Podcasts about when lilacs last

Whitman wrote several poetic responses to the assassination of Abraham Lincoln. He came to detest his most famous, ‘O Captain! My Captain!', and in ‘When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd' Lincoln is not imagined in presidential terms but contained within a love elegy that attempts to unite his death with the 600,000 deaths of the civil war and reconfigure the assassination as a symbolic birth of the new America. Seamus and Mark discuss Whitman's cosmic vision, with its grand democratic vistas populated by small observations of rural and urban life, and his use of a thrush as a redemptive poetic voice.Mark Ford is Professor of English at University College, London, and Seamus Perry is Professor of English Literature at Balliol College, Oxford.Sign up to the Close Readings subscription to listen ad free and to all our series in full:Directly in Apple Podcasts: https://lrb.me/ppapplesignupIn other podcast apps: https://lrb.me/ppsignup Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

Today's poem is by Walter Whitman Jr. (/ˈhwɪtmən/; May 31, 1819 – March 26, 1892), an American poet, essayist, and journalist. He is considered one of the most influential poets in American history. Whitman incorporated both transcendentalism and realism in his writings and is often called the father of free verse.[1]Whitman's major poetry collection, Leaves of Grass, first published in 1855, was financed with his own money and became well known. The work was an attempt to reach out to the common person with an American epic. Whitman continued expanding and revising Leaves of Grass until his death in 1892.His poetry often focused on both loss and healing. On the assassination of Abraham Lincoln, who Whitman greatly admired, he authored two poems "O Captain! My Captain!" and "When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd", and gave a series of lectures on Lincoln.—Bio via Wikipedia This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit dailypoempod.substack.com/subscribe

Today's poem is by Walter Whitman Jr. (/ˈhwɪtmən/; May 31, 1819 – March 26, 1892), an American poet, essayist, and journalist. He is considered one of the most influential poets in American history. Whitman incorporated both transcendentalism and realism in his writings and is often called the father of free verse.[1] Whitman's major poetry collection, Leaves of Grass, first published in 1855, was financed with his own money and became well known. The work was an attempt to reach out to the common person with an American epic. Whitman continued expanding and revising Leaves of Grass until his death in 1892.His poetry often focused on both loss and healing. On the assassination of Abraham Lincoln, who Whitman greatly admired, he authored two poems "O Captain! My Captain!" and "When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd", and gave a series of lectures on Lincoln. —Bio via Wikipedia This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit dailypoempod.substack.com/subscribe

This week on Beethoven Walks into a Bar, Mike and Stephanie are joined by mezzo-soprano Sasha Cooke who is town to sing Hindemith's When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd with the Kansas City Symphony and Chorus. We talk about Sasha's work with former podcast guests Caroline Shaw, Gabe Kahane, Nico Muhly and Joel Thompson on her Grammy award winning album "How do I Find you?" and discuss exploring "new music" vs. "new to you" music. Sasha also shares how finding a good coffee shop can make her feel at home no matter where she is in the world. We also reveal our Top 5 works for solo voice and orchestra. Listen now for all of this and more, this week on Beethoven Walks into a Bar.Episode 705 PlaylistALBUM: Sasha Cooke: "How Do I Find You?"

