Five Poems from the Forest
for narrator and string quartet
Composition Date: 2012
Duration: 5'
Text by David Pownall
Information:
Commissioned by Beryl Calver-Jones and Gerry Mattock. New version first performed in May 2011 at Holy Innocents Church, Highnam, by Crawford Logan and the Carducci Quartet, with Cian O’Dúill (vla).
Programme Note:
FIVE POEMS FROM THE FOREST
Poems by David Pownall
for Beryl Calver-Jones
In 2005 Beryl Calver-Jones commissioned four poems from David Pownall, and asked me to set them for the Kings Singers, who performed them at the Cheltenham Festival in 2006.
Beryl had requested that the poems should have a connection to the Forest of Dean, where she lives. David Pownall seemed a clear choice for the words, as we had worked together on several projects in the past, and he had recently moved to the Forest of Dean himself. It is an ancient place of beauty, mystery and surprises. This vocal work was called ‘Lost and Found in the Forest of Dean’.
In 2009 Beryl’s partner Gerry Mattock asked me to make a new version of the piece, this time for narrator with string quintet, for the Carducci Quartet.
Rather than simply transcribing the vocal settings, I decided to create a new piece from the original material. At the centre of the piece is an interlude. This is based on the middle movement of my violin sonata ‘Winter Trees’ - the first piece Gerry and Beryl heard of mine (in 1996) – a chance encounter which has had a profoundly positive effect on my work and creativity. ‘Winter Trees’ is inspired by the poem of that name by Sylvia Plath.
The new work was first performed in May 2011 at Holy Innocents Church, Highnam, which borders the Forest, by Crawford Logan and the Carducci Quartet, with Cian O'Dúill, viola.
1. PORIN TROW
On the day we moved in
we stood in the road
admiring our house
having stripped off its ivy
in a frenzy of change
Coming out of his door
to see who we were
he walked to his gate
and extended his hand
gave a biblical name
You’re changing the ways
O the old ways
But whatever you do
You’re just porin’trow
Porin’ trow? Porin’ trow?
Yes, just porin’ trow.
Say that slowly for us
So we’ll understand
what you’re saying
Stranger, whatever you do
you’re just pouring through
like all of us do
pouring through
pouring through
like all of us do
2. WEATHER REPORT
In forest rain fugitives gather
funghi below trees,
spores sail upwards
past leaves seeking sun
in the free, unhindered sky.
Through forest snow come the detectives
tracking down murderers,
following prints published
by bloody feet, bodies
speechless in drifts.
By forest wind the sweet air’s combed
oaks planted in paradise shake
over the graves of angels.
Spores, prints and blood
End up in the eyes of Adam and Eve.
3. INTERLUDE: WINTER TREES (Sylvia Plath)
4. NEW YEAR AT THE DUMP
Unwanted Christmas presents poignant
In the late afternoon light – the exercise cycle,
(I’ve never been so insulted in my life!)
The centrifugal vacuum cleaner,
(Houseproud I’m not, but never call me dirty.)
The motor mower that lost the will to start.
The sauna kit that cooked the owner to a
Turn. But not in plastic bags, if you please.
Computers that have argued back just once too often.
Baby chairs encrusted with the pulp of fruit.
Mountains of glass which glitter with the message –
All these you have known. Drink is time, is time.
In the shelter of the skip for corrugated cardboard only
Stand dead batteries, spent chemicals, and garden
Waste. But not in plastic bags, if you please.
Mattresses of dreams, of birth, of giving up the ghost.
Paper, paper, paper, written on with
Yours sincerely, truly, ever, almost, see you, farewell,
Gone. It took us twenty years
To throw away what now awaits the pomp of burial by
Bulldozer. But not in plastic bags, if you please,
If you please. Not in plastic bags, if you please.
5. A WALK
Within the eye, these wooded hills seem heightless.
Their shade is everything, their quiet, our thoughts
As we walk up not noticing the slope.
We foot the rising ground beneath the leaves.
Oak and fern, oak and fern, huge age and tender green.
Foxgloves raise their purple spires of death.
The land swells up in secret, catching unaware
The wanderers threading their way through the trees
Who question why their hearts beat harder.
The summit is a glade in open sunlight.
We cannot see the greater world for branches.
Within the eye, these wooded hills seem heightless.
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