Sunday, December 24, 2017

Merry Syncretismas

Carrying on the tradition established by the much-missed Rose (and with a h/t to video maker fiona032)

...may you all find magic everywhere...

Saturday, December 16, 2017

Yuletide rhizomes

The Met celebrates the solstice early with this season's Norma 2.0, aka Angela Meade and Jamie Barton. Check it out pretty much anywhere at 1pm ET today, but you can find it at WQXR, OE1, and BBC 3 if you're short of local options.

Update: archived here for the next couple of weeks.

Monday, December 11, 2017

sundry Messiahs

On the off chance that you, the splendid readership of this joint, need an extra Messiah or three this year, Trinity Wall Street -- the way downtown Manhattan church with its own baroque orchestra -- is live videostreaming all three of its performances next week somewhere around here. That's Dec. 15, 16, and 17 at 7:30pm ET. Singers TBA, but the band is not to be sneezed at.

Moreover, as Dr T has just pointed out below, WCRB is presently running Boston's venerable Handel & Haydn Society performance from last week, and that should be showing up here pretty soon. (Scroll down and you'll find a Semele while you wait.)

Sunday, December 10, 2017

It's beginning to look a lot like time for the Tucker Gala

and you can catch it from afar tonight at 6pm ET right here. (h/t Tara Erraught for Best Tucker Gala Headsup on Twitter)

Sunday, December 3, 2017

Thursday, November 30, 2017

He remembers it standing,
but not that it was the first to fall,
the swing tree, with its difficult roots and its one low-hanging branch,
offered, it might be, by way of apology
for a history of bleeding toes, or
at least a quid pro quo for that blood tribute,
a highway, a hand, into the birds’ realm.

What our mother must have thought, watching,
all the missteps of disaster,
the slippery feet, an overborne branch, a weak bark
Treachery under hand, a casting-out
waiting to happen
that never did happen,
we were thoughtless and so in love with the crown.

It fell instead, when we were still young, a first of many heartbreaks
wrought in hurricanes and a chainsaw’s rip.
It was tall enough to reach the pond
and dip its hair in the black green water
for tadpoles to wonder at.
Had it been that time of year, but it can’t have been, can it? No hurricanes in spring. And I think of it as leafless, anyway, all silver trunks and leaders flat
on a hardening autumnal ground.

He remembers it standing, though,
Longer than the others.
I could say he’s wrong but
They are all giants in my memory.