I'm Christy Shriver and we're here to discuss books that have changed the world and have changed us.  And I am Garry Shriver.  This is the How to Love Lit Podcast. This is our second episode discussing the bard of democracy, the great Walt Whitman.  Today we will feature one of his four poems honoring President Abraham Lincoln, but in order to understand why Whitman and many of us admire this great man, we want to revisit the  original 1855 edition of Leaves of Grass and listen to some of Whitman's observations of African Americans and slavery.  Christy, let's start this episode by reading and discussing two extracts from “I sing the Body Electric” , the ones where Whitman describes an African man and then an African woman at auction.    A man's body at auction,  (For before the war I often go to the slave-mart and watch the sale,)  I help the auctioneer, the sloven does not half know his business.    Gentlemen look on this wonder,  Whatever the bids of the bidders they cannot be high enough for it,  For it the globe lay preparing quintillions of years without one animal or plant,  For it the revolving cycles truly and steadily roll'd.  In this head the all-baffling brain,  In it and below it the makings of heroes.  Examine these limbs, red, black, or white, they are cunning in tendon and nerve,  They shall be stript that you may see them.  Exquisite senses, life-lit eyes, pluck, volition,  Flakes of breast-muscle, pliant backbone and neck, flesh not flabby, good-sized arms and legs,  And wonders within there yet.  Within there runs blood,  The same old blood! the same red-running blood!  There swells and jets a heart, there all passions, desires, reachings, aspirations,  (Do you think they are not there because they are not express'd in parlors and lecture-rooms?)  This is not only one man, this the father of those who shall be fathers in their turns,  In him the start of populous states and rich republics,  Of him countless immortal lives with countless embodiments and enjoyments.  How do you know who shall come from the offspring of his offspring through the centuries?  (Who might you find you have come from yourself, if you could trace back through the centuries?)    8    A woman's body at auction,  She too is not only herself, she is the teeming mother of mothers,  She is the bearer of them that shall grow and be mates to the mothers.  Have you ever loved the body of a woman?  Have you ever loved the body of a man?  Do you not see that these are exactly the same to all in all nations and times all over the earth?  If any thing is sacred the human body is sacred,  And the glory and sweet of a man is the token of manhood untainted,  And in man or woman a clean, strong, firm-fibred body, is more beautiful than the most beautiful face.  Have you seen the fool that corrupted his own live body? or the fool that corrupted her own live body?  For they do not conceal themselves, and cannot conceal themselves.  Whitman was raised a New York democrat, but his sympathies were with the Free Soil party that condemned the extension of slavery as a sin against God and a crime against man.  The Republican party would not exist until 1854, and Lincoln would be their presidential candidate in the election of 1860.  Of course, bear in mind, that the issues of those days are different than the issues of today, so the party names shouldn't be taken to represent modern day politics.      For Whitman it was undeniable for anyone with eyeballs that all men are born human and that implies certain things regardless if they are born  free or slave- of any race, creed or gender.  It is obvious to a man so aware of the physical body, that we are of the same atom-  the magnificence of the body proclaims our humanity- and ironically where on earth could this magnificence be most easily seen than at a slave auction like what he witnessed during his New Orleans days. In all of its ruthless degradation it ironically showcased the magnificence of the human body.  It's why Whitman could say, almost sarcastically- I am a better salesman of slaves than the auctioneer-I know and understand the beauty and value of what you are selling and you don't- you fool.   Whitman was the poet of the democratic soul- we are after all leaves of grass, but he was also the poet of the body- that physical form we are all chained to.  For Whitman, to be a human was to understand and be okay with one's physical body- and it is a holy thing. Our souls inhabit a sanctified space on earth- that of the body- be it man or woman- the pigmentation of flesh was just one of many individual and unique features- for Whitman our bodies is the starting point for equality- we are all wedded to one.      It doesn't seem radical to us now, but at that time in history- even talking about the body like that was revolutionary- almost vulgar- Whitman democratically equates the man with the woman with the black with the white.  In 1855, this was not self-evident anywhere else in the United States of America or really anywhere on planet earth.      By 1855, Walt Whitman knew his country was falling apart.  He understood that the ideals on which the great American experiment were founded were being overwhelmed by all kinds of forces, not least of which was plain ordinary corruption.  In his mind, what the world needed was repentance- a total course correction- a return to the original ideals and this was going to happen through conversion to a different set of moral ideals- he wanted to convince America to revisit and embrace all these original self-evident democratic ideals by reading and absorbing Leaves of Grass.  He really truly believed if people would just read his book, they would stop hating each other.    Well, it's a nice thought, however slightly unrealistic…especially in light of the single digit sales of that first edition.  But even if he had gotten everyone to read his book, it was a tall order.  By 1860, any kind of peaceful coming together seemed unrealistic.  America was on the brink of war and violence was springing up.  John Brown is one notable example; in an attempt to free slaves through violence he and a small gang stormed Harper's Ferry.  They were captured, tried and condemned to death, but this event inflamed the country and raised the stakes for the upcoming presidential election.  A few months after Brown was executed, the democratic party, split between pro and- anti- slavery factions, was to confront a new political party- one that had never existed before, the Republican party. It had nominated a Southern born anti-slavery man from Illinois, a lawyer who had never attended school but who was known as honest Abe.  A newspaper in South Carolina put it this way “the irrepressible conflict is about to be vised upon us through the Black Republican nominee and his fanatical diabolical Republican party.”    Walt Whitman did not see Lincoln as an instigator of a conflict.  Whitman saw him almost as an extension of himself- a mediator.  He really believed Lincoln was going to bring healing  and unity through politics something he had tried and failed to do through poetry.      I'm not sure which is the greater challenge= trying to unify  a group of people through poetry or politics!!      Ha! True but Whitman was paying attention to what Lincoln was saying and he identified with him.  He saw himself in Lincoln.  They both came from poor families. Neither had formal education.  One thing that is interesting, Lincoln was from the West, and Whitman believed the hope of America was in the West.  Both men believed in democracy to the core, but also- both believed in unity.  Whitman saw Lincoln as America's hope.    Although, he was likely the most hated man of his age in some corners, but the only hope of America in others.  Lincoln wanted first and foremost to be a unifier.  He had been elected with only around 40% of the popular vote, although he did get a majority of the electoral college votes.  There was no question America was deeply divided.  He wanted not just to save the physical boundaries of America, but he wanted to heal the wounds that were making people hate each other.  Lincoln's father was anti-slavery and raised in an anti-slavery Baptist congregation.   Lincoln But his mother was from a Kentucky slaveholding family.  Lincoln later recalled that the reason his father left Kentucky and the South because of his strong feelings about slavery. Lincoln himself saw many cruel things while visiting his grandparents, not the least of these being once when an African-American family was separated on a boat and sold to different owners.  He later recalled that ‘the sight was a continual torment to me…having the power of making me miserable.”  However, Lincoln's mother's family were people he knew intimately, and somehow he understood how someone could support slavery and not be an evil person.  This sounds crazy to us and difficult to understand, but Lincoln expressed on more than one occasion to men across the North that if they had been born in those circumstances in that place and in that world, they likely would have had those same views.  This way of seeing one's fellow man is more radical than most of us can even comprehend.  It's a strange idea to assert that a person could believe something is morally wrong so strongly that he would be willing to lead a nation to war to end it, but simultaneously judge the perpetrators of this evil redeemable human beings.  95% of humans today can't think like that-       Well, it's something Whitman could do as well.  Whitman didn't fight in the Civil War, but his brother George did.  His brother fought for the Union.  Whitman's significant other fought for the Confederacy at one point.     The first shots of the Civil War were fired by the South on Fort Sumter in Charleston, SC, in April of 1861.  Lincoln had been president for just a few weeks.       In December of 1862, Whitman saw his brother's name on a list of casualities.  He got on a train and headed South to look for him. He ended up in Fredericksburg.  The good news was his brother had only suffered a flesh wound.  But outside the hospital Whitman saw something that struck horror and terror into his being.  Let me read his words after he came to the building being used as a hospital, he saw, “a heap of amputated feet, legs, arms, hands, etc….a full load for a one-horse cart…human fragments, cut bloody, black and blue, swelled and sickening…nearby were several dead bodes each covered with its brown woolen blanket.”  Now you have to remember, think about Leaves of Grass and “I sing the Body Electric”.  This is a man who had been trying to convince America to celebrate our bodies- all of our bodies- we read just the excert about African-Americans, but he celebrated all bodies and wanted us to see ourselves in other people's bodies- to recognize the sanctity in all bodies- and here he's staring at these body parts scattered around, cut off and thrown into piles.  I can't even imagine how things would smell.      Whitman's reaction to what he saw on the battlefields and field hospitals of Frederickburg, led him to a decision that altered the course of his life.  It would lead him to move to Washington DC and honestly, his war actions to me make him something of a saint.  Just in Frederickburg, he stuck around to visit and help bury the dead of the over 18,000 dead soldiers that were just lying on the ground.  But, then he started visiting hospitals.  These visits deeply affected him.  He had planned on going back to New York after he found his brother, but he couldn't do that anymore.  Instead he changed courses and went to Washington DC.  He got a job as a clerk where he would work during the day, but then he would spend the rest of his time in the hospitals.  And he would just sit with soldiers.  He didn't care if they were union of confederate.  He brought  with him bags of candy.  He wrote letters to their parents.  He played twenty questions.  If they wanted him to read the Bible, he read the Bible.  If they wanted a cigarette, he'd scrounge up a cigarette. Many of them were teenagers.  He kissed  and hugged them; he parented them in their final moments of life.  For many, he was the last tender face they would see on this earth.  The numbers range, but documentation reveals he visited and helped anywhere from 80-100,000 soldiers.      Let me interrupt you for a second to highlight how bad it was to be in a hospital during this time period.  No one at this time understood the importance of anticeptics or the need to be clean.  The Union Army lost 300,000 lives in combat.  But, they experienced an estimated 6,400,000 cases of illnesses, wound and injuries.  Hospitals were filthy and dangerous places.      For many of those young men, Whitman was the last touch of kindness they would ever experience on this earth.  He said later that those years of hospital service were and I quote, “the greatest privilege and satisfaction..and, of course, the most profound lesson of my life.”  He usually left the hospital at night and slept in a room he rented but if a soldier needed him or asked him to stay, he would often stay up all night with wounded and dying men and then head from the hospital to the office.  Here are his words "While I was with wounded and sick in thousands of cases from the New England States, and from New York, New Jersey, and Pennsylvania, and from Michigan, Wisconsin, Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, and all the Western States, I was with more or less from all the States, North and South, without exception… "I was with many rebel officers and men among our wounded, and gave them always what I had, and tried to cheer them the same as any. . . . Among the black soldiers, wounded or sick, and in the contraband camps, I also took my way whenever in their neighborhood, and did what I could for them.”        Well, let me also say that Washington DC was a nasty place to be living at that time.  Physically, it was a construction zone, nothing like the beautiful collection of buildings and streets designed by the French architect Pierre L Enfant that we see today.   It was muddy; it noisy; it was full of the noises of building and killing.  It was political.  Abraham Lincoln stated that during those days, “If there is a worse place than Hell, I am in it.”      Dang, because DC, the city, was so bad?    Because being president in the Civil War was so bad.  Lincoln had a different view of his role of leadership than most people today understand.  And we need to go back to when he was elected in 1860.  The country was divided- and even if you didn't believe in slavery, the question of how to get rid of it wasn't something people agreed on.  Many thought it should just be abolished. Others thought you should just keep it from expanding and let it die slowly.   Lincoln was surrounded by people on all sides who all wanted him to have “bold leadership”- do radical things- whatever those were to them- but Lincoln liked to respond to his critics by referencing an entertainer who was known for tight walking over water.  Sometimes, he even would push a wheelbarrow across these ropes; one time he stopped in the middle of the river to eat an omelete on his tightrope, sometimes he'd carry someone on his back- all crazy stunts that didn't seem survivable.  Lincoln had seen him perform walking a tight rope across Niagara falls and he thought it was a perfect metaphor for how he saw himself.  Let me quote Lincoln here- the artist went by the name Blondin. Suppose,” Lincoln said, “that all the material values in this great country of ours, from the Atlantic to the Pacific—its wealth, its prosperity, its achievements in the present and its hopes for the future—could all have been concentrated and given to Blondin to carry over that awful crossing.” Suppose “you had been standing upon the shore as he was going over, as he was carefully feeling his way along and balancing his pole with all his most delicate skill over the thundering cataract. Would you have shouted at him, ‘Blondin, a step to the right!' ‘Blondin, a step to the left!' or would you have stood there speechless and held your breath and prayed to the Almighty to guide and help him safely through the trial?”    