mystery

I am perched on hot stairs a few feet up from the subway platform at B’way and 96th as I wait for the uptown one train.  Literally, surprisingly hot, this concrete seat.  Hoping that a modicum of fresh air might be had here as I wait an interminable ten minutes for the train on a late summer morning. The stifling station is filled with smoke and construction lights and unmasked workers and I’m glad of my own mask as I wait and think about…sharing Poulenc, de Vilmorin and the liquid beauty of an iris near my river.

To sing Poulenc! A privilege, an immense pleasure. Sinking into surprise, the strange corners, obvious turns and lacy curves of this music; threads of jazz and church, of spirit and flesh, of the past century and all the war, the discord, the shifting, the terrible and the honorable. Wonderfully evocative lyrical mysterious poetic lines and images that make you feel you are twenty and then fly off as quickly as a lifetime. Partnering with a pianist as each of you leap or fall or gently cascade into this world. This is indeed, a privilege.

C’est ainsi que tu es
song by Francis Poulenc
poetry by Louise de Vilmorin

Your skin, mixed with your soul
your hair all tangled,
your feet chasing after time
your shadow which extends
and murmurs near my temple.
There, that is your portait
that’s how you are,
and I want to write it for you
so that when the night comes
you can believe and say
that I knew you well.