Recital: Mark Tempesta '23 DMA, Tenor
In the course of completing the Doctor of Musical Arts degree at New England Conservatory, performance majors present not just one, but three full-length recitals, for which they also write program notes. It's an opportunity to observe multiple facets of an emerging artist.
Mark Tempesta '23 DMA studies Voice with Jane Eaglen and is the recipient of the Annie MacColl Scholarship.
This performance will be viewable in-person and via livestream.
- Mark Tempesta '23 DMA, tenor
- Michael Banwarth, piano
- Marie-Elise Boyer, piano
- Jane Eaglen, studio teacher
Claude Debussy | 5 Poèmes de Charles Baudelaire
Le balcon
Harmonie de soir
Le jet d’eau
Recueillement
La mort des amantsTexts
Le balcon
Mère des souvenirs, maîtresse des maîtresses,
Ô toi, tous mes plaisirs! ô toi, tous mes devoirs!
Tu te rappelleras la beauté des caresses,
La douceur du foyer et le charme des soirs,
Mère des souvenirs, maîtresse des maîtresses!
Les soirs illuminés par l'ardeur du charbon,
Et les soirs au balcon, voilés de vapeurs roses.
Que ton sein m'était doux! que ton coeur m'était bon!
Nous avons dit souvent d'impérissables choses
Les soirs illuminés par l'ardeur du charbon.
Que les soleils sont beaux dans les chaudes soirées!
Que l'espace est profond! que le coeur est puissant!
En me penchant vers toi, reine des adorées,
Je croyais respirer le parfum de ton sang.
Que les soleils sont beaux dans les chaudes soirées!
|
La nuit s'épaississait ainsi qu'une cloison,
Et mes yeux dans le noir devinaient tes prunelles,
Et je buvais ton souffle, ô douceur! ô poison!
Et tes pieds s'endormaient dans mes mains fraternelles.
La nuit s'épaississait ainsi qu'une cloison.
Je sais l'art d'évoquer les minutes heureuses,
Et revis mon passé blotti dans tes genoux.
Car à quoi bon chercher tes beautés langoureuses
Ailleurs qu'en ton cher corps et qu'en ton coeur si doux?
Je sais l'art d'évoquer les minutes heureuses!
Ces serments, ces parfums, ces baisers infinis,
Renaîtront-ils d'un gouffre interdit à nos sondes,
Comme montent au ciel les soleils rajeunis
Après s'être lavés au fond des mers profondes?
— Ô serments! ô parfums! ô baisers infinis!
Harmonie du soir
Voici venir les temps où vibrant sur sa tige
Chaque fleur s’évapore ainsi qu’un encensoir;
Les sons et les parfums tournent dans l’air du soir,
– Valse mélancolique et langoureux vertige! –
Chaque fleur s’évapore ainsi qu’un encensoir;
Le violon frémit comme un coeur qu’on afflige;
– Valse mélancolique et langoureux vertige! –
Le ciel est triste et beau comme un grand reposoir.
Le violon frémit comme un coeur qu’on afflige,
Un coeur tendre, qui hait le néant vaste et noir!
–Le ciel est triste et beau comme un grand reposoir;
Le soleil s’est noyé dans son sang qui se fige.
Un coeur tendre qui hait le néant vaste et noir
Du passé lumineux recueille tout vestige;
– Le soleil s’est noyé dans son sang qui se fige;
Ton souvenir en moi luit comme un ostensoir!
Le jet d’eau
Tes beaux yeux sont las, pauvre amante!
Reste longtemps, sans les rouvrir,
Dans cette pose nonchalante
Où t’a surprise le plaisir.
Dans la cour le jet d’eau qui jase
Et ne se tait ni nuit ni jour,
Entretient doucement l’extase
Où ce soir m’a plongé l’amour.
La gerbe d’eau qui berce
Ses mille fleurs,
Que la lune traverse
De ses pâleurs,
Tombe comme une averse
De larges pleurs.
Ainsi ton âme qu’incendie
L’éclair brûlant des voluptés
S’élance, rapide et hardie,
Vers les vastes cieux enchantés.
Puis, elle s’épanche, mourante,
En un flot de triste langueur,
Qui par une invisible pente
Descend jusqu’au fond de mon cœur.
La gerbe d’eau qui berce ...
O toi, que la nuit rend si belle,
Qu’il m’est doux, penché vers tes seins,
D’écouter la plainte éternelle
Qui sanglote dans les bassins!
Lune, eau sonore, nuit bénie,
Arbres qui frissonnez autour,—
Votre pure mélancolie
Est le miroir de mon amour.
La gerbe d’eau qui berce...
Recueillement
Sois sage, ô ma Douleur, et tiens-toi plus tranquille.