Lincoln saw himself on a tight rope and going too far one way or the other would make the entire thing collapse.  He wasn't trying to crush and destroy his fellow man, even his Southern brother,  although he was trying to win the war and emancipate the slaves, which he did do.  He was trying to heal a nation- to bring brother back to brother.  And we must never forget that brothers WERE literally killing their brothers.  Uniting and building a country that was this morally divided was a seemingly impossible task- and he could see from his perch in Washington that this was hell.    Whitman would stop to see him going in and out of the White House.  This was in the days when you could do that.  They didn't even have secret service for the president. Whitman looked at Lincoln and saw sadness in his eyes.  But Whitman always believed Lincoln was the right man.  If anyone could bring America together, it was Lincoln. Lincoln didn't hate his enemy.  He loved his enemy.  Just like Whitman.  This was the attitude where Whitman saw hope and a future as he sat with both confederate and Union soldier, black soldiers and white soldiers, mending their wounds, writing their final farewells.      But make no mistake, Lincoln was committed to emancipation and as the war came to the end and reconstruction was in sight, he was preparing America to grant full citizenship that included voting rights to All American males- including African-American ones.  In one letter he said, “I am naturally anti-slavery.  If slavery is not wrong; nothing is wrong.  I cannot remember when I did not think so, and feel so”.     And yet this is the same man who could say during his second inaugural address, one month before General Lee will surrender at Appomatox and 41 days before he will be murdered…     With malice toward none; with charity for all; with firmness in the right, as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in; to bind up the nation's wounds; to care for him who shall have borne the battle, and for his widow, and his orphan -- to achieve and cherish a lasting peace among ourselves and with the world. to do all which may achieve and cherish a just, and a lasting peace, among ourselves, and with the world. all nations.    There was one man in the crowd that day, who was actually so close to Lincoln he shows up in the inauguaration picture.  This man heard those words and was committed to stopping Lincoln from fulfilling this pledge.  John Wilkes Booth was standing not far from Lincoln that day.  On April 11, what we now know was to be his last speech, Lincoln called for black suffrage.  Booth was in the audience that day as well, after hearing Lincoln make that statement Booth is known to have said, “that is the last speech he will ever make.”    On that fateful day, April 15, 1865 Whitman was visiting his family.  However, his significant other, Peter Doyle was in Washington DC and heard that the president was going to Ford's theater to see a performance of the comedy “My American Cousin.”  It was Good Friday, the sacred day where Christians celebrate the crucifixion of Jesus Christ.  This is what Peter Doyle  said later about what happened that evening.     I heard that the President and his wife would be present and made up my mind to go. There was a great crowd in the building. I got into the second gallery. There was nothing extraordinary in the performance. I saw everything on the stage and was in a good position to see the President's box. I heard the pistol shot. I had no idea what it was, what it meant—it was sort of muffled. I really knew nothing of what had occurred until Mrs. Lincoln leaned out of the box and cried, "The President is shot!" I needn't tell you what I felt then, or saw. It is all put down in Walt's piece—that piece is exactly right. I saw Booth on the cushion of the box, saw him jump over, saw him catch his foot, which turned, saw him fall on the stage. He got up on his feet, cried out something which I could not hear for the hub-hub and disappeared. I suppose I lingered almost the last person. A soldier came into the gallery, saw me still there, called to me: "Get out of here! we're going to burn this damned building down!" I said: "If that is so I'll get out!"     Whitman used Doyle's account to help pen the only poem that I know of where Whitman  used traditional poetic forms.  It is an Elegy for the death of Abraham Lincoln, titled “O Captain My Captain”.  He actually wrote two elegies- one speaking for the nation- in the voice of a common sailor- it he wrote in a formal style of poetry acceptable to the people of his day.  The second, in some ways more personal because it is in a style similar to what we see in the rest of Leaves of Grass.  The second poem, When Lilacs …”is often thought be be written after O Captain” Although I'm not sure it is.  It is more epic in its feeling- it uses symbols that are more archetypal and timeless- although that term wasn't invented in his day.  In O Captain my Captain, Whitman takes on the persona of a soldier, a sailor.  In the second, he uses his own voice- that universal “I” like we see in Song of Myself.  We don't have time to read the entirely of “O Lilacs When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom' , it has over 200 lines, but we can Read a little bit of it.  Instead we will focus on the only poem anthologized during Whitman's lifetime- O Captain my Captain.    The one I know from that famous scene in Dead Poet's Society where the students stand for their fallen teacher, John Keating, immortalized by Robin Williams.     Agreed- I can't read this poem without thinking of Robin Williams, but we should probably try since we spent quite a bit of time setting up the image of Lincoln.       O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,  The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won,  The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,  While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;                           But O heart! heart! heart!                              O the bleeding drops of red,                                 Where on the deck my Captain lies,                                    Fallen cold and dead.    O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;  Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,  For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,  For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;                           Here Captain! dear father!                              This arm beneath your head!                                 It is some dream that on the deck,                                   You've fallen cold and dead.    My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,  My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,  The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,  From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;                           Exult O shores, and ring O bells!                              But I with mournful tread,                                 Walk the deck my Captain lies,                                    Fallen cold and dead.    As we have clearly expressed, Whitman the defender of the common man, does not usually elevate one person over another- but For Lincoln he makes a notable exception.  O Captain my Captain is written from the point of view of an insider. We can imagine a young soldier, a sailor.   He's on the ship- Of course, the captain is President Lincoln- the ship is the country.  The tone is one of exultation then distress.  We had finished- the fearful trip was done!!!  We had made it then….    Christy, and it's important to note that it WAS done.  Lincoln did bring that ship to harbor.  On April 2, right before he died on the 11th The confederacy vacated Richmond.  On April 4, President Lincoln together with his ten year old son Tad walked through the streets and into Jefferson Davis' office.  “Admiral Porter who was with him had this to say, “No electric wire could have carried the news of the President's arrival sooner than it was circulated through Richmond.  As far as the eye could see the streets were alive with negroes and poor whites rushing in our direction, and the crowd increased so fast that I had to surround the President with sailors with fixed bayonets to keep them off.  They all wanted to shake hand with Mr. Lincoln or his coat tail or even to kneel and kiss his boots.”  Later on Admiral Porter said this, “I should have preferred to see the President of the United States entering the subjugated stronghold of the rebel with an escort more befitting his high station, yet that would have looked as if he came as a conqueror to exult over a brave but fallen enemy.  He came instead as a peacemaker, his hand extended to all who desired to take it.”  Christy, at one point, it is said that an older African American gentleman bowed before Lincoln and Lincoln went to the man, took him by the hand and raised him up and told him he didn't need to kneel to anyone, he was a free man.  I cannot imagine the emotion.    And so we try to imagine the emotion – after so much carnage, who could walk the tightright and heal the utter hatred still inherent in the heart of both victor and defeated.  Notice there is meter, each stanza is composed of iambs which may or may not mean anything to you.  It just means there's a beat- like a drum beat, like a heart beat- “The ship has wethered every rack, the prize we sought is won.  The people are exalting.    But then he dies…in the first two stanzas, the boy addresses the captain as someone still alive, but by the third stanza he has accepted the reality.  And of course, this is exactly has grief strikes.  We never accept it initially, at least I have that problem.  I'll share my personal experiences in a different episode, but it's natural.  He says, “Rise up, Father.”  We feel a sense of desperation- the idea- of = no,  no, no, this can't be happening.  It's not possible.  Not now. Not after all of this.   But by the third stanza, the sailor unwillingly switches to the third person.  My captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still.”   There is a sense of intimacy, “MY father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will”.  We also see that that formality of the meter breaks down in that last line, “Fallen cold and dead”.  The sailor has broken down.   America is not just devastated because their leader is dead, but they are now vulnerable- what's going to happen to us.  Who can lead us?  Who can walk the tightrope?    And that of course, is the ultimate tragedy.   We will never know what might have been had he lived to complete his second term, but one statesman grasped fully the tragedy when he predicted that “the development of things will teach us to mourn him doubly.”  And of course he was right, even Jefferson Davis, the leader of the conferederacy, although I point out that Lincoln never one time acknowledged him as preside,  bemoaned Lincoln's death after losing the war and for good reason.  After Lincoln''s death, profiteers, corruption and all kinds of chaos descended on America.  Grant, who was a sincere and an incredible advocate for African Americans, was able to defeat the confederate armies but not able to contain the host of corruption that plagued our nation during reconstruction.    And so we end with Whitman's final poem- his most personal tribute to Lincoln and the one that many consider the better if less famous work, “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom”.  In this poem, Whitman reverts to his usual style of free verse and strong metaphors.  It's beautiful and for me, it's where we see the universal truth of lost moral leadership and grief emerge- he expresses loss well beyond the moment of Lincoln.  Let's read just the first little bit.  It's long, and references the journey of Lincoln's casket to its final resting place without ever mentioning Lincoln's name.     When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom'd,  And the great star early droop'd in the western sky in the night,  I mourn'd, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.    Ever-returning spring, trinity sure to me you bring,  Lilac blooming perennial and drooping star in the west,  And thought of him I love.    2  O powerful western fallen star!  O shades of night—O moody, tearful night!  O great star disappear'd—O the black murk that hides the star!  O cruel hands that hold me powerless—O helpless soul of me!  O harsh surrounding cloud that will not free my soul.    There are three big symbols in this poem= the lilacs, the sun and then a bird.  But since we read only the first two stanzas, I want to focus on those.  Lilacs are flowers that have a strong smell and were blooming at the time of Lincoln's death.  They are beautiful, but they also return every spring.  The star is an obvious symbol for Lincoln.  I want to point out that Whitman never really used stars as positive images for leaders because he didn't like the idea of a ruler just hoarding over us- but again, in this case, he made an exception.  Lincoln was the powerful star- and of course, we are left to answer, why would a man, so bent on equality of humans, elevate this one man- the only man he would elevate- it wasn't just because he was the president.  It was because he embodied what a great leader truly was- and this is the nice idea that I think resonates through the ages.      Agreed, average leaders and I will say most leaders give lip service to serving all people, but we can see by their actions, that a lot of that is propaganda.  Most are in it to win it.  It's easy to get to the top and view oneself as better than the rest of us.  It's just natural to do what's best for me or my team, so to speak.  It's natural to want to put enemies in submission- prove own own power and greatness.  But Lincoln was different- his compassion for his enemy, his unwavering commitment to integrity, his ability to see beyond his current moment, is a star- something that outlasts us all.  The South as well as the North mourned deeply Lincoln's loss.  The procession described in this poem where the casket was taken from Washington DC back to Illinois was something that had never happened in the history of the United States and has not happened since.      It is a legacy of leadership that Whitman not only admired but also immortalized.  It's also a legacy that I find inspiring no matter how great or small our little ships are, if we are ever called to be a captain.  It's something to think about when we smell lilacs in the Spring.  For Whitman every time we smelled those flowers, we grieve, but also we remember- because just as lilacs return every Spring, so does a new opportunity- the end of the Lilac poem looks to the future.  In another of Whitman's great poems, “Crossing Brooklyn Ferry” he says this, “We use you, and do not cast you aside-we plant you          permanently within us,       We fathom you not-we love you-there is perfection in          you also,       You furnish your parts toward eternity,       Great or small, you furnish your parts toward the soul.”  It's a nice idea, Lincoln was a man, but for Whitman he embodied an ideal we can all aspire to: integrity, humility, compassion and grace- in defeat and death but also in victory.  Whitman believed in those ideals in leadership- leadership that embraces those things can lead a ship to harbor in scary waters.  Perhaps, when we smell the lilacs, we can be reminded that those ideals are also planted in us.     Thanks for listening.  We hope you enjoyed our discussions of Walt Whitman.  Next episode, we will look farther into the American past to even deeper roots of democracy on the American continent, the Iroquois constitution.  So, thanks for listening, as always please share a link to our podcast to a friend or friends.  Push it out on your social media platforms via twitter, Instagram, facebook or linked in.  Text an episode to a friend, and if you are an educator, visit our website for instructional resources.  Peace out.                 

