The Best American Poetry

Variation on the theme of Time [by Lera Auerbach]

 VARIATIONS ON THE THEME OF TIME

 I. 

Time
with time
shrinks
in size,
worsens
in quality.

I search
memories,
trying 
to remember
one
perfect
moment
from childhood
when past
was still
my future.

II.

 

Time exits,
tip-toeing.
I stand
alone
in this empty
room,
erasing
my past,
harvesting
the words,
burning them
in the silence
of music.

All that I own
has turned 
into ashes.

I open the door
and breathe in
cold air.

III.

Time 
in places
becomes 
so thin,
you can see 
through its 
fading material.
You see 
the dim valleys,
You see 
strange shapes
shifting, 
changing,
blending. 

Time 
with time
loses 
its colors –
the ancient 
pyramids
are now 
all-gray.
Time likes 
gray-ness,
it can rest 
for a while,
it can cuddle 
in a cradle
of forever 
beyond.

Time 
also 
gets 
tired
sometimes.

In its sleep 
Time hears
the gray 
clouds 
sing.

[by Lera Auerbach]

The Trouble Clef - November [by Lera Auerbach]

 

Another November falling on me. How many are still ahead? God knows...Does it matter? 

Would I feel any better or any different about this one if I knew it were my last? Is ignorance - bliss?

Would I still practice piano daily, keep correspondence and answer the rare telephone calls? Would I book a vacation? Spend all days reading? Try to make sense of the pile of unfinished works? Would I, perhaps,  attempt to create something new, something important and lasting, placing a bet on its survival’s strength? Would I try to live healthy? Read self-help books?  Take herbal remedies? Change climate and diet, keep a daily regiment  of pills, sleep and exercise? Spend more time with family and with those who care, and avoid at all cost those who don’t?

Would I, perhaps,withdraw all money, raise credit cards’ limits and spend it all on some luxury cruise? And jump off the boat at the end of it, hiding in the night, in the ocean, as if returning to the depth of earth’s womb? Would I cheat death with suicide if I knew the day of departure?  As if arriving ahead of schedule to some fancy party? Would I be welcomed? Or would it upset the plans of its Host?

Would I, perhaps, simply go on living with the usual daily petty concerns,  as if nothing has changed, and this knowledge has no significance or power over my life?

After all, we are dying. We are all in the cage of Time: 60 minutes in an hour, 24 hours in a day, 365 days in a year, an average 70+ years of life. This means we have total of 36,800,000 minutes (that’s all!) to live, to love, to loose, to remember, to create, to search for meanings, to shop, to say niceties, to worry about something soon to be forgotten. 36,800,000 minutes to make living, to make love, to make something of your life, to read, to re-read, to take action, to contemplate, to stipulate, to populate, to wage wars, to buy peace, to pay taxes, argue over politics... And also to dream, to dream, to forget dreams,  to loose dreams, to meet dreams, to play dreams, to dream again and again and again...

In the age of global warming life is melting away faster, since you are constantly running and can’t stand still, splitting yourself  into million pieces, broken, yet somehow still whole, with a constant noise  all around -  not hearing your own voice. By the end of this paragraph – you have 3 minutes less in the bank of your life. Each minute softly melts away, singing to you its quick farewell.

Living is the art of dying. If you’d know exactly your balance, how many minutes you have to die (living is the art of dying - each minute is melting away) - does it mean you would live them better? Does it mean you could spend them wiser?

It’s another November. Wet strands of grass under my dog’s delicate paws make squashing sounds. I turn the heater on for the first time in a long time and hear the old pipes waking from their slumber. I stop the pendulum of the grandfather's clock, as not to hear it pecks  in the dark of the house, but still I hear tick-tocks – my heart is still counting.  The sand is still running – gravity is always at work.

The last strands of Fall, my favorite season, with its late generosity – to give it all away without a safety-net. When you know you’re falling – choosing to fall from the sky.

 

 

October [by Lera Auerbach]

I opened the windows on a dark orchard.

Trees were guarding the movement of branches.

And with the bitterness of October rennet apples

I opened the windows on a dark orchard.

 

The funeral decay of the orchard lingered,

Covering the heart in fallen memories,

With autumnal stilling languor,

The funeral decay of the orchard lingered.

 

October lingered and languored.

Stealthily approached with tiny steps.

And we defoliated mysteriously too,

While October lingered and languored.

