Clair de Lune
Stokowski conducts Clair de Lune
Votre âme est un paysage choisiQue vont charmant masques et bergamasquesJouant du luth et dansant et quasiTristes sous leurs déguisements fantasques.
Tout en chantant sur le mode mineurL'amour vainqueur et la vie opportuneIls n'ont pas l'air de croire à leur bonheurEt leur chanson se mêle au clair de lune,
Au calme clair de lune triste et beau,Qui fait rêver les oiseaux dans les arbresEt sangloter d'extase les jets d'eau,Les grands jets d'eau sveltes parmi les marbres.
Stéphane Mallarmé - L’Apres-midi d’un Faune
These nymphs, I would perpetuate them.
Their crimson flesh that hovers there, light
In the air drowsy with dense slumbers.
Did I love a dream?
My doubt, mass of ancient night, ends extreme
In many a subtle branch, that remaining the true
Woods themselves, proves, alas, that I too
Offered myself, alone, as triumph, the false ideal of roses.
Let’s see….or if those women you note
Reflect your fabulous senses’ desire!
Faun, illusion escapes from the blue eye,
Cold, like a fount of tears, of the most chaste:
But the other, she, all sighs, contrasts you say
Like a breeze of day warm on your fleece?
No! Through the swoon, heavy and motionless
Stifling with heat the cool morning’s struggles
No water, but that which my flute pours, murmurs
To the grove sprinkled with melodies: and the sole breeze
Out of the twin pipes, quick to breathe
Before it scatters the sound in an arid rain,
Is unstirred by any wrinkle of the horizon,
The visible breath, artificial and serene,
Of inspiration returning to heights unseen.
O Sicilian shores of a marshy calm
My vanity plunders vying with the sun,
Silent beneath scintillating flowers,
That I was cutting hollow reeds here tamed
By talent: when, on the green gold of distant
Verdure offering its vine to the fountains,
An animal whiteness undulates to rest:
And as a slow prelude in which the pipes exist
This flight of swans, no, of Naiads cower
Or plunge…’Inert, all things burn in the tawny hour
Not seeing by what art there fled away together
Too much of hymen desired by one who seeks there
The natural A: then I’ll wake to the primal fever
Erect, alone, beneath the ancient flood, light’s power,Lily!
And the one among you all for artlessness.
Other than this sweet nothing shown by their lip, the kiss
That softly gives assurance of treachery,
My breast, virgin of proof, reveals the mystery
Of the bite from some illustrious tooth planted;
Let that go! Such the arcane chose for confidant,
The great twin reed we play under the azure ceiling,
That turning towards itself the cheek’s quivering,
Dreams, in a long solo, so we might amuse
The beauties round about by false notes that confuse
Between itself and our credulous singing;
And create as far as love can, modulating,
The vanishing, from the common dream of pure flank
Or back followed by my shuttered glances,
Of a sonorous, empty and monotonous line.
Try then, instrument of flights, O malign
Syrinx by the lake where you await me, to flower again!
I, proud of my murmur, intend to speak at length
Of goddesses: and with idolatrous paintings
Remove again from shadow their waists’ bindings:
So that when I’ve sucked the grapes’ brightness
To banish a regret done away with by my pretence,
Laughing, I raise the emptied stem to the summer’s sky
And breathing into those luminous skins, then I,
Desiring drunkenness, gaze through them till evening.
O nymphs, let’s rise again with many memories.
‘My eye, piercing the reeds, speared each immortal
Neck that drowns its burning in the water
With a cry of rage towards the forest sky;
And the splendid bath of hair slipped byIn brightness and shuddering, O jewels
!I rush there: when, at my feet, entwine
(bruisedBy the languor tasted in their being-two’s evil)Girls sleeping in each other’s arms’ sole peril:
I seize them without untangling them and runTo this bank of roses wasting in the sun
All perfume, hated by the frivolous shadeWhere our frolic should be like a vanished day.’
