Rising – Fowler, First Pink

Paul Fowler – “First Pink” from Jeff Quartets

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Sunrise, Thursday June 4

an old
fruit hangs
rust-colored
and dried
beside
a tight cluster
of  rose-tipped buds

Our penultimate Rising w/, before the pause. 
The day is two hours and fifty minutes longer than when we began.
The world feels entirely different.
It looks different.
Though, not to our honorable Sun.

We are reminded how much of our singing is of Loss.
It’s a part of our culture. Of The Crossing.
Through Jeff, we learned to live with it like a friend, as if Jeff’s seat was still occupied, by Loss.
It occupies so many other seats as well, left open by parents, friends, teachers. 
A universally-shared encounter, experienced alone.

So, we sing about it. Loss of animals, of freedoms, of civility, and of friends.  
Of 59 Rising w/ editions, 33 reference Loss.

Today, in the Loss: Hope.

In the loss....
...is just
beginning

Paul Fowler’s Jeff Quartet, First Pink. 
It reaches. It bends – words, melodies. 
It is compact and focused.
In its opening is the Hope of its conclusion.

where something

fragile
and persistent
is just
beginning
to open.

Not a conclusion at all. A Dawn.
An invitation to Rise.

Music that feels three-dimensional – carved lines plunge and reappear, they rest momentarily on pedestals of close harmonies, as if we’re running our hands across a sculpture. Henri Moore or Gaudier-Brzeska: fingers flowing across curved planes, falling into crevices and climbing swiftly back out and up, upward. 
With Paul, always upward. 
We love singing these sculptures, in which rounded edges lead to gratifying arrivals.

loss
brittle
fragile
beginning
open

Yes, fragile.
Yes, persistent.

- The Whole Team @ The Crossing

First Pink

music by Paul Fowler

words by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer

recorded live in concert at the world premiere of Jeff Quartets,
July 8, 2016 at the Presbyterian Church of Chestnut Hill

audio by Paul Vazquez of Digital Mission Audio Services

video art by Cory Klose

* * *

In the loss  
is a branch 
with a brittle 
stem
where an old 
fruit hangs 
rust-colored
and dried 
beside
a tight cluster 
of rose-tipped buds 
where something 
fragile
and persistent 
is just
beginning
to open.