Episode #37: When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd Uploaded: November 6, 2021 Claudio S. Grafulla: Freischütz Quickstep [3:07] Port Royal Galop [2:47] Nightingale Waltz [5:12] Un Ballo in Maschera Quickstep [4:13] Grafulla's Quickstep [3:07] Cavalry Quickstep [1:59] Storm Galop [2:27] Eastman Wind Ensemble Frederick Fennell, conductor MERCURY LIVING PRESENCE 432 591-2 Hector Berlioz: Symphonie funèbre et triomphale, Op. 15 I. Marche funèbre (Moderato un poco lento) [17:27] II. Oraison funèbre (Adagio non tanto – Andantino un poco lento e sostenuto) [8:15] III. Apothèose (Allegro non troppo e pomposo) [9:18] Dennis Wick, trombone John Alldis Choir London Symphony Orchestra Sir Colin Davis, conductor PHILIPS 416 283-2 Paul Hindemith: When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd. A Requiem for Those We Love I. Prelude [3:59] II. When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom'd [4:36] III. Arioso. In the Swamp [2:21] IV. March. Over the breast of spring [6:12] V. O western orb [2:06] VI. Arioso. Sing on, there in the swamp [1:50] VII. Song. O how shall I warble [3:32] VIII. Introduction and Fugue. Lo! body and soul [5:19] IX. Sing on! you gray-brown bird [10:00] X. Death Carol. Come, lovely and soothing Death [7:26] XI. To the tally of my soul [6:26] XII. Finale. Passing the visions [8:20] Jan DeGaetani, mezzo-soprano William Stone, baritone Atlanta Symphony Chorus and Orchestra Robert Shaw, conductor TELARC CD-80132