 

The last frame has been brought into focus.

Branches draw organ screams in sky.

Who knows what will come, what drama

When the last frame has been brought into focus.

 

Well it is good that we are still alive;

That time ages while years like ink

Run down and smudge shoddily, lazily,

And it's good that we are still alive.

  
 ---  Lera Auerbach

 

 

Canary [by Lera Auerbach]

CANARY

So yellow as if
defending this color
was its only quest;
as if painted 
by an artist,
obsessed,
unaccustomed
to shade;
as if stitched 
by mid-summer’s sun;
made with delicate silk 
in the ancient country 
long gone,
the canary swings
on its wooden swing,
claiming its cage
(golden prince
in exile).
It glances at me
through the bars –
and sings;
sings far better 
than any sounds 
I try 
to capture. 
As in rapture,
some birdly ecstasy,
perhaps,
its song shimmers,
almost visible
in the slight rips 
and tears at the edges
of the air 
in peripherals
of the cage. 
I humbly retreat,
leaving crumbs
for a treat,
my modest offering
of shame:
I have the freedom
to fly and rejoice,
but where is
my voice?

- - Lera Auerbach

What Can Kill You [by Lera Auerbach]

WHAT CAN KILL YOU

No,
indifference
is not
the worst of it,
and it doesn’t equate
with loneliness.
After all
you choose
your feelings,
even though
it doesn’t seem
like a choice.
No, it’s not
your sloppy sense
of direction,
alienating attitudes
or unbearable shyness,
which is, in fact,
bearable,
it is something else
entirely,
like cancer or
a car crash and
it is somewhere else
where you lost it,
your crumbling sense
of perspective.

The Trouble Clef - On the Usefulness of Poetry [by Lera Auerbach]

Here is a short poem for all of you who ever doubted that poetry is indeed
a very useful pursuit:

A poem a day, 

Keeps psychiatrists at bay.

           - by Lera Auerbach 

The Trouble Clef - Chirlim-chirlyum [by Lera Auerbach]

The mechanism of memory is complex.  The Time Machine--a dream of dreamers--was created long ago. It is human memory.  And I am certain that we have been granted the power to remember everything; that in the depths of the human brain are preserved imprints of every moment we have lived in past and future lives.  The only complication lies in the ability “to find” them in the labyrinths of memory. To find them by secret guiding signs: smells, a familiar place, a certain refraction of light, everyday trifles.

To unwind the ball of string as I make my way to my beginnings.

I am my memory, the sum total of all the moments I have lived.  Moreover, my "I" divides and multiplies: I am an infant, and an elderly person, and an artist, and a thief, and a murderer.  All of these possible past incarnations of mine swarm past in my subconscious like phantoms, and when I begin a monologue in my own name (as I see myself at this very moment), I inevitably put it into the mouth of a phantom from my own midst.  And that which seemed to me to be sincere and the only true thing when I was writing is only one facet of a thousand and, like the crooked mirror, does not reflect the features, but distorts them.  Although who knows, perhaps only crooked mirrors tell us the truth.  I see crowds and crowds of people.  Among them are artists, captains, artisans and kings, musicians and circus performers, milkmen and murderers.  And all of them are me.  And every time I begin to wind the thread that leads me out of the labyrinth toward the light, instead of exiting I fall into a new labyrinth.  In each of the labyrinths a Minotaur lies in wait--sin that arrives from my former incarnation.  And my goal is to kill the Minotaur.

Here are several characters from my spectral retinue:

Madman
Gambler
Robber
Adventurer
Wise Hermit
Skeptic
Child
Artist (Odysseus)
His Muse
Apollo (Rational Force)
Dionysus (Elemental Force)
Gaiea (Primordial feminine, fertility, the mystery of birth passed on from mother to daughter)
Savage (Mowgli)
Nymphette
Homeless Wanderer (The Wandering Jew)
Martyr Hero (for whatever you like: faith, fatherland, ideas)
Clown
Whore and Nun
Don Quixote
Maniac Murderer
Joseph, sold into Egypt

–Well, who else is there, come out into the light!

The characters are wearing masks, one transmutes into another. A mirrored hall, where the mirrors reflect one another, fracturing the reflections. A carnival of phantoms; bifurcation, disorder, division of my self.

...In his own likeness and image...

A crowd of mirror werewolves. Welcome to the theater of the absurd. 

Abel = Cain.

