Performances:

December 8, 2024- Performed as part of Spectra Concert Series

Los Angeles, CA

May 15, 2024- Schoenberg Concert Hall at the UCLA Herb Alpert School of Music

Los Angeles, CA

Carmen Edano, voice
Alexandre Tchaykov, piano

Recorded as part of Alexandre’s DMA recital

Text by Alexandre Tchaykov from his collection Con Moto (2018):

I. Going Back

What is lost
Seems scattered in detail

I only now begin to feel –

This field layers light

Like sun fabrics, threads

In which I see
And unsee. I sew

Memory on a web

And watch it fly.

II. Lines

After so many miles of babbling green
Who could have guessed – firs, in near perfect rows,

Uneven enough for notice, and untouched!
It was decided: here I would stop
To watch them steer the hours.

Perhaps light, or the impact of a jay –

Something would spool the xylem that quick,

Before you knew what was being directed,

And then there’s only the splendor
Of gathering. Selecting a row,
You stick a hand in rootage or declare

Futility; you enter or observe
A shadow’s width on a whim,
The faint, lovely hum of a moment.

III. Graven Images

The entire day was spent
Somewhat oddly in the company of graves,

Their stones like jagged sea relics

Projecting into dark purple currents,
Quite impermeable to sound.

At the sight or lack of light, they rise

Without an invocation spell,

Fine-featured to the point of loss,

Sheer abandoned statuettes.

You can see where edges and ears
Were chiseled, chipped off in spite
By careful instruments of life;
Where heads now soaked in vegetative stun

Leapt from the mausoleum glass

And became nameless as elements

Repositioned in skeletal silence.

IV. Fragment

I wondered how long

A bird could stay

Enclosed in airy speech

And diminished day.

V. This Spring

We watch each other.
Like two accustomed to what

The season entails – bloom

Of identity, as it slips,
Pistol to pistil.

These fragmentary hours

Have chilled the eye
And made me wish to speak

What I can never know,

To roll and strum this breath –

Lifelike, in a cell, or gusted

Round the eve, we sing

In fleeting counterpoint.