Tu réclamais le Soir; il descend; le voici:
Une atmosphère obscure enveloppe la ville,
Aux uns portant la paix, aux autres le souci.
Pendant que des mortels la multitude vile,
Sous le fouet du Plaisir, ce bourreau sans merci,
Va cueillir des remords dans la fête servile,
Ma Douleur, donne-moi la main; viens par ici,
Loin d’eux. Vois se pencher les défuntes Années,Sur les balcons du ciel, en robes surannées;
Surgir du fond des eaux le Regret souriant;
Le Soleil moribond s’endormir sous une arche,
Et, comme un long linceul traînant à l’Orient,
Entends, ma chère, entends la douce Nuit qui marche.
La mort des amants
Nous aurons des lits pleins d’odeurs légères,
Des divans profonds comme des tombeaux,
Et d’étranges fleurs sur des étagères,
Écloses pour nous sous des cieux plus beaux.
Usant à l’envi leurs chaleurs dernières,
Nos deux cœurs seront deux vastes flambeaux,
Qui réfléchiront leurs doubles lumières
Dans nos deux esprits, ces miroirs jumeaux.
Un soir fait de rose et de bleu mystique,
Nous échangerons un éclair unique,
Comme un long sanglot, tout chargé d’adieux;
Et plus tard un Ange, entr’ouvrant les portes,
Viendra ranimer, fidèle et joyeux,
Les miroirs ternis et les flammes mortes.
Charles Baudelaire, Les Fleurs du MalThe Balcony
Mother of memories, mistress of mistresses,
Oh you, all my pleasures, oh you all my duties!
You will remember the beauty of my caresses,
The sweetness of the hearth and the charm of the
evenings.
Mother of memories, mistress of mistresses.
The evenings illuminated by the ardor of the coal-fire,
And the evenings on the balcony, veiled by pink vapor.
To me, how sweet your breast, how good your heart!
We often said imperishable things
The evenings illuminated by the ardor of the coal-fire.
How beautiful the suns on hot evenings!
How deep is space! How powerful is the heart!
As I lean toward you, Queen of the adored,
I believed I breathed the perfume of your blood.
How beautiful the suns on hot evenings!
The night grew thicker like a wall,
In the dark my eyes found the apple of your eyes,
And I drank your breath, Oh sweetness, oh poison!
And your feet fell asleep in my brotherly hands,
The night grew thicker like a wall.
I know the art of recalling the happy minutes,
And relive my past huddled in your knees.
Because what good is searching for your languorous
beauty
Other than your dear body and your heart so sweet!
I know the art of recalling the happy minutes.
These oaths, these perfumes, these infinite kisses.
Will they be reborn by a chasm forbidden to our bodies?
Like the suns rising to the sky, rejuvenated,
After having themselves been washed at the bottom of
the seas.
Oh oaths, oh perfumes, oh infinite kisses!
Harmony of the Evening
Here comes the time where vibrating on its stem
Each flower evaporates like a censer;
The sounds and the perfumes turn in the air of the
evening;
– Melancholy waltz and languorous dizziness! –
Each flower evaporates like a censer;
The violin trembles like a heart in distress;
– Melancholy waltz and languorous dizziness! –
The sky is sad and beautiful like a great altar of repose.
The violin trembles like a heart in distress,
A tender heart, that hates the vast and black void!
– The sky is sad and beautiful like a great altar of repose;
The sun drowns in its clotting blood.
A tender heart that hates the vast and black void
Gathers all the vestiges of the luminous past!
– The sun drowns itself in its clotting blood;
Your memory in me shines like a monstrance!
The Water Fountain
Your beautiful eyes are tired, poor lover!
Rest them awhile without reopening,
In this careless pose
Where pleasure has surprised you.
In the courtyard, the water fountain babbles,
And is never silent, day or night,
Prolongs sweetly the ecstasy
into which love has plunged me.
The sheaf of water
That sways its thousand flowers,
That the moon gleams through
With its pale light,
Falls likes shower
of large tears.
Then your soul is set ablaze
The flash of burning pleasure
Leads up, swift and bold
Toward the vast enchanted skies.
Then, she spills, dying,
in a wave of sad languor
Which by a swift slope,
descends to the depths of my heart.
The sheaf of water …
Oh you, whom the night renders so beautiful
How sweet it is to me, leaning towards your breasts,
To listen to the eternal lament
That sobs in the basin!
Moon, sonorous water, blessed night,
Trees that quiver all around,
Your pure melancholy
Is the mirror of my love.
The sheaf of water …
Meditation
Be prudent, oh my sorrow, and keep yourself calmer.
You asked for the evening: it descends, here it is:
A dark atmosphere envelopes the city,
To some bringing peace, to others worry.