And so, ladies and gentleman, let's begin.

The Trouble Clef – Findings | 24 April 2010 [by Lera Auerbach]

Here are some of this week's findings, confirming to the idea that life may indeed be worth living:

This is a wonderful TED talk on creativity, pressures, self-destructive tendencies that artists are prone to, and possible solutions:

Glenn Glould in all his glory at home:

One of the greatest living performers:

and a clip form Death on Venice, as interpreted by John Neumeier:

The Trouble Clef - Rachmaninov [by Lera Auerbach]

When one thinks of Rachmaninov, usually what comes to mind is his face, serious and stern, clean-shaven, with a short modern haircut. His expression is distant and cold. He looks like a British gentleman, not easily approachable, always well dressed, with a posture of self-confidence if not arrogance. Then one may remember the endless tales of Rachmaninov’s depression, his legendary gloom, the trademark-able depth of his Russian soul. Yet to me Rachmaninov’s name has always been linked to joy.

Back in 1991, at the time of my immigration to America, alone and far from home for the first time, an ocean and an era away, I decided to compile a cassette-tape, which included music that would give me hope. At the first sign of despair, I would play this tape. Rachmaninov’s 2nd Piano Concerto (I believe it was Ashkenazy’s recording) occupied the first half; the second half was shared by Bach, Mozart, and Stravinsky. This antidote to depression must have worked, as I managed to survive my late teens, accompanied by the opening bells of Rachmaninov’s concerto and Bach’s “Ich Habe Genug”.

The Second Piano Concerto of Sergei Rachmaninov is one of the most frequently performed works in the world. The generosity of its writing is overwhelming and it is a pure joy to play. I was so excited to perform it for the first time - I still remember the burning feeling of anticipation while standing backstage and waiting for the stage call.

His piano writing is truly idiomatic – the texture lends itself to the pianist’s hands – rich, sonorous, passionate. This music is so generous that the most common performance problem is over-involvement or over-interpretation, which may result in sweetening the richly cooked meal and thus spoiling it.

Rachmaninov was a modern Western man who traveled the world and even lived for several years in Dresden, long before his decision to leave Russia permanently in the turbulent year of 1917. We tend to forget this, but Rachmaninov was an American composer, an American citizen, who always loved his cultural Russian heritage but was able to embrace his adopted country fully. He lived for 26 years in the United States in New York and in Los Angeles and died in Beverly Hills in 1943. He was known to have a great sense of humor in private circles and was a connoisseur of good food and wine.

Sergei Rachmaninov never trusted the Soviet government, which repeatedly tried to entice back famous Russian artists who lived abroad, such as Stravinsky, Prokofiev and Rachmaninov. Only Prokofiev chose to return to the Soviet Union, which was the gravest mistake of his life. But that is another story for another time.

In the US, Rachmaninov’s main occupation was as a concert pianist. His piano recitals were legendary. He was adored by the public and critics alike. However, as a composer, he was unfavorably reviewed by the music critics. He was a contemporary of Stravinsky, Debussy and Schoenberg. The pressure of the avant-garde was everywhere. Rachmaninov, who early on developed his own musical language, (one can always recognize his music from listening to just a few seconds) found himself an outsider in the mainstream of Western musical development. He was deeply troubled by this, yet his attempts to conform would create only greater failures in his own eyes.

The Piano Concerto no.2 was composed between the fall of 1900 and April 1901. Rachmaninov performed the 2nd and 3rd movements on Dec. 2, 1900. The complete work was first performed on October 27, 1901 with the composer as soloist and his cousin Alexander Siloti conducting. The concerto is dedicated to Nikolai Dahl, a physician who helped Rachmaninov restore his confidence through hypnosis. Prior to this concerto, Rachmaninov’s 1st Symphony and his 1st Piano Concerto – both premiered in Russia – were complete fiascos, which resulted in his depression and loss of confidence. The 2nd Piano Concerto was Rachmaninov’s creative resurrection and affirmative “Yes!” to his ambition as a composer. Rachmaninov was 28 years old when he composed it. He was in love and about to get married to Natalia Satina. This concerto was his first mature work.

Let’s imagine him at that time. All the upcoming turmoil of his life – the Revolution, concert tours and American immigration are still far ahead. He is only 28, in love and has just finished his most ambitious work. He smiles shyly and proudly closes his manuscript.

