1. |
|
|||
2. |
Old World Elegy: 1
07:14
|
|
||
|
Always the soft silver of black-and-white.
The pupils and the camera’s click. The bride’s hands
wrung nervously, rough—in the light at least—
from work. Always the tilted tiara.
The bouquet of lilies and white-flowers behind her,
which here means happiness. The cord of lace across
her collarbone, which here means honor
the ancestors. Her bridegroom waiting outside,
telling someone ‘Ek wil opgaan,’ I wish to rise.
Always the southern window. The garden planted
in memory of those who came before us.
Always the stones: the wall around the farmyard
built by slaves two centuries ago. The other stones
that mark the graves of the ancestors. Always the names.
Always the orchard where we grew
and dried fruit. The ostrich, flightless, who walks
among thorn trees. Always the weddings. The years
of drought. The gash in the land where we took of earth:
shale, mudstone, uranium, gold.
And the land also. Dry wind. Dry grass.
The southern window. The cord of lace.
|
||||
3. |
|
|||
4. |
Old World Elegy: 2
01:49
|
|
||
|
The dead know only the smell of trees
found near their own towns,
hazel and ash.
Or the smell of wood, which rises in smoke,
dry as the earth,
where they must stay, resolved,
like hazel, like ash. A goat with black eyes
bending to drink from a bucket
beside the well.
The water in the bucket.
When did the grass grow thick
with mint? When did we think to build
this fence?
Why was this soil no good for us?
|
||||
5. |
|
|||
6. |
Old World Elegy: 3
04:37
|
|
||
|
Elsewhere, our train pulses through a yellow landscape
at full-speed. A plume billows behind it.
From a window, the sky ripples like a burnt map
over this continent or that one—the towns,
the countryside, the fields of wheat and goatgrass—
broken up by roads and tan hills
stacked like bread.
Back there, in a village,
women are sealing the backs of paintings
with brown paper. They fold it over the edges of the frames
the way they tucked their hair into gingham
when they were young. They are scurrying.
They are clothed.
No one watches them.
Now the candles are waiting on the windowsills.
Now the wooden ladders lean into the attics.
|
||||
7. |
Music Box Counterpoint
07:08
|
|||
8. |
Roots Run Deep
09:43
|
|||
Brian Baxter Davenport, Iowa
Brian Baxter is a musician and orchestra manager who composes music inspired by family, place, and poetry.
Brian Baxter recommends:
By these limits were they circumscribed and of them were they locus
by Golconda
Laid-back, honest tunes from a highly-skilled (and nomadic) songwriter!
go to albumIf you like Roots Run Deep, you may also like:
Silhouettes
by Justina Jaruseviciute
A stirring set of chamber music from this composer from Berlin, which seem to capture hope & sadness at once.
go to album
David Baron recorded the beautiful, moving “Cycles” in New York’s famed Beethoven Hall, the perfect setting for his rich compositions.
go to album
The Journey Tapes (Deluxe Edition)
by Ed Carlsen
Six new bonus tracks round out the deluxe edition of this piano-driven contemporary classical masterpiece.
go to album
The Journey Tapes
by Ed Carlsen
Cinematic soundscapes from a rising contemporary classical star.
go to album
The Sea Ranch Songs
by Aleksandra Vrebalov & Kronos Quartet
featured on Bandcamp Radio Dec 26, 2017
go to album
