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Leaves of Greensa Southern oratorio in 3 partsPrice WaldenCommissioned by the Southern Foodways Alliancefor the 2011 “Cultivated South” Symposium.Dedicated with great love and respect to my grandparentsComposer?s NoteWhen the Southern Foodways Alliance first approached me with the idea ofa “collard green opera,” my first instinct was to immediately run the otherway. However, the more I thought about it, the better the idea seemed tome. The Southern tradition is full of things that are grandiose and larger-than-life; why not apply that notion to such a peculiar and beloved vegetable?The bulk of the text comes from a collection of poems entitled Leaves ofGreens: the Collard Poems, published in 1984 by the annual Ayden Collard Green Festival in North Carolina, supplemented by a few more poems and traditional hymns. The structure of the piece is in 3 main parts, each dealing with a different aspect of Southern life: relationships with parents, Southernmythology, and relationships with grandparents.Leaves of Greens is scored for soloists, choir, piano and percussion andlasts approximately 25 minutes.Introit: PraisesongsOpen wide the windowsLet the pungent aromaOf a tantalizing leafy delightMingle with the atmosphere.Let it boil lowWhile flavored withBeef neckbones one dayOr tender hamhocks anotherAnd fried streak o? leanSide meat in between.God gave man imagination,Crisp golden cornbreadAnd early morning dew-touchedCollard greens.Masticate and sop if you please.Enjoy. Enjoy. Enjoy.Yessir.Heavenly-sent collard greens.(Lord...have mercy)Pearl SpauldingLet us break bread together on our knees;Let us break bread together on our knees;When I fall on my knees, with my face to the rising sun,O Lord, have mercy on me. A-men.TraditionalPart One: To the Virgins, Who Don?t Pick Enough in TimeAriaWhen I was real little, my mama would say,“Child eat your collards, don?t push them away.”But that word made me shudder, and I?d beg and say “PleaseI don?t even like Spinach, don?t make me eat these.”But after my pleading, bad becomes worse.“You don?t eat your collards, you get no dessert!”So I mustered enough courage to take the first biteAnd I found out then that my mama was right.So now when I look at a table that?s spreadwith casseroles, pastas, fish, meat, and bread,I search through the bounty and say, “By all meansFill up this plate with them Collard Greens.”Annie VondohlenRecitative and AriaMy mother said many times beforeshe died, “The only way to get ridof nutgrass is to move off and leave it.”Now she has moved off and left it. Itno longer invades her garden, butwe must still work ours. My father,too weak to hoe, sinks to his kneesin the damp earth, small spadein hand. Something we will nevername growing inside his body, breakingit down, cell by cell. Sprig after sprighe digs it up, knowing all the while thathis efforts are futile. Somewherebelow lie irremovable roots, intertwinedwith the earth itself, that keep pushingthe stems up into the light. Stillhe digs, making a small havenaround his [collards],not quite ready to relinquishthis small piece of ground.Tony BlandChorusGather ye collards while ye maythe stalks are brown and dyingthe family?s home a?waitin?and the fatback?s already frying.Debbie AdkinsPart Two: My Sole CredentialsRiffYou know who used to wear a collard in his lapel just like a proudcarnation?Thelonious Sphere Monk from North Carolina is who.I like to imagine some hotstuff jazz critic—maybe Leonard Feather or another jiveass—asking, Say Monk what is that thing you?ve got on?And Thelonious replies:You looking at my sole credentials.Fred ChappellTrioGreen hens perching the poleOf a row, concentric wingsFly you down into soil.You catch rain like rings.Where a pine stump tunnelsTime backward down roots? seasonings.If roots rot to dark channelsMining the forest, your fiberThreads grease in the entrailsOf families, whose bodies harborScars like rain on a hillslope,Whose skin takes sheen like lumberLeft out in the weather. Old folkSeem sewed together by pulpOf your green rope and smokeFrom the cook fires boys gulpFor dinner along roads in winter.Collards and ham grease they dropIn the pot come back as we enterThe house whose porch shows a pumpkin.This steam holds all we remember.Sweet potatoes clot in a mon flesh beneath this skinLike collards, Grainy-sweet kin.James ApplewhitePart Three: A VigilHymnBread of Heav?n on Thee we feed,For thy flesh is meat indeed:Ever may our souls be fedWith this our true and living Bread;Day by day with strength supplied,Through the life of Him Who died.DuetThanksgiving sacrament, piety of crystal and silver.Platters and dishes passed on from hand to hand.Words so well-worn they drone with the summertime fan.My grandfather blessing, his countenance fields in the sunlight.The way my grandmother taught me to make collardsis very simple. The idea is to boil the hocks until they beginto fall apart.I waited beside him for words, for what he?d gatheredFrom hawks wheeling sun, oak leaves? tension under glare.Since this is a lot of collards, you will need toadd them until the pot is full. Then allow themto wilt as they cook - then add more....cook on medium heat. Taste to confirm they are the tenderness that you prefer.His parchment skin was the season?s hieroglyphic.Going for water, I passed through the company parlor:Mantle with mirror and clock, stiff plush and varnish.I poured from a pitcher. Tracing a beaded trickle,Sweat down a frosted tumbler. Sensation of OctoberIn August.People in my neck of the woods usuallysprinkle lots of hot sauce on their collards.I like them that way.Give it a try.I sat on the porch beside him, spell-bound by columns.Horizon woven to softening by orbits of swallows.Since this is a large pot full, just save theextras in the refrigerator. They should keep for a long timeand get better as they age.“It?s been eighty-six years and it seems like a day.”James Applewhite/WaldenFinaleFrom age to age the South has holleredThe praises of the toothsome collard.Our parents? precepts we have folleredAnd countless messes we have swallered.When times were hard, a single dollar?dBuy ample potfulls of the collard.And any help nutrition scholar?dGive highest rating to the collard.Full many a happy hog has walleredIn luscious leaves of wilting collard.Yes, keep your cordon bleu--By Gollard!I?d trade it all for one big collard!Cicely C. BrowneMusic DirectorAmanda JohnstonCastSopranoCourtney BennettBetsy BrueningKimberly ColemanKatie EdenfieldDonica PhiferChloe SturgesMezzo-sopranoNancy McBride Lizzie WilliamsonTenorMark Camire Clay TerryBaritoneBrent StraussAndrew RossPianoAmanda JohnstonVibraphoneJosh Hall ................
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