manifest in Morley's music: in under two minutes we go through the complete cycle of the seasons, of relationships, of life itself. We start in April with a bounce in our step, though the minor key foreshadows the dark denouement; things start heating up in July with rocket-like phrases shooting upward; like the harvest, the journey of love bears fruit in September; but the fickleness of the heart and the inevitability of death ensure that any happy ending is short-lived. The setting of the last line is particularly remarkable: we hear in the straight, ordered lines of the music the way we compartmentalize our passions, and it's perfect that the last syllable of the last word, December, is the sound we make when we're cold and there's no one there to warm us, set to a fittingly bleak chord whose major tonality doesn't offer any hope, just finality, a cadence worthy of the most somber Requiem. This is an excellent example of what the synthesis of music and poetry can do: give us the entire world in four lines.

Thomas Morley was also the composer of one of Shakespeare's songs: It was a lover and his Lass, from As You Like It. In the context of the play the song is completely gratuitous; the protagonists find themselves in the forest, and some people come along and sing this song. But for all its seeming silliness its lyrics serve as an effective commentary on the plot, in which a trio of educated big-city teenagers, the estranged children of aristocrats, run away to the forest where they play mating games with one another and the country folk and come to understand that their oh-so-clever sophistication doesn't shield their hearts from really loving and really breaking. This song puts it all in context, reminding the characters and the audience that this is just another twist on an ancient yearly ritual, a rite of spring as it were. Notice that when the line "in springtime": is repeated the rhythm gets syncopated and more complex, perhaps to depict, as Shakespeare says in another play, that the course of true love never does run smooth. Also notice that the refrain hey nonny nonny is used the way we might use yadda yadda yadda - you don't have to spell out what's going on:

It was a lover and his lass,
    With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
That o’er the green cornfield did pass,
    In springtime, the only pretty ring time,
When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;
Sweet lovers love the spring.

Between the acres of the rye,
    With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
Those pretty country folks would lie,
    In springtime, the only pretty ring time,
When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;
Sweet lovers love the spring.

This carol they began that hour,
    With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
How that a life was but a flower
    In springtime, the only pretty ring time,
When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;
Sweet lovers love the spring.

And therefore take the present time,
    With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
For love is crownèd with the prime
    In springtime, the only pretty ring time,
When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;
Sweet lovers love the spring.

The Silver Swan was written by Orlando Gibbons in 1612, the year after Shakespeare retired, and the era in which the English madrigal flowered was in rapid decline. Perhaps this madrigal can be considered a swan song for the art form it represents. Gibbons probably composed the words as well as the music to this piece, which makes it all the more remarkable that these lyrics have often been anthologized as a poem in its own right.

The silver Swan, who, living, had no Note,
when Death approached, unlocked her silent throat.
Leaning her breast against the reedy shore,
thus sang her first and last, and sang no more:
"Farewell, all joys! O Death, come close mine eyes!
 More Geese than Swans now live, more Fools than Wise."

Let's jump ahead another century to another composer who also wrote the poetry his music was based on: Antonio Vivaldi, who went a step further than Gibbons, in that he decided that he could translate the poem from words into music without the words being sung or recited, into purely instrumental music. He was very meticulous, actually printing lines from the poems into the score so that the musicians would now which images they are meant to convey in each section of the score. Next on our playlist is a performance of Spring from Vivaldi's Four Seasons in which lines from Vivaldi's poem are used to narrate their corresponding sections.

Allegro
Springtime is upon us.
The birds celebrate her return with festive song,
and murmuring streams are
softly caressed by the breezes.
Thunderstorms, those heralds of Spring, roar,
casting their dark mantle over heaven,
Then they die away to silence,
and the birds take up their charming songs once more.

Largo
On the flower-strewn meadow, with leafy branches
rustling overhead, the goat-herd sleeps,
his faithful dog beside him.

Allegro
Led by the festive sound of rustic bagpipes,
nymphs and shepherds lightly dance
beneath spring’s beautiful canopy.

After Vivaldi showed the way, many other composers experimented with ways of portraying nature in music. One of them was Ludwig van Beethoven. In 1801 he wrote a sonata that his publisher called the Pastorale, a title Beethoven probably didn't come up with himself, but there's no evidence that he objected to it, and it may have been the impetus to write a piece intended from its conception to be called Pastorale, his sixth symphony, which followed in 1808. The Pastorale Sonata may not be as explicit in its references as the symphony, but we can clearly hear a gentle quality throughout the work that seems to be flowing with the earth, in contrast to his better-known mode of rebelling against tyranny.