"When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd" is a long poem written by American poet Walt Whitman (1819–1892) as an elegy to President Abraham Lincoln. It was written in the summer of 1865 during a period of profound national mourning in the aftermath of the President's assassination on April 14 earlier that year.  Although Whitman did not consider the poem to be among his best works, it is compared in both effect and quality to several acclaimed works of English literature, including elegies such as John Milton's Lycidas (1637) and Percy Bysshe Shelley's Adonais (1821). To listen to these works, review the Poetry Panoply here on Just Listen. “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd”…we begin….

Today we celebrate a happy lyricist and poet. We'll also remember a charming diary entry from 1938 by a Canadian conservationist and naturalist. We’ll honor a poem by Walt Whitman that inspired a beautiful composition that premiered this day in 1946. We hear an excerpt about the healing power of the garden. We Grow That Garden Library™ with a gorgeous book about Wave Hill garden in the Bronx. And then we’ll wrap things up with a little story about the origin of ketchup.   Subscribe Apple | Google | Spotify | Stitcher | iHeart To listen to the show while you're at home, just ask Alexa or Google to “Play the latest episode of The Daily Gardener Podcast.” And she will. It's just that easy.   The Daily Gardener Friday Newsletter Sign up for the FREE Friday Newsletter featuring: A personal update from me Garden-related items for your calendar The Grow That Garden Library™ featured books for the week Gardener gift ideas Garden-inspired recipes Exclusive updates regarding the show Plus, each week, one lucky subscriber wins a book from the Grow That Garden Library™ bookshelf.   Gardener Greetings Send your garden pics, stories, birthday wishes, and so forth to Jennifer@theDailyGardener.org   Curated News Sloping Garden Ideas | Ideal Home | Tamara Kelly   Facebook Group If you'd like to check out my curated news articles and original blog posts for yourself, you're in luck. I share all of it with the Listener Community in the Free Facebook Group - The Daily Gardener Community. So, there’s no need to take notes or search for links. The next time you're on Facebook, search for Daily Gardener Community, where you’d search for a friend... and request to join. I'd love to meet you in the group.   Important Events May 14, 1840 Today is the birthday of the American poet, lyricist, and hymn-writer George Cooper. Today, George is remembered for his happy song lyrics, which were often set to music written by Stephen Foster. And George wrote a little poem dear to gardeners called, My Garden. When fields are green, and skies are fair, And summer fragrance fills the air, I love to watch the budding rose That in my pleasant garden grows; But when old Winter, fierce and free, Has hushed the murmur of the bee, And all the fields and hills are hid Beneath his snowy coverlid, Oh! then my only garden-spot Is just this little flower pot.   May 14, 1938 On this day, the Canadian conservationist and naturalist Charles Joseph Sauriol wrote in his journal, “I have some most beautiful Pansies from the seeds of last year. Pansies are a surprise packet. You never know what to expect, and you are never disappointed if you [don't?] expect much."  We found on Thursday night a section of Pine root with a Dogwood growing from its wood and rotted mold. Transplanted it to the Wild Flower garden. It will be exactly what I will require for certain Wild Flowers. Planted a Bleeding Heart. Have wanted to do so for several years. It's an old-fashioned flower. Mother always used to have one in her garden when I was a small boy.” Bleeding heart is in the poppy family. Additional common names for  Bleeding heart include “lyre flower” and “lady-in-a-bath.” Native to Siberia, northern Asia, and North America, there are several cultivars for gardeners to consider, including ‘Alba,’ which has white flowers, ‘Gold Heart,’ which has yellow leaves; and  ‘Valentine,’ which has red-and-white blossoms. Auntie Dogma’s Garden Spot blog says, “No other plant bears perfect heart-shaped flowers like those of the Bleeding Heart. If you press the flowers between the pages of a heavy book, you’ll have papery-thin little hearts to adorn letters or valentines. If you turn a flower upside down and pull the two halves apart, you’ll see a lady in a pink bathtub, or perhaps you’ll see a white lyre with strings of silk.” And then, she shares the interactive story of the bleeding heart that uses a blossom to tell the story. “(To begin narration of the story, hold a heart blossom in the palm of your hand.) Long ago, there lived a noble prince who tried in vain to win the heart of a very beautiful princess. The prince had brought the princess wonderful gifts from his travels far and wide. Yet, she had taken no notice of him. One day the prince returned from a long journey with very special gifts to surely win the love of the princess. First, he presented her with two magical pink bunnies.  (Peel off the two outer petals and set them on their sides to display two little pink bunnies.) The princess only sighed and barely looked at the little bunnies. The hopeful prince had one more gift saved for last – he presented a pair of beautiful enchanted earrings. (Remove the two long white petals and hold them next to your ears.) Again, the princess hardly noticed the prince’s gift. Now the poor prince was utterly heartbroken. He could try no more to win the heart of the princess. He rose up, pulled a dagger from his sheath, and stabbed himself in the heart.  (Remaining in the flower is a heart shape with the stamen, appearing as a dark green line down the center. Hold the heart up, carefully remove the dagger-like line, and plunge the dagger through the heart.) The princess was overcome by the dedication of the dying prince and his unending love for her. She realized too late that she loved him also. “Alas,” she cried out. “I have done wrong. My own heart is also broken. I shall bleed for my prince forevermore!” And her heart bleeds to this very day.”   May 14, 1946 On this day, Paul Hindemith's composition When Lilacs Last in the Door-Yard Bloom'd: A Requiem «For Those We Love»  premiered. The music was inspired by a poem of the same title by Walt Whitman, When Lilacs Last in the Door-Yard Bloom'd. Walt Whitman wrote his poem in the summer of 1865. The country was still mourning the assassination of President Lincoln. In 206 lines, Walt does not mention Lincoln’s name or the assassination. Instead, he uses nature and nature imagery to move the reader from grief to acceptance. Lincoln was killed in the springtime - on April 14, 1865. Walt was at his mother’s home when he heard the news. Later he recalled, “I remember… there were many lilacs in full bloom… I find myself always reminded of the great tragedy of that day by the sight and odor of these blossoms. It never fails.” When Walt Whitman was 54 years old, he suffered a stroke that left him paralyzed. He spent the next two years immersed in nature, and he believed that nature had helped heal him. He wrote, "How it all nourishes, lulls me, in the way most needed; the open air, the rye-fields, the apple orchards.”   Unearthed Words But spring twilight found her barefoot in the garden, planting beans and helping me fill my pail with earthworms that were severed by her shovel. I thought I could nurse them back to health in the worm hospital I constructed beneath the irises. She encouraged me in this, always saying, “There is no hurt that can’t be healed by love.” ― Robin Wall Kimmerer, mother, plant ecologist, writer, and SUNY Distinguished Teaching Professor, Braiding Sweetgrass: Indigenous Wisdom, Scientific Knowledge and the Teachings of Plants   Grow That Garden Library Nature into Art by Thomas Christopher This book came out in 2019, and the subtitle is The Gardens of Wave Hill. In this book, Thomas introduces us to Wave Hill - a garden that opened to the public in 1967. A public garden in the Bronx, Wave Hill is known for its daring and innovative horticulture. Thomas takes us on a tour of the different areas of the garden — the flower garden, wild garden, shade border, and conservatory. In addition, Thomas reviews the plants and design principles that underpin Wave Hill. Enchanting and inspiring, Wave Hill manages to delight and instruct gardeners all year long. This book is 296 pages of a private tour of a jewel of the Bronx - the iconic Wave Hill. You can get a copy of Nature into Art by Thomas Christopher and support the show using the Amazon Link in today's Show Notes for around $3   Today’s Botanic Spark Reviving the little botanic spark in your heart May 14, 1846 Today is the anniversary of the death of the American scientist, horticulturist, and physician James Mease. A son of Philadelphia, James was a passionate gardener, and he consistently referred to tomatoes the way the French did - as “Love Apples.” In 1812, James published the first known tomato-based ketchup recipe. Although Ketchup had existed in China for centuries, James added the tomato base - something that caught on not only in the United States but also in England. For his unique recipe, James used tomato pulp, spices, and brandy. Unlike many other recipes, James did not use sugar or vinegar. He named his recipe “Love-Apple Catsup."   Thanks for listening to The Daily Gardener. And remember: "For a happy, healthy life, garden every day."

In 1996, the American composer George T. Walker, Jr. became the first African-American to win the Pulitzer Prize for Music. That was for his “Lilacs,” a setting for solo soprano and orchestra of Walt Whitman’s poem, “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloomed,” an elegy for the assassinated Abraham Lincoln. Walker died in the summer of 2018 at the age of 96, leaving behind a substantial body of music ranging from solo works for piano and organ to chamber works and orchestral scores, including 5 works he titled “Sinfonias.” His fifth and last Sinfonia, which he subtitled “Visions,” was inspired by the 2015 hate-crime shootings at Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church in Charleston, South Carolina, and exists in two versions: one version includes elusive, enigmatic spoken texts and a video that includes a photo of the port of Charleston at its conclusion; the other version is purely instrumental. Sadly, although completed in 2016, despite Walker’s stature and fame, he found no American orchestra able to schedule it during his lifetime. A studio recording of Sinfonia 5 was made under the composer’s supervision in 2018, but its public premiere by the Seattle Symphony occurred posthumously on today’s date in 2019.

A reading of Walt Whitman's poem "When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd." The reading is from the earliest published version of the poem, in his book of Civil War poetry, Drum Taps. The full text of that version is here; the final revision of the poem is here. The best place to find Whitman's poetry online (or anything about him at all) remains the Whitman Archive, and you can find every edition of Leaves of Grass here (as plain text downloads) and here (facsimiles of the original editions). While there are hundreds of editions of Whitman's poetry in print, the best editions for me are Gary Schmidgall's Walt Whitman: Selected Poems 1855-1892, which present his best poems in their earliest published form (this is the book I am reading from here); the second includes the first and last editions of Leaves of Grass, along with a huge selection of Whitman's prose. Any comments, or suggestions for readings I should make in later episodes, can be emailed to humanvoiceswakeus1@gmail.com. I assume that the small amount of work presented in each episode constitutes fair use. Publishers, authors, or other copyright holders who would prefer to not have their work presented here can also email me at humanvoiceswakeus1@gmail.com, and I will remove the episode immediately.