While the multitude of base mortals,
Under the whip of pleasure, this tormentor without
mercy,
Goes to gather some remorse in the slavish party.
My pain, give me your hand, come this way,
Far from them. See them leaving the bygone years;
On the balconies of heaven, in outmoded clothing
Rising up from the depths, smiling and regret;
The dying sun falls asleep beneath an arch,
And like a long shroud trailing to the East,
Listen, my dear, hear the sweet night that approaches.
The Death of Lovers
We will have beds filled with light odors,
Sofas deep as tombs.
And exotic flowers on the shelves,
That bloomed for us under more beautiful skies.
Striving to use up their last warmth,
Our hearts will be two vast torches
That reflects their double lights
In our two twin mirrored spirits.
One evening, made of pink and of mysterious blue,
We will exchange a unique lightning flash
Like a long sob all charged with farewells.
And later an angel, opening the doors,
Will come to reanimate, faithful and joyous,
The tarnished mirrors and the dead flames.
Translations by Mark TempestaArtists- Michael Banwarth, piano
Sergei Rachmaninoff | from 14 Romances, op. 34
Арион (Arion)
Ветер перелётный (A passing wind)
Буря (The Storm)
Texts
Арион
Нас было много на челне;
Иные парус напрягали,
Другие дружно упирали
В глубь мощны вёсла. В тишине
На руль склонясь, наш кормщик умный
В молчаньи правил грузный чёлн;
А я, — беспечной веры полн —
Пловцам я пел… Вдруг лоно волн
Измял с налёту вихорь шумный…
Погиб и кормщик, и пловец!
Лишь я, таинственный певец,
На берег выброшен грозою,
Я гимны прежние пою,
И ризу влажную мою
Сушу на солнце под скалою.
Alexander Pushkin
Ветер перелётный
Ветер перелётныйобласкалменя
И шепнул печально: “Ночь сильнее дня.”
И закат померкнул.Тучи почернели.
Дрогнули, смутились пасмурные ели,
И над тёмнымморем, где крутился вал,
Ветер перелётныйзыбьюпробежал.
Ночь царила в мире. А меж тем далёко
За морем зажглося огненное око.
Новыйраспустилсявнебесахцветок,
Светом возрождённымзаблисталвосток.
Ветер изменился и пахнул мне в очи,
И шепнул с усмешкой: “День сильнее ночи!”
Konstantin Balmont
Буря
Ты видел деву на скале,
В одежде белой, над волнами,
Когда, бушуя в бурной мгле,
Играло море с берегами.
Когда луч молний озарял
Её всечасно блеском алым,
И ветер бился и летал
С её летучим покрывалом!
Прекрасно море в бурной мгле,
И небо в блёстках, без лазури.
Но верь мне: дева на скале
Прекрасней волн, небес и бури.
Alexander PushkinArion
There were many of us in the boat;
Some kept the sail taut,
Others in unison dipped
Powerful oars into the deep. In the silence,
Leaning on the rudder, our wise helmsman
Silently steered the weighty vessel;
And I, — full of carefree trust, —
Sang to the oarsmen… Suddenly the bosom of the waves
Was whipped up by a roaring whirlwind…
The helmsman and the oarsmen perished!
I alone, the mysterious singer,
Cast ashore by the storm,
I sing my former hymns,
And dry out my damp garment
In the sun under a cliff.
A passing wind
Rippling gusts of migrant wind caressed my face,
Voices said in whispers: “Night defeats the day.”
Then the sunset darkened. Rain clouds turned to black,
Somber firs grew troubled, trembled in dismay.
O’er the darkling sea, across a looming wave,
Rippling wind slipped past and raced along the swell.
Night now reigned supreme in the colossal world. Meanwhile,
Far across the sea a fiery eye ignited.
Radiantly in heaven a flower opened wide,
Light was resurrected in the glowing east.
Then the shifting wind blew straight into my eyes,
Whispering with a grin: “The day defeats the night!”
The Storm
You saw a maiden high on a cliff
Dressed in white, above the waves,
When the sea, raging in the stormy darkness,
Played with the seashore.
While lightning kept illuminating
Her in flashes of scarlet light,
And the wind thrashed and flew,
Blowing her veil like wings!
Fair is the sea in stormy darkness,
And the azureless sky in explosive flashes.
But believe me: the maiden on the cliff
Is lovelier than the waves, the heavens, and the storm.
Translations by Damien KrzyzekArtists- Michael Banwarth, piano
Kurt Weill | Four Walt Whitman Songs
Beat! Beat! Drums!
Oh Captain! My Captain!
Come up from the Fields, Father
Dirge for Two VeteransTexts
Beat! Beat! Drums!