I adore you, wrath of virgins, O shy
Delight of the nude sacred burden that glides
Away to flee my fiery lip, drinking
The secret terrors of the flesh like quivering
Lightning: from the feet of the heartless one
To the heart of the timid, in a moment abandoned
By innocence wet with wild tears or less sad vapours.
‘Happy at conquering these treacherous fears
My crime’s to have parted the dishevelled tangle
Of kisses that the gods kept so well mingled:
For I’d scarcely begun to hide an ardent laugh
In one girl’s happy depths (holding backWith only a finger, so that her feathery candour
Might be tinted by the passion of her burning sister,
The little one, naïve and not even blushing)
Than from my arms, undone by vague dying,
This prey, forever ungrateful, frees itself and is gone,
Not pitying the sob with which I was still drunk.’
No matter! Others will lead me towards happiness
By the horns on my brow knotted with many a tress:
You know, my passion, how ripe and purple already
Every pomegranate bursts, murmuring with the bees:
And our blood, enamoured of what will seize it,
Flows for all the eternal swarm of desire yet.
At the hour when this wood with gold and ashes heaves
A feast’s excited among the extinguished leaves:
Etna! It’s on your slopes, visited by Venus
Setting in your lava her heels so artless,
When a sad slumber thunders where the flame burns low.
I hold the queen
!O certain punishment… No, but the sou
lVoid of words, and this heavy body, Succumb to noon’s proud silence slowly:
With no more ado, forgetting blasphemy,
I Must sleep, lying on the thirsty sand, and as I Love,
open my mouth to wine’s true constellation!
Farewell to you, both: I go to see the shadow you have become.
Debussy "Prelude a l'apres-midi d'un faune" - Stokowski conducts
Mompou - Musica Callada
"this music has no air or light. It is a weak heart beat, you cannot ask it to reach more than a few inches into space, but it's mission is to reach the profound depths of our soul and the secret regions of our spirit's spirit. This music is quiet (callada) because one listens to it within. Contained and reserved. It's emotion is secret and only becomes sound from resonance under the cold cape of our society. It is my desire that this music, should bring us closer to the warmth of life, and the expression of the human heart, that is always the same and constantly changing."
Federico Mompou writing about his own Musica Callada
La noche sosegada
en par de los levantes de la aurora,
la música callada,
la soledad sonora, la cena que recrea y enamora. (San Juan de la Cruz, "Cántico Espiritual")
The tranquil night
At the approaches of the dawn,
The silent music,
The murmuring solitude, The supper which revives, and enkindles love. (St. John of the Cross, "Spiritual Song")
Saint John of the Cross, O.C.D., (San Juan de la Cruz) (1542 – 14 December 1591), was a major figure of the Counter-Reformation, a Spanish mystic, Roman Catholic saint, Carmelite friar and priest, born at Fontiveros, Old Castile. (wikipedia)
Οι παραπάνω στίχοι του Αγίου Ιωάννη του Σταυρού, "δάνεισαν" στον Καταλανό συνθέτη F. Mompou τον τίτλο της συλλογής των 28 σύντομων συνθέσεων για πιάνο που έγραψε (σε 4 "βιβλία" ), την περίοδο 1959-1967.
Οι χαρακτηρισμοί "lento" (slow, applied to nearly half of the works), "afflito e penoso" (melancholy and painful), "cantabile" (singing), "placide", "tranquilo, and calme" (sometimes très calme) που συναντάμε (αντί τίτλου) στα περισσότερα κομμάτια, δηλώνουν έμφαση στη συναισθηματική επίδραση που προορίζετο να έχει το κάθε κομμάτι.
Όλο το ποίημα μπορείτε να το διαβάσετε εδώ:
και να διαπιστώσετε εύκολα την επιρροή που είχε το Άσμα Ασμάτων στον Άγιο Ιωάννη του Σταυρού.
Federico Mompou: Música Callada - Haskell Small : Songs, Reviews, Credits, Awards : AllMusic