Starts with "When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd" by Walt Whitman - moves on to live-streaming his poetry on Periscope - the moo cow - an English Setter took Paul O'Mahony out of the house - walking in woods (recorded on a damp misty Easter Monday)

Welcome to a very special episode of The Townies Podcast: Something like a mix between The Moth and Prairie Home Companion... if Lake Wobegon were real. This week's Townie Tidbit, titled Miss Upchurch, was written by an amazing Ojai Townie, John Slade, and performed by another amazing Ojai Townie, Malcolm McDowell. John passed away on July 7th. A victim of a hit and run driver, leaving our town -- bereft. John was a master teacher and he was always a student and he took my class in 2012. Unfortunately it was before we started recording for The Townies Podcast. SO -- in truly hometown, homespun, neighborly style, Malcolm stepped in to honor the wonderful words of the late, great, loving-husband, father and friend John Slade. This Episode Features (in order of appearance): “Miss Upchurch" Tidbit written by John Slade, performed by Malcolm McDowell elise written & performed by Jemi Reis McDonald Alrighty Then written & performed by Julia Denney Hamann Musical Interlude # 1: When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd written by Walt Whitman, adapted & performed by John Slade Denim Jacket written & performed by Katie Rae Newcomer Elaine written & performed by Trudy Frohlich Musical Interlude # 2: The Water Is Wide by Perla Batalla The Townies Podcast family bids you adieu, with all our love. A hometown kind-of-storytelling podcast featuring the original stories of the Ventura County residents who have been in Kim Maxwell's writing & performance class over the last 25 years. Some of her students are professionals, some have never been on a stage before. All stories were written, performed and recorded at Kim Maxwell Studio in Ojai, CA. Created by Kim Maxwell Co-Produced by Lily Brown, Ken Eros & Asa Learmonth Studio Engineering & Mixing by Eros Creative & Sound Theme Song Written & Performed by Rain Perry Recorded & Mixed by Martin Young Mastered by Mark Hallman at The Congress House

Jennifer Higdon började komponera vid 21 års ålder, efter att mest ha lyssnat på rock, country och bluegrass. Hon komponerar kvalitetsmusik som samtidigt kommunicerar med många människor. Tonsättaren och virtuosa flöjtspelaren Jennifer Higdon är en av USAs flitigast spelade tonsättare och fick 2010 det finaste pris man kan få inom konstmusiken i USA, Pulitzerpriset, för sin Violin Concerto. Samma år vann Jennifer Higdons Slagverkskonsert en Grammy. Hennes musik finns inspelad på över 60 CD-skivor. Jennifer Higdons filosofi är enkel: Musiken måste sjunga, den måste tala, den måste kommunicera.Hon skriver musik för musikerna och för lyssnarna och tror stenhårt på att hon kan skriva kvalitetsmusik och samtidigt kommunicera med många människor. Om Jennifer Higdon har det skrivits att hon i sin musik hellre använder klangfärger och melodier än teman. Hon håller med: -Mitt klangfärgstänkade kommer ur mina kompositionsstudier hos tonsättaren George Crumb. George Crumb själv listar hennes musikaliska fingeravtryck så här: rytmisk vitalitet, spännande färgsättning och känslighet för nyanser och klang. Det var den världskända violonisten Hilary Hahn som beställde Violinkonserten. Pulitzerprisjuryn skrev: Jennifer Higdons Violinkonsert är ett djupt engagerande verk som kombinerar flödande lyrism med bländande virtuositet. Hilary Hahn drog åt tumskruvarna och hetsade Higdon att göra verket svårare och svårare. Pulitzerpriset förändrade Jennifer Higdons liv över en natt. Redan första dagen fick hon, som har eget notförlag, 200 nya beställningar. Hon hade dock inte tid för dem alla och slussade helt sonika beställarna vidare till andra tonsättarvänner. Jennifer Higdons notförlag heter Lawdon Press och förläggare är Cheryl Lawson, Jennifer Higdons hustru. De möttes i gymnasiet för 31 år sen, och de lever helt öppet för att kunna vara stöd och förebilder för unga lesbiska kvinnor. Många av Higdons stycken kräver att musikerna använder utökade tekniker på sina instrument, som överblåsning, omvänd fingersättning eller instrumentbyte. Stycket On A Wire skrev hon för gruppen Eight Blackbird och symfoniorkester. Eight Blackbird inleder stycket med att spela inuti en flygel med fiskelinor. Jennifer Higdon var här inspirerad av Bowed Piano Ensemble från Colorado. -Strängarna sjunger då på ett utsökt och mystiskt sätt, förklarar Jennifer Higdon. Jag gillar att ge publiken överraskningar och på det sättet dra in dem i skeendet på scenen. Jennifer Higdon fick uppdraget att skriva musik till 75-årsjubiléet för Curtis Institue of Music i Philadelphia där hon studerat och numera verkar som professor. Detta händer ett år efter att hennes bror Andy Blue Higdon dör i cancer, endast 33 år gammal. Jennifer skriver det vackra, personliga stycket Blue Cathedral, ett tonpoem, som varje weekend spelas någonstans i världen. Walt Whitmans poem When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd skrev han kort efter lönnmordet på president Abraham Lincoln, 1865. Jennifer Higdons tonsatte av delar av dikten och gav stycket titeln Dooryard Bloom. Det framförs av den Panama-Amerikanske barytonen Nmon Ford. - Nmon Ford är svart och det är vackert att just han sjöng vid premiären och desuutom spelade in stycket på skiva, säger Higdon. Det var ju Abraham Lincoln som upphävde slaveriet i USA. 2015 hade Higdons första opera Cold Mountain världspremiär. Librettot är baserat på den internationella bestsellern Åter till Cold Mountain av författaren Charles Frazier. Läs om Jennifer Higdon på nätet: http://www.jenniferhigdon.com/ http://www.composersforum.org/content/jennifer-higdon  Musiklista:Percussion Concerto Jennifer Higdon Colin Currie (percussion) & London Philharmonic Orchestra (Marin Alsop)              Marin Alsop Conducts MacMillan, Ades, Higdon LPO 0035 Blue Cathedral Jennifer Higdon Atlanta Symphony Orchestra. Robert Spano, dir Robert Spano - Respons on the death of her brother Rainbow Body TELARC RECORDS CD 80596 Southern Harmony Jennifer Higdon Ying-Kvartetten United States_ Lifemusic (2) Jennifer Higdon Rapid Fire Jennifer Higdon Jennifer Higdon, flöjt "rapid.fire" I Virtuosi - IVR 501 Piano Trio, Sats 1 Pale Yellow Jennifer Higdon Anne Akiko Meyers, violin. Alisa Weilerstein, Adam Neiman, piano Higdon Piano Trio Voices Impressions  NAXOS 14590 On A Wire Jennifer Higdon Eight Blackbirds Atlanta Symphony Orchestra. Robert Spano, dir. CD 1001 ASO Media Konsert for Violin & Orkeste Jennifer Higdon Hilary Hahn, violin Vasilij Petrenko, dir. Royal Liverpool Philharmonic Orchestra Hilary Hahn Violin Concertos Percussion Concerto Jennifer Higdon Colin Currie (percussion) & London Philharmonic Orchestra (Marin Alsop)                  Marin Alsop Conducts MacMillan, Ades, Higdon LPO 0035 Impressions For String Quartet/ 3. To the Point Jennifer Higdon CYPRESS-Kvartetten: /Ward, Cecily (Vl) Stone, Tom (Vl) Filner, Ethan (Vla) Kloetzel, Jennifer (Vlc)/ (Iens) Impressions For String Quartet/ 2. Quiet Art Jennifer Higdon Cypress-Kvartetten: /Ward, Cecily (Vl) Stone, Tom (Vl) Filner, Ethan (Vla) Kloetzel, Jennifer (Vlc)/ (Iens) Dooryard Bloom Jennifer Higdon Nmon Ford, baryton. Robert Spano, dir. Atlanta Symphony Orchestra Transmigration TELARC CD-80673

