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Archive for March, 2022

Hey friends–thank you for all the sweet emails about the Carnegie Hall debut! It was thrilling! Beyond thrilling! And I realize I didn’t give much backstory–so here it is, (I am quoting myself from Facebook last week, plus adding what the conductor wrote):

How do you get to Carnegie Hall??? You have a very talented, respected composer recreate one of your poems into a song that will be sung by the National Festival Chorus! I am thrilled to say that the amazing Jeff Nytch premiered a new piece using one of my poems a week last night–and so much of my family was there! When Jeff told me about it almost a year ago, I told him I would go to see it. “You know it will only last about three minutes, right?” he said. And I said, “Yeah,” but … the bigger story is that when I was 15, my dad took me to NYC and one of his clients, knowing I played piano, got dad and me tickets to go see Vladimir Ashkenazy at Carnegie Hall ON THE STAGE. We sat on the stage as he performed. And when it was done and I was fully star struck, my dad leaned over to me and said, “Roxanne, this is only the first time you will be on stage in Carnegie Hall.” Though I won’t be on stage, the poem will–and that is quite close enough for me.

So celebrated conductor Elizabeth Swanson led about 120 people in singing “Our Birthright” last night–and it was euphoric. A moment I hope to remember forever. I was utterly flayed open. Here’s what Elizabeth wrote today in her own FB post about it: Another 14-er mountaintop experience was performing the world premiere of my dear colleague Jeff Nytch’s composition, “Our Birthright.” It is a profound setting of a profound text and was a profound joy to have had the opportunity to peel back and discover the many layers and nuances within this composition with such willing singers. It was also an honor to have Jeffrey as well as the esteemed poet, Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer, in the audience. Their presence and words during rehearsal helped myself and the singers grow even more deeply with the music.

There is not a public recording–there will be an archival recording, but Carnegie Hall is pretty restrictive about how it is shared. BUT it will be performed again in Boulder in April, I hear, so maybe there is a shareable recording that comes from that??? 

Thank you for all the celebration–it was sooooo worth the trip to New York for three minutes of ecstasy. I so felt my dad, and for that matter, my son there. And I was accompanied by my daughter, husband, mom, niece, grand nephew, nephew’s wife, and grad school bestie. It was an amazing feeling of intimacy and support. Thanks for all your kind words!!! I will post the recording if ever I can! 

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     composed by Jeffrey Nytch, conducted by Elizabeth Swanson
 


Sitting in the red velvet chair
in the first tier box of Carnegie Hall,
I was well aware
that for some in the audience,
this was just another song being sung,
one more moment of beauty
in a long string of moments of beauty,
but for me, looking down at that stage
full of singers, the pianist, the conductor,
I saw, too, the same space thirty-seven years ago
when my father and I sat in chairs on the stage
and listened to Vladimir Ashkenazy play piano
and my dad whispered to me,
This is only the first time
you’ll be on stage at Carnegie Hall.
So when one hundred twenty people
began to sing words I wrote,
their voices both thundersome and tender,
I lived into the chance to be who
my dad believed I could be,
the chance to live through music,
the chance to grow into a dream.

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And there on the corner
of 43rd and 8th, while sirens
wailed past us and the sun
played hide and seek
behind theaters and high rise hotels,
she told me how, five years
after her husband’s death,
grief has unfolded
into profound tenderness,
how loss has helped her feel
a sense of home in the divine—
and I wished every street corner
in every city
might be so blessed
by conversation,
words that float like incense
through the wailing morning air,
something heady as sweet amber,
sensual as rosemary,
something that infuses
the urban drive
with the woody scent of peace,
something so true it proves
every inch of this scarred earth
is host for the sacred,
and that no matter where we are,
we might find another
who helps us blossom wider
into the shocking flower
of gifts so much greater
than our selves.

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In a city with thirty-thousand restaurants
and three hundred sky scrapers
and thirteen thousand taxis

KC guides us through a garden gate
to the open window
of an old brick church

and greets Father Spencer
in his office. Within a minute
we are sitting in a small paneled room

full of photos and poems
and hands cut out of paper,
and though there are nearly

nine million people
thrumming around us,
for a few quiet moments

his attention makes us feel
as if amidst it all
we count.

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Compass




Every day we become
the self we once tried to imagine
but couldn’t. Though we planned
future paths. Though we trained.
Though we took steps. Nothing
can stop us from becoming
exactly who we are. Sometimes
I see them, the ghosts
of the women I thought I would be—
I pass them in the airport or
see them in restaurants.
Can they see me, too?
I did not know, when I imagined them,
how the path that would come to matter most
would be the path that has heart.
I still can’t see the woman
I will become. But I know how
to find her.

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Proof




So insistent
the apricot petals
press against
the winter buds
to emerge
first white
then pink,
like millions
of tiny proofs
for hope:
somehow
the softest
parts of us
struggle and
swell against
the hardened shell
of I can’t
and open
anyway.

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Beginning




Grief arrives with an eraser—
not the cute pink kind
at the end of a pencil,
more like the big gray kind
with the fat felt strips
we used on chalk boards—
the kind that didn’t really
get rid of what was there,
just smeared it around
until it was unrecognizable,
the ghost of what was written
still haunting the board.
At first I thought
what was being erased
was the one who was gone.
Then I realized
what’s being erased is me—
whatever I think I know
about love, about life,
about death.
This erasure is nothing
I would have asked for.
But now, lines blurring,
what is infinite in me begins
to recognize itself,
and it’s beautiful—
this spaciousness
I once thought
meant the end.

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Meeting Your Death




Because there are no clear instructions,
I follow what rises up in me to do.
I fall deeper into love with you.
I look at old pictures.
I don’t look at old pictures.
I talk about you. I say nothing.
I walk. I sit. I lie in the grass
and let the earth hold me.
I lie on the sidewalk, dissolve
into sky. I cry. I don’t cry.
I ask the world to help me stay open.
I ask again, please, let me feel it all.
I fall deeper in love with the people
still living. I fall deeper in love
with the world that is left—
this world with its spring
and its war and its mornings,
this world with its fruits
that ripen and rot and reseed,
this world that insists
we keep our eyes wide,
this world that opens
when our eyes are closed.
Because there are no clear instructions,
I learn to turn toward the love that is here,
though sometimes what is here is what’s not.
There are infinite ways to do this right.
That is the only way.

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3.14.22

   Tonight, instead of serving pie,
 I serve the memory of pie—
    serve the memory of pumpkins
 we grew in the garden
     then processed into custard.
         Serve the memory of years
  we made gluten-free crusts.
      Serve the memory of your rhubarb plant
     that will rise more robust this spring,
   memory of thinly sliced apples,
     key limes, lemon merengue,
        and all those tart cherries
         we harvested together.
       I serve the joy we shared
         in celebrating a constant
   necessary to the geometry of the world.
  I serve the thrill in knowing
   there is something
        both transcendental and infinite,
    something death can never touch,
      something ubiquitous that defines
  the world we inhabit.
      And though it is math,
    it is no less love,
   something that helps us
   understand our universe,
        something that hints
   at the grand design
  that amidst great catastrophe
       continues to hold it all together.

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Before




Before the gun,
before the dark,
before the conversation
broke, before
I knew there would be
a before, there was
a love that touched
it all. That is the one thing
that hasn’t changed.

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