April is national poetry month. Poetry is a genres of literature that is seems people love or hate…and, like a delicate souffle, what’s created either works or it doesn’t. When it works, it can take you to the highest heaven or punch you square in the gut. When it doesn’t…well…the best it can get is an eye-roll and a page, turned.
Poetry is one of my favorite art forms, and it’s also one that scares me the most. I can’t write poetry that isn’t, in some way, revealing. There’s an exposure…I suppose like writing a song…where you are tested on many levels: courage, artistry, meaning, connection. I think it’s why I write it. There’s a challenge there that I hesitate to accept, but when I do, I get lost, completely and without regret (until I put the poem out there only to realize I would have used a different word or concept…it’s never good enough…but sometimes good…and sometimes enough).
My band instructor, Zane Schaefer, introduced me to Vivaldi in Art Music Appreciation class, my senior year of high school. I’m sure I had heard it before, but I remember sitting in the band room listening to it and imagining the seasons in all their elements. I don’t recall imagining the visual drama that can unfold to music that had no words. Mr. Schaefer did what he set out to do…at least with me…and my appreciation for art music was cemented. Antonio Vivaldi’s “Four Seasons’ became something I’d revisit often ever since.
What does Vivaldi have to do with poetry? I read recently that he had written sonnets to go with his “Four Seasons” concertos. Who knew?? Maybe all five people who read this blog. I had no idea, and so I had to seek it out. I found them on a Baroque music website, and I wanted to share them with you.
The website had a great recommendation: read the sonnets while listening to each movement in the four concertos. I haven’t done this, yet, but will when I get a chance. For now, here’s the poetry. Four sonnets, written by Vivaldi (presumably) that were meant to accompany the music. Enjoy.
Spring – Concerto in E Major
Allegro
Springtime is upon us.
The birds celebrate her return with festive song,
and murmuring streams are softly caressed by the breezes.
Thunderstorms, those heralds of Spring, roar, casting their dark mantle over heaven,
Then they die away to silence, and the birds take up their charming songs once more.
Largo
On the flower-strewn meadow, with leafy branches rustling overhead, the goat-herd sleeps, his faithful dog beside him.
Allegro
Led by the festive sound of rustic bagpipes, nymphs and shepherds lightly dance beneath the brilliant canopy of spring.
Summer – Concerto in g-minor
Allegro non molto
Beneath the blazing sun’s relentless heat
men and flocks are sweltering,
pines are scorched.
We hear the cuckoo’s voice; then sweet songs of the turtle dove and finch are heard.
Soft breezes stir the air….but threatening north wind sweeps them suddenly aside. The shepherd trembles, fearful of violent storm and what may lie ahead.
Adagio e piano – Presto e forte
His limbs are now awakened from their repose by fear of lightning’s flash and thunder’s roar, as gnats and flies buzz furiously around.
Presto
Alas, his worst fears were justified, as the heavens roar and great hailstones beat down upon the proudly standing corn.
Autumn – Concerto in F Major
Allegro
The peasant celebrates with song and dance the harvest safely gathered in.
The cup of Bacchus flows freely, and many find their relief in deep slumber.
Adagio molto
The singing and the dancing die away
as cooling breezes fan the pleasant air,
inviting all to sleep
without a care.
Allegro
The hunters emerge at dawn,
ready for the chase,
with horns and dogs and cries.
Their quarry flees while they give chase.
Terrified and wounded, the prey struggles on,
but, harried, dies.
Winter – Concerto in f-minor
Allegro non molto
Shivering, frozen mid the frosty snow in biting, stinging winds;
running to and fro to stamp one’s icy feet, teeth chattering in the bitter chill.
Largo
To rest contentedly beside the hearth, while those outside are drenched by pouring rain.
Allegro
We tread the icy path slowly and cautiously, for fear of tripping and falling.
Then turn abruptly, slip, crash on the ground and, rising, hasten on across the ice lest it cracks up.
We feel the chill north winds coarse through the home despite the locked and bolted doors…
this is winter, which nonetheless brings its own delights.
a tilting of air 