The Trouble Clef - Swimming with Mermaids [by Lera Auerbach]

From left to right: Marie-Pierre Greve (Royal Danish Ballet), Silvia Azzoni (Hamburg Ballet), Yuan Yuan Tan (San Francisco Ballet)

I am currently in San Francisco, where the San Francisco Ballet is preparing the premiere of my ballet The Little Mermaid. Today was my first rehearsal with the orchestra and tomorrow will be the first rehearsal with the dancers and the orchestra. 

The ballet was originally written for and commissioned by the Royal Danish Ballet in Copenhagen for the anniversary of Hans Christian Andersen and opening of their new opera theater in 2005 (this ballet was the first ballet production done in this new theater).

The following year the Hamburg Ballet commissioned me a revised version of this work, premiered in 2007 and since then it became part of their repertoire. The last performance of the San Francisco ballet on March 28th will mark the 70th performance of this ballet world-wide since its original creation in 2005.

When John Neumeier sent me the first draft of the libretto in 2004 he added in the letter, which accompanied it, that I should use this libretto very freely -- as a source for inspiration and as a suggestion for the structure -- so that in return the music could inspire the choreography and vice-versa. During the work on the ballet we met many times in New York, Hamburg, Baden-Baden and Copenhagen - and sometimes talked for hours on the telephone, an ocean across from each other, so there was always a mental link between us. Yet we also spent long stretches of time working separately and sometimes our visions of the Mermaid and her world would slightly depart from each other and it would take some effort to adjust each other's perspective. In some ways it is like two parents raising a child, or raising a Mermaid in this case. In fact the work went through so much transformation, as we went along, that the original libretto that I received from John bares little resemblance to the final work. 

Neither the music nor the choreography of The Little Mermaid suggests the Danish culture of Andersen's time as this would not only be false but it would artificially cage him into a time which he has outgrown. At the same time, it was very important for me, in order to understand Andersen, to gather as much information about Danish culture and his life as I could. John Neumeier and I even studied the score written for one of the Andersen plays called "Agnete og Havmanden" (Agnete und der Meermann) with the music of Neils Gade, which was staged (to complete fiasco) shortly before Andersen wrote The Little Mermaid. 

One of the peculiar qualities of writing theater music is that you need to find a balance between achieving what you intend to create artistically and make it work organically together with the dramatic requirements of the theater. If music becomes a servant of the dance as has happened with many 19th century ballets then there is a big problem. The other difficulty is the length. With The Little Mermaid we have three full acts, and to sustain the best quality within the span of an almost three-hour-long production, where the overall architecture needs to hold the structure together, was my highest priority and a challenge. 

In some ways our Little Mermaid is a very intimate work. It is about personal transformation and about relationship between a creator (Andersen) and his creation (Mermaid). A lot of the material is written as chamber music. Yet, it is also a larger than life story of love, death, personal identity, time and timelessness. It deals in three levels - under the ocean (Mermaid's world), on earth (human world) and above earth (after-world), and for this the large canvas - full orchestra is needed. Just the ocean with its multiple depths, layers, colors, shifting movements requires a large mural and a full pallet to work with.

In Andersen's tale Mermaid has a most beautiful haunting voice. I was searching for a very special sound. I even thought of using a singer, but it did not feel right as it was too real, too hot-bloodedly human. I needed the voice from the dreams, haunting, fragile and powerful at the same time, strange and expressive. Mermaids in different world's tales can lure the sailors and cause ship-racks, because when men would hear their singing time itself would stop to listen and one could completely loose oneself and die for their magical voices. I found the timbre I was searching for in the sound of the Theremin, the very first electronic instrument, created in the 1920’s by Leo Theremin. The instrument is incredibly expressive – think of a mixture between cello and flute to have an idea of its sound. Also, there is something very mysterious in this instrument, as it is played by moving hands in the air, no strings attached, no keyboards. The instrument itself is an electromagnetic field, created by its antenna. There is something magical about creating the sounds from emptiness. The instrument also is an outsider of the standard orchestra just like Little Mermaid is an outsider of her surroundings, and to represent a creature who becomes a spirit of air – the theremin seemed most appropriate. For Mermaid’s human nature – I have chosen a solo violin. Thus, there is a duality between the solo violin and theremin, representing the dual nature of this chimera. The ballet’s orchestration is for the full symphony orchestra and is highly multilayered, presenting different levels, similar to the ocean’s complex co-existence of different worlds.