IMPERVIOUS BLUE We walked down Main Street past the barber shop where men’s heads hovered over tents of stained cloth, Past the pharmacy, outside of which stood a marvelous machine that would weigh you and tell you the future if you dropped A penny in-and how I wanted to pull the lever and receive the news of futures that seemed inevitable: I would be homeless in winter, Naked in an empty steel boxcar crusted with permafrost, or, shipwrecked and pursued by rabid monkeys, fall into a pit of spiders. But my father Refused, my future was not worth a penny, and we walked on past benches where black men in overalls sat talking quietly, Watching us with tired eyes as we went past, their hands hard from cotton bolls and wrenches, their work boots ruptured. 1957: There were futures no machine could fathom on the edge of their vision in Mississippi, not even the one in the store where we went to buy New shoes: where I stared through the scope at the ghost of my own toes, my precious white bones ghosted in x-ray far below me Through a wormhole of darkness wherein I could see a city burning, pistols cracking skulls, children bleeding, and I was one of them, Thrown to a curb in Chicago, Birmingham, Memphis, unconscious then as now, my shoeless feet bruised from white to impervious blue.
It would have been, I think, summer-it would have been August, I think, Somewhere near midway between solstice and equinox, When the tractors move all daylight in mirages of their own thrown dust And the farmhands come in the back gate at noon, empty, with jars in their hands. Imagine yourself a child with a fever, half delirious all that month, And your sisters lift you in your white wooden chair, carry you to the edge Of a hayfield, set you down in hedgerow shade and leave you While they go into woods to turn, you think, into swans- They are so lovely, your sisters, in their white sundresses That appear and disappear all afternoon among the dark trunks of trees. None of this ever happened. But remember the body-heat of the wind As it came from behind the tenant shack just there on the eastern border ; Of your vision to touch you with its loving nigger hand? And there you are, A white boy brought up believing the wind isn’t even human, the wind is happy To live in its one wooden room with only newspaper on the walls To keep out what this metaphor won’t now let me call the wind- But don’t worry about that, your sisters in the woods are gathering Beautiful fruit, you can hear it falling into their hands, And the big pistons of the tractors drive thunderously home into cylinders. Steel-bright as the future. You are five years old. What do you know? Your fever is a European delicacy, it burns in your flesh like fate, A sign from God, cynosure, mortmain, the intricate working out Of history in the life of the chosen. O listen, white boy, the wind Has a mythic question only you can answer: If all men were brothers, Would you want your sister to marry one? Let me tell you, white boy, the wind Is in the woods with its cornmeal and its black iron skillet, It’s playing its blues harp in the poison oak where your youngest sister, The one with hair so blonde you think it looks like a halo of rain, Is about to take off her dress. You sit there dreaming your mild fever dream. You tap your foot to the haybaler’s squared rhythms. They’ve dressed you in linen. From the woods where your sisters lie suddenly down, you burn, snow-white. I’ve seen your face. I remember your name. I prophesy something you can’t imagine Is coming to kiss you. And you thought I was reaching back to you in words To tell you something beautiful, like wind?
Spellbinding piece. It was a privilege to see its premiere with the Fresno Youth Orchestra, with both of Ben's sons playing in the orchestra at Saroyan Hall. And then to see and hear it again several years later, performed by the Fresno Philharmonic under Rei Hotoda. We are so fortunate to have this amazing and prolific and creative composer here in Fresno.
She's the very first solo violinist I knew and will always be my favorite...Her Del Gesú is also my favorite of all famous violins I heard...so much love Sarah Chang...I hope to hear more violin recordings from you 🙏🙏💖💖
@@bboone63 Hi!! Thanks for your reply. Last werk I bought The poets are gathering and With the Ghana Jazz Collective. Haven't listen to them yet but the clips on you tube says it all. Will keep an eye on further releases.
Yeah, I had bought that cassette years ago for the Mendelssohn violin concerto but the B side was the Bruch. As much as I love the Mendelssohn the Bruch almost immediately took precedence. There is an extremely visceral quality with the Bruch taking me back to my childhood. I was hardly five when every Saturday night I dreaded bedtime because the old Perry Mason show would air and I was literally terrified by the musical theme. I buried my head under my pillow in a vain attempt to escape that ominous, shrill leaping phrase in the violins. I am convinced it was derived from the finale of the first movement of the Bruch. I have yet to hear it live and trust I will have that opportunity sooner than later at the Meyerhoff Hall in Baltimore. This concerto is one of the prime reasons for my favorite original axiom “ music expresses wordless odyssey’s”. And, of course, “a thing of beauty is a joy forever.” PWG
Genene thank you for the comment! Yes, Jonovan wrote a wonderful composition and it was an honor to play it, and record it for my Origin Records CD, "Joy." I am so glad you like it.