Beat! Beat! Drums! – Blow! Bugles! Blow!
Through the windows – through doors – burst like a ruthless force,
Into the solemn church, and scatter the congregation,
Into the school where the scholar is studying;
Leave not the bridegroom quiet – no happiness must he have now with his bride,
Nor the peaceful farmer any peace, ploughing his field or gathering his grain,
So fierce you whirr and pound, you drums – so shrill you bugles blow.
Beat! Beat! Drums! – Blow! Bugles! Blow!
Over the traffic of cities – over the rumble of wheels in the streets;
Are beds prepared for sleepers at night in the houses?
No sleepers must sleep in those beds –
No bargainers’ bargains by day – no brokers or speculators – would they continue?
Would the talkers be talking? Would the singer attempt to sing?
Would the lawyer rise in the court to state his case before the judge?
Then rattle quicker, heavier drums – you bugles wilder blow.
Beat! Beat! Drums! – Blow! Bugles! Blow!
Make no parley – stop for no expostulation,
Mind not the timid – mind not the weeper or prayer,
Mind not the old man beseeching the young man,
Let not the child’s voice be heard, nor the mother’s entreaties,
Make even the trestles to shake the dead where the lie awaiting the hearses,
So strong you thump O terrible drums – so loud you bugles blow.
Oh Captain! My Captain!
Oh Captain! My Captain! Our fearful trip is done;
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting;
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:
But O heart! Heart! Heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
O Captain! My Captain! Rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up – for you the flag is flung – for you the bugle trills;
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths – for you the shores a-crowding;
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head;
It is some dream that on the deck,
You’ve fallen cold and dead.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won;
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
Come up from the Fields, Father
Come up from the fields, Father, here’s a letter from our Pete,
And come to the front door, Mother, here’s a letter from thy dear son.
Lo, ‘tis autumn,
Lo, where the trees, deeper green, yellower and redder,
Cool and sweeten Ohio’s villages with leaves fluttering in the moderate wind,
Where apples ripe in the orchards hang and grapes on the trellis’d vines,
Above all, lo, the sky so calm, so transparent after the rain, and with wondrous clouds,
Below too, all calm, all vital and beautiful, and the farm prospers well.
Down in the fields all prospers well,
But now from the fields come Father, come at the daughter’s call,
And come to the entry Mother, to the front door come right away.
Fast as she can she hurries, something ominous, her steps trembling,
She does not tarry to smooth her hair nor adjust her cap.
Open the envelope quickly,
O this is not our son’s writing, yet his name is sign’d,
O a strange hand writes for our dear son, O stricken mother’s soul!
All swims before her eyes, flashes with black, she catches the main words only;
Sentences broken, gunshot wound in the breast, cavalry skirmish, taken to hospital,
At present low, but will soon be better.
Alas poor boy, he will never be better, (nor may-be needs to be better, that brave and simple soul,)
While they stand at home at the door he is dead already,
The only son is dead.
But the mother needs to be better,
She with thin form presently dressed in black,
By day her meals untouch’d, then at night fitfully sleeping, often waking,
In the midnight waking, weeping, longing with one deep longing,
O that she might withdraw unnoticed, silent from lids escape and withdraw,
To follow, to seek, to be with her dear dead son.
Dirge for Two Veterans
The last sunbeam
Lightly falls from the finish’d Sabbath,
On the pavement here, and there beyond it is looking,
Down a new-made double grave.
Lo, the moon ascending,
Up from the east the silvery round moon,
Beautiful over the house-tops, ghastly, phantom moon,
Immense and silent moon.
I see a sad procession,
And I hear the sound of coming full-key’d bugles,
All the channels of the city streets they are flooding,
As with voices and with tears.
I hear the great drums pounding,
And the small drums steady whirring
And every blow of the great convulsive drums,
Strikes me through and through.
For the son is brought with the father,
(In the foremost ranks of the fierce assault they fell,
Two veterans son and father dropt together,
And the double grave awaits them.)
And nearer blow the bugles,
And the drums strike more convulsive,
And the daylight o’er the pavement quite has faded,
And the strong dead-march enwraps me.
O strong dead-march you please me!
O moon immense with your silvery face you soothe me!
O my soldier twain! O my veterans passing to burial!
What I have I also give you.
The moon gives you light,
And the bugles and the drums give you music,
And my heart, O my soldiers,
My heart gives you love.
Walt WhitmanArtists- Marie-Elise Boyer, piano
I’d like to thank Jane Eaglen, Tanya Blaich, Damien Krzyzek,
Marie-Elise Boyer, Michael Banwarth, Roy Hage, and Luca Rosalia
for their indispensable help in preparation for this recital.