Beethoven also engaged with poetry, and he had deep admiration for his contemporary Johann Wolfgang von Goethe. For his part, Goethe was a bit wary of Beethoven, and found it difficult to deal with what he called the composer's "uncontrolled" personality. But Goethe did approve of Beethoven's incidental music for his play Egmont, so it was not unreasonable of him to write, in 1815, a choral setting of one of Goethe's poems, or rather a pair of poems, Calm Sea and Prosperous Voyage: based on an actual terrifying episode in the poet's life. In 1828, the year after Beethoven's death and four years before Goethe's death, Felix Mendelssohn (whom Goethe much admired as a composer and with whom he maintained a lifelong friendship) wrote his own purely instrumental interpretation of the poem. 

Deep stillness rules the water
Without motion lies the sea,
And worried the sailor observes
Smooth surfaces all around.
No air from any side!
Deathly, terrible stillness!
In the immense distances
not a single wave stirs.

The fog is torn,
The sky is bright,
And Aeolus releases
The fearful bindings.
The winds whisper,
The sailor begins to move.
Swiftly! Swiftly!
The waves divide,
The distance nears;
Already I see land!

Franz Schubert also wrote a setting of the first of those two poems, but this playlist includes two of his songs based on poems inspired by nature.

Naturgenuss 

In the soft light of evening the brook flows
through meadows of bright, purple flowers;
the poplar, with its changing shades of green,
whispers gently above them.

God’s spirit stirs in the spring breeze;
behold life’s resurrection, near and far,
see, youth’s abundance, a sea of beauty
and teeming joys lie all around.

I look about me, close and far away,
and my soul soars ever higher.
Pomp, gold and fame are but dross
in your sanctuary, Nature!

Intimations of heaven envelop him
who understands your music of love;
for he, pressed to your maternal breast,
will know the delight of heaven itself!

An die Natur

Sweet, holy nature
Let me walk in your tracks
Lead me by the hand
Like a child on reins

Then when I am exhausted
I shall sing down on your bosom
And breathe the sweet delight of the heart
Hanging on my mother’s breast

Oh, how good it is for me being with you
I am going to love you for ever and ever
Let me walk in your tracks
Sweet, holy nature

Our playlist then takes us through some instrumental music inspired by nature and the synergy of poetry and music: Robert Schumann’s Symphony no. 1

Ernest Chausson’s Poème for violin and orchestra and “From Bohemia’s Woods and Fields” from My Fatherland by Bedřich Smetana, who celebrates his bicentennial birthday this year.

 

Gustav Mahler wrote his Songs of a Wayfarer when he was 24, in the throes of heartbreak due to his unrequited love for a soprano (a common affliction among composers.) It was his first fully mature work and its material formed the basis for his first symphony. This cycle of four songs resembles a symphony in itself, with the four songs depicting stages of grief: the first, “When My Sweetheart is Married,” is the realization that he has lost his beloved to another; the second, “I Walked this Morning Over the Field”, could be considered the “denial” phase as he attempts to distract himself in nature, just to come back to his sorrow; “I Have A Gleaming Knife” is the desperation phase as his obsession gives way to thoughts of violence; “The Two Blue Eyes of My Beloved” culminates in a feeling of acceptance as he lies under a linden tree, and his vision of his love’s eyes slowly transform into the flowers gently falling on him as he rests. 

Perhaps the greatest translation of a poem into a piece of instrumental music is also sometimes called the first piece of modern music: “Prelude to The Afternoon of a Faun” by Claude Debussy, based on the poem by Stéphane Mallarmé that itself has been called one of the greatest works of French poetry. Debussy performed a valuable service by composing this piece because the poem doesn’t translate well into another language; the music conveys the hazy sensuality of a summer afternoon.

It’s hard to think of a better celebration of English poetry than the Serenade for Tenor, Horn and Strings by Benjamin Britten. It’s a cycle of six songs framed by a prelude and postlude for solo horn, and to the extent that there’s a common theme it’s nighttime:

Pastoral

The day’s grown old; the fainting sun
Has but a little way to run,
And yet his steeds, with all his skill,
Scarce lug the chariot down the hill.

The shadows now so long do grow,
That brambles like tall cedars show;
Molehills seem mountains, and the ant
Appears a monstrous elephant.

A very little, little flock
Shades thrice the ground that it would stock;
Whilst the small stripling following them
Appears a mighty Polypheme.