Born in Jessup, Pennsylvania, Cossa studied with Anthony Marlowe in Detroit, Michigan, Robert Weede in Concord, California, and Armen Boyajian in New York City. He made his debut at the New York City Opera as Morales in 1961, and a week later sang Sharpless with the company. He won the American Opera Auditions in 1964 and was sent to Italy for debuts at the Teatro Nuovo in Milan and Teatro della Pergola in Florence.[2] He made his debut at the San Francisco Opera in 1967 as Zurga in Les pêcheurs de perles. His Metropolitan Opera debut took place on January 30, 1970 as Silvio in Pagliacci. Other roles there were Figaro in Il barbiere di Siviglia, Lescaut in Manon Lescaut, Marcello in La bohème, Mercutio in Romeo and Juliette, Masetto in Don Giovanni, Valentin in Faust, Yeletsky in Pique Dame, Germont in La traviata, and Albert in Werther. In 1976 he created the role of David Murphy in the world premiere of Gian Carlo Menotti's The Hero with the Opera Company of Philadelphia.[3] Cossa's left a few notable recordings of his best roles such as Belcore in L'elisir d'amore opposite Dame Joan Sutherland and Luciano Pavarotti, Achillas in Handel's Giulio Cesare opposite Norman Treigle and Beverly Sills, Nevers in Meyerbeer's Les Huguenots, again opposite Sutherland, Martina Arroyo and Huguette Tourangeau, and the baritone solo part in Roger Sessions' When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd. He can also be heard on the Classical Record Library's A Celebration of Schumann and Schubert with the Chamber Music Society of Lincoln Center. He has sung as soloist with the New York Philharmonic, the Boston Symphony, the Chicago Symphony, the Israel Philharmonic, and the National Symphony. He was chosen by Licia Albanese to be the recipient of the Puccini Foundation's Bacccarat Award in 2004, and in 1993 was inducted into the Hall of Fame for Great American Singers at the Academy of Vocal Arts in Philadelphia. Cossa taught at the Manhattan School of Music and in 1988 he accepted a position as Professor of Music at the University of Maryland, College Park, where he became chair of Voice/Opera.   Also, a SWEET GUY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I andra programmet möter vi tonsättaren och virtuosa flöjtspelaren Jennifer Higdon som först började komponera vid 21 års ålder, efter att mest ha lyssnat på rock, country, och bluegrass. Nu är Jennifer Higdon en av USAs flitigast spelade tonsättare och fick 2010 det finaste pris man kan få inom konstmusiken i USA, Pulitzerpriset, för sin Violin Concerto. Samma år vann Jennifer Higdons Slagverkskonsert en Grammy. Hennes musik finns inspelad på över 60 CD-skivor. Jennifer Higdons filosofi är enkel: Musiken måste sjunga, den måste tala, den måste kommunicera. Hon skriver musik för musikerna och för lyssnarna och tror stenhårt på att hon kan skriva kvalitetsmusik och samtidigt kommunicera med många människor. Om Jennifer Higdon har det skrivits att hon i sin musik hellre använder klangfärger och melodier än teman. Hon håller med: -Mitt klangfärgstänkade kommer ur mina kompositionsstudier hos tonsättaren George Crumb. George Crumb själv listar hennes musikaliska fingeravtryck så här: ”rytmisk vitalitet, spännande färgsättning och känslighet för nyanser och klang”. Det var den världskända violonisten Hilary Hahn som beställde Violinkonserten. Pulitzerprisjuryn skrev: Jennifer Higdons Violinkonsert är ett ”djupt engagerande verk som kombinerar flödande lyrism med bländande virtuositet”. Hilary Hahn drog åt tumskruvarna och hetsade Higdon att göra verket svårare och svårare. Pulitzerpriset förändrade Jennifer Higdons liv över en natt. Redan första dagen fick hon, som har eget notförlag, 200 nya beställningar. Jennifer Higdon hade dock inte tid för dem alla och slussade helt sonika beställarna vidare till andra tonsättarvänner. Jennifer Higdons notförlag heter Lawdon Press och förläggare är Cheryl Lawson, Jennifer Higdons hustru. De möttes i gymnasiet för 31 år sen, och de lever helt öppet för att kunna vara stöd och förebilder för unga lesbiska kvinnor. Många av Higdons stycken kräver att musikerna använder utökade tekniker på sina instrument, som överblåsning, omvänd fingersättning eller instrumentbyte. Stycket On A Wire skrev hon för gruppen Eight Blackbird och symfoniorkester. Eight Blackbird inleder stycket med att spela inuti en flygel med fiskelinor. Higdon var här inspirerad av “Bowed Piano Ensemble” från Colorado. -Strängarna sjunger då på ett utsökt, mystiskt sätt, förklarar Jennifer Higdon. Jag gillar att ge publiken överraskningar och på det sättet dra in dem i skeendet på scenen. Jennifer Higdon fick uppdraget att skriva musik till 75-årsjubiléet för Curtis Institue of Music i Philadelphia där hon studerat och numera verkar som professor. Detta händer ett år efter att hennes bror Andy Blue Higdon dör i cancer, endast 33 år gammal. Jennifer skriver det vackra, personliga stycket Blue Cathedral, ett tonpoem, som varje weekend spelas någonstans i världen. Walt Whitmans poem ”When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd” skrev han kort efter lönnmordet på president Abraham Lincoln, 1865. På Jennifer Higdons tonsättning av delar av dikten, med titeln ”Dooryard Bloom”, sjunger den Panama-Amerikanske barytonen Nmon Ford. - Nmon Ford är svart och det är vackert att just han sjöng vid premiären och även spelade in stycket på skiva, säger Higdon. Det var ju Abraham Lincoln som upphävde slaveriet i USA. 2015 får Higdons första opera världspremiär. Librettot är baserat på den internationella bestsellern "Åter till Cold Mountain" av författaren Charles Frazier. Läs om Jennifer Higdon på nätet: http://www.jenniferhigdon.com/ http://www.composersforum.org/content/jennifer-higdon

