Dem Herbste Gleich (like autumn)

[play audio]

Notes  

Dem Herbste Gleich (Like Autumn) was written in the fall and winter of 2001. I was moved to write the piece after reading a number of poetic fragments by the German poet Friedrich Hölderlin (1770—1843), primarily one entitled Heimath (Home). I wanted to echo the fragmentary nature of the text's discourse and the effect it achieves of imbuing a language and imagery of beauty, innocence, and repose with such a sense of alienation and distance.

Originally, this work was to consist of two movements, each based on a different Hölderlin text. However, as I worked on these separate movements, my ideas concerning the other text were continually subsumed into my thoughts about Heimath. I therefore decided to interweave the material from both movements into a single musical space. The result is a piece which continually seeks unity, linearity, and closure—that is, a narrative - but which is constantly, in one way or another, interrupted. For me, the beauties and truths of Hölderlin's text lie in its articulation of such interrupted paths.

Heimath

Und niemand weiss.

Indessen lass mich wandeln
Und wilde Beeren pflücken
Zu löschen die Liebe zu dir
An deinen Pfaden, o Erd'

Hier wo
und Rosendornen
Und süsse Linden duften neben
Den Buchen, des Mittags, wenn im falben Kornfeld
Das Wachstum rauscht, an geradem Halm,
Und den Naken die Ähre seitwärts beugt
Dem Herbste gleich, jetzt aber unter hohem
Gewölbe der Eichen, da ich sinn

Und aufwärts frage, der Glockenschlag
Mir wohlbekannt
Fernher tönt, goldenklingend, um die Stunde, wenn
Der Vogel wieder wacht. So gehet es wohl.

************************  

Home  

And no one knows.

Meanwhile let me roam
And pick wild berries
To quiet my love for you
Upon your paths, O Earth

Here where
and thorns of roses
And sweet lindens cast their fragrance
Beside the beech trees, at noon, when in the pale cornfield
There is a rustle of growth, by the straight stalks,
And their ears bow to the side
Like autumn, but now under the high
Vault of oaks, where I muse
And question heavenward, the stroke of the bell
Well known to me
From afar rings golden at the hour
Of reawakening birds. So it goes.