Happy Boxing Day, y'all! (by Tynan Davis)

I'm from Texas, live in New York, and am currently wintering in Louisiana.  I haven't the slightest clue what Boxing Day is.  I never asked my Canadian former roommate and my English violinist-friend says it has to do with helping the less fortunate and "boxing" up charitable donations the day after Christmas.  I choose to picture a voluntary, boozy, postprandial family slugfest celebrating making it through Christmas without incident.  I'm pretty sure we're both wrong.  Anyways, happy bank holiday to all my friends in the Commonwealth!  (And happy first day of Kwanzaa, too!) 

I just want to get this thought out of the way: I am not a writer.  (I feel so much better now!)  Therefore, gentle reader, go easy and know how intimidated I am at this moment.  I'm in no way issuing an apology for what may spew forth, but I think context is important.  Truthfully, I'm not foreign to this community of writers, but my only experience is with dead ones.  Lyricists and librettists of decades and centuries past.  My image of writers usually includes a quill pen and candlelight.  Are there any last holdouts in today's writing community?  Old school blotters and ink-stained fingers?  

More than the drama and costumes and wigs and make-up, what's interesting to me about being a singer of opera is, regardless of technological aides (digital recording devices offering immediate aural and visual feedback, etc), voices are trained today in essentially the same manner as voices a century or two ago.  The finer points could be argued, no doubt, but in broad terms, there aren't too many ways for a human voice to be heard over an orchestra without amplification.  The musculature hasn't changed, we haven't seen laryngeal evolution of any kind.  We are still dependent on our body's acoustical resonant amplifiers and a very complex coordination of neurons and muscles to compete sucessfully with strings, woodwinds, brass, and percussion.  I think it's pretty damn cool actually.  Sometimes it's technique that keeps me coming back for more and not the stage theatrics. 

But back to words.  I like them.  A lot.  I have only a pedestrian mastery of this crazy language so I am an excellent and eager audience for those of you who confidently sling words about with color and abandon.  Fundamentally, though, I just like the way words feel inside my mouth.  Don't you?  I often like words more for their sounds than their meanings.  Malfeasance (the "l" to "f" transition is satisfying).  Constancy (love the meaning, but how how nice to close to the "n" twice before sending the last syllable off into the ether??).  With all the fricatives and sub-glottal stopped plosives and vowels moving all around, how could you not love language???  And if you think all vowels and sounds just sit arbitrarily inside your mouth, you're wrong.  Check out this little visual aid from The Dialect Coach.
It's impossible to look at without trying to intone the vowels to feel how they move around your mouth... you'll feel and sound really cool, I promise! 

I have just let my singer word nerd freak flag fly.  I'm going to step away and go do something exponentially cooler to tip the scales back to neutral.  Since it is the day after Christmas, and this is a poetry blog, I'll leave you with a carol I have sung at various Midnight Masses over the last 10 years.  This audio file was recorded live at Christ Church Oyster Bay, Christmas Eve 2008.

 

Some Children See Him

 

Some Children See Him (1951)
Music by Alfred Burt
Poem by Wihla Hutson

Some children see Him lily white,
the baby Jesus born this night.
Some children see Him lily white,
with tresses soft and fair.
Some children see Him bronzed and brown,
The Lord of heav'n to earth come down.
Some children see Him bronzed and brown,
with dark and heavy hair.

Some children see Him almond-eyed,
this Savior whom we kneel beside.
some children see Him almond-eyed,
with skin of yellow hue.
Some children see Him dark as they,
sweet Mary's Son to whom we pray.
Some children see him dark as they,
and, ah! they love Him, too! 

The children in each different place
will see the baby Jesus' face
like theirs, but bright with heavenly grace,
and filled with holy light.
O lay aside each earthly thing
and with thy heart as offering,
come worship now the infant King.
'Tis love that's born tonight!

Comments

[Stacey]

"I just want to get this thought out of the way: I am not a writer.I just want to get this thought out of the way: I am not a writer." You could have fooled me, Tynan. Wonderful post! I'm looking forward to your week. Thanks.

[DL]

Nice work. I think a lot of us like the sound of a word more than its meaning -- and sometimes it's disappointing to learn what the meaning is, as when the hero of Aldous Huxley's "Crome Yellow" looks up "carminative."

[Paul Sampson]

Thank you for the poem, and for The Dialect Coach, which is a treasure! You're absolutely right--a poem has to feel good in the mouth. Robert Pinsky calls poetry "a bodily art"--it's not just the intellect that gets tickled.

[ajith vijayan]

such a nize work...admirable indeed,,specially by ""WRITER ASPIRANTS" like me..

http://ajithvijayan004.blogspot.com/