W Whitman read by Classic Poetry Aloud: http://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/ Giving voice to the poetry of the past. --------------------------------------------- When Lilacs Last in the Door-yard Bloom’d from Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman (1819 – 1892) This reading lasts some 20 minutes. 1 When lilacs last in the door-yard bloom’d, And the great star early droop’d in the western sky in the night, I mourn’d—and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring. O ever-returning spring! trinity sure to me you bring; Lilac blooming perennial, and drooping star in the west, And thought of him I love. 2 O powerful, western, fallen star! O shades of night! O moody, tearful night! O great star disappear’d! O the black murk that hides the star! O cruel hands that hold me powerless! O helpless soul of me! O harsh surrounding cloud, that will not free my soul! 3 In the door-yard fronting an old farm-house, near the white-wash’d palings, Stands the lilac bush, tall-growing, with heart-shaped leaves of rich green, With many a pointed blossom, rising, delicate, with the perfume strong I love, With every leaf a miracle......and from this bush in the door-yard, With delicate-color’d blossoms, and heart-shaped leaves of rich green, A sprig, with its flower, I break. 4 In the swamp, in secluded recesses, A shy and hidden bird is warbling a song. Solitary, the thrush, The hermit, withdrawn to himself, avoiding the settlements, Sings by himself a song. Song of the bleeding throat! Death’s outlet song of life—(for well, dear brother, I know If thou wast not gifted to sing, thou would’st surely die.) 5 Over the breast of the spring, the land, amid cities, Amid lanes, and through old woods, (where lately the violets peep’d from the ground, spotting the gray debris;) Amid the grass in the fields each side of the lanes—passing the endless grass; Passing the yellow-spear’d wheat, every grain from its shroud in the dark-brown fields uprising; Passing the apple-tree blows of white and pink in the orchards; Carrying a corpse to where it shall rest in the grave, Night and day journeys a coffin. 6 Coffin that passes through lanes and streets, Through day and night, with the great cloud darkening the land, With the pomp of the inloop’d flags, with the cities draped in black, With the show of the States themselves, as of crape-veil’d women, standing, With processions long and winding, and the flambeaus of the night, With the countless torches lit—with the silent sea of faces, and the unbared heads, With the waiting depot, the arriving coffin, and the sombre faces, With dirges through the night, with the thousand voices rising strong and solemn; With all the mournful voices of the dirges, pour’d around the coffin, The dim-lit churches and the shuddering organs—Where amid these you journey, With the tolling, tolling bells’ perpetual clang; Here! coffin that slowly passes, I give you my sprig of lilac. 7 (Nor for you, for one, alone; Blossoms and branches green to coffins all I bring: For fresh as the morning—thus would I carol a song for you, O sane and sacred death. All over bouquets of roses, O death! I cover you over with roses and early lilies; But mostly and now the lilac that blooms the first, Copious, I break, I break the sprigs from the bushes; With loaded arms I come, pouring for you, For you, and the coffins all of you, O death.) 8 O western orb, sailing the heaven! Now I know what you must have meant, as a month since we walk’d, As we walk’d up and down in the dark blue so mystic, As we walk’d in silence the transparent shadowy night, As I saw you had something to tell, as you bent to me night after night, As you droop’d from the sky low down, as if to my side, (while the other stars all look’d on;) As we wander’d together the solemn night, (for something, I know not what, kept me from sleep;) As the night advanced, and I saw on the rim of the west, ere you went, how full you were of woe; As I stood on the rising ground in the breeze, in the cold transparent night, As I watch’d where you pass’d and was lost in the netherward black of the night, As my soul, in its trouble, dissatisfied, sank, as where you, sad orb, Concluded, dropt in the night, and was gone. 9 Sing on, there in the swamp! O singer bashful and tender! I hear your notes—I hear your call; I hear—I come presently—I understand you; But a moment I linger—for the lustrous star has detain’d me; The star, my departing comrade, holds and detains me. 10 O how shall I warble myself for the dead one there I loved? And how shall I deck my song for the large sweet soul that has gone? And what shall my perfume be, for the grave of him I love? Sea-winds, blown from east and west, Blown from the eastern sea, and blown from the western sea, till there on the prairies meeting: These, and with these, and the breath of my chant, I perfume the grave of him I love. 11 O what shall I hang on the chamber walls? And what shall the pictures be that I hang on the walls, To adorn the burial-house of him I love? Pictures of growing spring, and farms, and homes, With the Fourth-month eve at sundown, and the gray smoke lucid and bright, With floods of the yellow gold of the gorgeous, indolent, sinking sun, burning, expanding the air; With the fresh sweet herbage under foot, and the pale green leaves of the trees prolific; In the distance the flowing glaze, the breast of the river, with a wind-dapple here and there; With ranging hills on the banks, with many a line against the sky, and shadows; And the city at hand, with dwellings so dense, and stacks of chimneys, And all the scenes of life, and the workshops, and the workmen homeward returning. 12 Lo! body and soul! this land! Mighty Manhattan, with spires, and the sparkling and hurrying tides, and the ships; The varied and ample land—the South and the North in the light—Ohio’s shores, and flashing Missouri, And ever the far-spreading prairies, cover’d with grass and corn. Lo! the most excellent sun, so calm and haughty; The violet and purple morn, with just-felt breezes; The gentle, soft-born, measureless light; The miracle, spreading, bathing all—the fulfill’d noon; The coming eve, delicious—the welcome night, and the stars, Over my cities shining all, enveloping man and land. 13 Sing on! sing on, you gray-brown bird! Sing from the swamps, the recesses—pour your chant from the bushes; Limitless out of the dusk, out of the cedars and pines. Sing on, dearest brother—warble your reedy song; Loud human song, with voice of uttermost woe. O liquid, and free, and tender! O wild and loose to my soul! O wondrous singer! You only I hear......yet the star holds me, (but will soon depart;) Yet the lilac, with mastering odor, holds me. 14 Now while I sat in the day, and look’d forth, In the close of the day, with its light, and the fields of spring, and the farmer preparing his crops, In the large unconscious scenery of my land, with its lakes and forests, In the heavenly aerial beauty, (after the perturb’d winds, and the storms;) Under the arching heavens of the afternoon swift passing, and the voices of children and women, The many-moving sea-tides,—and I saw the ships how they sail’d, And the summer approaching with richness, and the fields all busy with labor, And the infinite separate houses, how they all went on, each with its meals and minutia of daily usages; And the streets, how their throbbings throbb’d, and the cities pent—lo! then and there, Falling upon them all, and among them all, enveloping me with the rest, Appear’d the cloud, appear’d the long black trail; And I knew Death, its thought, and the sacred knowledge of death. 15 Then with the knowledge of death as walking one side of me, And the thought of death close-walking the other side of me, And I in the middle, as with companions, and as holding the hands of companions, I fled forth to the hiding receiving night, that talks not, Down to the shores of the water, the path by the swamp in the dimness, To the solemn shadowy cedars, and ghostly pines so still. And the singer so shy to the rest receiv’d me; The gray-brown bird I know, receiv’d us comrades three; And he sang what seem’d the carol of death, and a verse for him I love. From deep secluded recesses, From the fragrant cedars, and the ghostly pines so still, Came the carol of the bird. And the charm of the carol rapt me, As I held, as if by their hands, my comrades in the night; And the voice of my spirit tallied the song of the bird. DEATH CAROL. 16 Come, lovely and soothing Death, Undulate round the world, serenely arriving, arriving, In the day, in the night, to all, to each, Sooner or later, delicate Death. Prais’d be the fathomless universe, For life and joy, and for objects and knowledge curious; And for love, sweet love—But praise! praise! praise! For the sure-enwinding arms of cool-enfolding Death. Dark Mother, always gliding near, with soft feet, Have none chanted for thee a chant of fullest welcome? Then I chant it for thee—I glorify thee above all; I bring thee a song that when thou must indeed come, come unfalteringly. Approach, strong Deliveress! When it is so—when thou hast taken them, I joyously sing the dead, Lost in the loving, floating ocean of thee, Laved in the flood of thy bliss, O Death. From me to thee glad serenades, Dances for thee I propose, saluting thee—adornments and feastings for thee; And the sights of the open landscape, and the high-spread sky, are fitting, And life and the fields, and the huge and thoughtful night. The night, in silence, under many a star; The ocean shore, and the husky whispering wave, whose voice I know; And the soul turning to thee, O vast and well-veil’d Death, And the body gratefully nestling close to thee. Over the tree-tops I float thee a song! Over the rising and sinking waves—over the myriad fields, and the prairies wide; Over the dense-pack’d cities all, and the teeming wharves and ways, I float this carol with joy, with joy to thee, O Death! 17 To the tally of my soul, Loud and strong kept up the gray-brown bird, With pure, deliberate notes, spreading, filling the night. Loud in the pines and cedars dim, Clear in the freshness moist, and the swamp-perfume; And I with my comrades there in the night. While my sight that was bound in my eyes unclosed, As to long panoramas of visions. 18 I saw askant the armies; And I saw, as in noiseless dreams, hundreds of battle-flags; Borne through the smoke of the battles, and pierc’d with missiles, I saw them, And carried hither and yon through the smoke, and torn and bloody; And at last but a few shreds left on the staffs, (and all in silence,) And the staffs all splinter’d and broken. I saw battle-corpses, myriads of them, And the white skeletons of young men—I saw them; I saw the debris and debris of all the dead soldiers of the war; But I saw they were not as was thought; They themselves were fully at rest—they suffer’d not; The living remain’d and suffer’d—the mother suffer’d, And the wife and the child, and the musing comrade suffer’d, And the armies that remain’d suffer’d. 19 Passing the visions, passing the night; Passing, unloosing the hold of my comrades’ hands; Passing the song of the hermit bird, and the tallying song of my soul, (Victorious song, death’s outlet song, yet varying, ever-altering song, As low and wailing, yet clear the notes, rising and falling, flooding the night, Sadly sinking and fainting, as warning and warning, and yet again bursting with joy, Covering the earth, and filling the spread of the heaven, As that powerful psalm in the night I heard from recesses,) Passing, I leave thee, lilac with heart-shaped leaves; I leave thee there in the door-yard, blooming, returning with spring, I cease from my song for thee; From my gaze on thee in the west, fronting the west, communing with thee, O comrade lustrous, with silver face in the night. 20 Yet each I keep, and all, retrievements out of the night; The song, the wondrous chant of the gray-brown bird, And the tallying chant, the echo arous’d in my soul, With the lustrous and drooping star, with the countenance full of woe, With the lilac tall, and its blossoms of mastering odor; With the holders holding my hand, nearing the call of the bird, Comrades mine, and I in the midst, and their memory ever I keep—for the dead I loved so well; For the sweetest, wisest soul of all my days and lands...and this for his dear sake; Lilac and star and bird, twined with the chant of my soul, There in the fragrant pines, and the cedars dusk and dim. First aired: 23 August 2008 For hundreds more poetry readings, visit the Classic Poetry Aloud index. Reading © Classic Poetry Aloud 2008