On a Letter never written (E. Montale, trans. J. Harbison)

For a swarm of dawns, a few threads on which 
the lint of life catches 
and ravels it into hours and years, 
the dolphin couples today sport 
with their children. Oh if only 
I could never hear about you, could escape 
the lightning of your eye-lashes. 
There is sure more than this in the world. 

I can't disappear, or refashion myself, 
the livid forge of night is late, 
the evening drags out, 
prayer is agony, and not yet, 
through the sharp rocks of the sea 
has the bottle reached you. 
The empty waves crash on the promontory 
at Finisterre. 


John Harbison - Montale Sketches (1) On An Unwritten Letter

In Sleep (E. Montale, trans. J. Harbison)

The howl of the screech-owls, when a rainbow 
fades, with intermittent pulsing, 
the sighs and groans 
of youth, the mistake which constricts 
the temples, and the dusky horror of cedars 
stirred by night's collision-all this 
can return to me, flowing out of the ditches, 
breaking the waterpipes, making me 
wake up to your voice. The sound 
of a cruel gigue stings, the enemy 
pulls his visor shut. The amaranth moon 
appears behind closed eyes; 
it is a swelling cloud; and when sleep carries it 
still deeper it is blood even beyond death. 


John Harbison - Montale Sketches (2) In Sleep

Music from Salem 2010 - with Peter Matzka, violin; Rhonda Rider, cello

Beethoven - Trio Op.1 No.1 (1) Allegro

Beethoven - Trio Op.1 No.1 (2) Adagio Cantabile

Beethoven - Trio Op.1 No.1 (3) Scherzo-Allegro assai

Beethoven - Trio Op.1 No.1 (4) Finale-Presto

from Made In America (Mode, 1993) with Essential Music

William Russell - Four Dance Movements (1933, rev.1990) Tango

Indian Serenade (E. Montale, trans. J. Harbison)

It's ours-the dissolution of the evening. 
And it's ours-the streak that leaps from the sea 
to the park and strafes the aloe trees. 

You could take me by the hand, if you pretend 
you’re with me, if I'm crazy enough to 
follow behind you, and if what compels me, 

if what you are saying, seems to me within your power. 

-=- 

It may be that it is your life which holds me 
at this gate-and I might be able to lend you 
a face, imagine for you a form. But it isn't, 

can't be like that. The octopus which insinuates 
his tentacles of ink among the rocks 
is able to make use of you. You belong to him 

and you don't know it. You are him, but think you are you. 


Judith Gordon

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