And now on benches all are sat,
In the cool air to sit and chat,
Till Phoebus, dipping in the West,
Shall lead the world the way to rest.

Charles Cotton (1630–1687)

Nocturne

The splendour falls on castle wall

And snowy summits old in story:
The long light shakes across the lakes,
And the wild cataract leaps in glory:

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
Bugle blow; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O hark, O hear, how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, farther going!
O sweet and far from cliff and scar
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!

Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:
Bugle, blow; answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.
O love, they die in yon rich sky,
They faint on hill or field or river:
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
 And grow for ever and for ever.

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying;
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809–1892)

Elegy

O Rose, thou art sick;
The invisible worm
That flies in the night,
In the howling storm,

Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy;
And his dark, secret love
Does thy life destroy.

William Blake (1757–1827)

Dirge

This ae nighte, this ae nighte,
Every nighte and alle,
Fire and fleet and candle‑lighte,
And Christe receive thy saule.       

When thou from hence away art past,
Every nighte and alle,
To Whinnymuir thou com'st at last;
And Christe receive thy saule.

If ever thou gav'st hos'n and shoon,
Every nighte and alle,
Sit thee down and put them on;
And Christe receive thy saule.

If hos'n and shoon thou ne'er gav'st nane
Every nighte and alle,
The whinnes sall prick thee to the bare bane;
And Christe receive thy saule.

From Whinnymuir when thou may'st pass,
Every nighte and alle,
To Brig O’Dread thou com'st at last;
And Christe receive thy saule.

From Brig o' Dread when thou may'st pass,
Every nighte and alle,
To Purgatory fire thou com'st at last;
And Christe receive thy saule.

If ever thou gav'st meat or drink,
Every nighte and alle,
The fire sall never make thee shrink;
And Christe receive thy saule.

If meat or drink thou ne'er gav'st nane,
Every nighte and alle,
The fire will burn thee to the bare bane;
And Christe receive thy saule.

This ae nighte, this ae nighte,
Every nighte and alle,
Fire and fleet and candle‑lighte,
And Christe receive thy saule.

Lyke Wake Dirge, Anonymous (15th century)

Hymn

Queen and huntress, chaste and fair,
Now the sun is laid to sleep,
Seated in thy silver chair,
State in wonted manner keep:
Hesperus entreats thy light,
Goddess excellently bright.

Earth, let not thy envious shade
Dare itself to interpose;
Cynthia's shining orb was made
Heav'n to clear when day did close:
Bless us then with wishèd sight,
Goddess excellently bright.

Lay thy bow of pearl apart,
And thy crystal shining quiver;
Give unto the flying hart
Space to breathe, how short so-ever:
Thou that mak'st a day of night,
Goddess excellently bright.

Ben Jonson (1572–1637)

Sonnet

O soft embalmer of the still midnight,
Shutting with careful fingers and benign
Our gloom‑pleas'd eyes, embower'd from the light,
Enshaded in forgetfulness divine:
 

O soothest Sleep! if so it please thee, close
In midst of this thine hymn my willing eyes,
Or wait the “Amen” ere thy poppy throws
Around my bed its lulling charities.

Then save me, or the passèd day will shine
Upon my pillow, breeding many woes,
Save me from curious Conscience, that still lords

Its strength for darkness, burrowing like a mole;
Turn the key deftly in the oilèd wards,
And seal the hushèd Casket of my Soul.

John Keats (1795–1821)

In Memoriam Dylan Thomas is the piece that Igor Stravinsky wrote instead of the opera he was planning to write with the great Welsh poet, which reportedly was to be set in a post-nuclear dystopian landscape! This was in 1953, so you can imagine the resonance such a theme had at that historical moment. Stravinsky was heartbroken when he heard of Thomas’ untimely death, and the piece is remarkable for its combination of deeply felt emotion and the clinical dissonance of atonal serialism, a 180 degree stylistic turn from his most recent work, the neoclassical opera The Rake’s Progress. It’s tempting to speculate that this is the style he would have adopted for the unrealized opera, and the music does indeed have a dystopian soundscape that is also appropriate for the poem’s state of extreme grief, written upon the death of his father. Like the Britten, the setting is framed by a prelude and postlude for brass, here a quartet of trombones, while the poem itself is, also like the Britten, set for tenor voice and strings (here a string quartet.) And, like the Britten, it feels very much like a late night work. (We are grateful that this famous poem entered the public domain less than four months ago):

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light. 

The playlist ends at it begins, with an instrumental version of the Machaut.