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"Some ancestor of mine..." poem by Tsvetaeva
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Song for soprano and strings, in Russian.
jazz classical instrumental vocal opera orchestra chamber ballet
Artist picture
Composer for large-scale performance work, ballet and opera. Have written music for classical theatrical productions of Shakespeare, ("The Tempest," "The Twelft
Loren Lieberman is a native of Denver, Colorado, now living on the West Coast in California, where he is best known for his work as an actor in Classical and Shakespearean Theatre. He has a degree from Sonoma State University in Theatre Arts, and has been an Honor's Music Composition Student at the College of Marin, Santa Rosa Junior College, and at Sonoma State University. He has won an award for composition from the Redwood Empire Music Association. He has recently completed an opera in Russian, based on the novel by Alexander Solzhenitsyn, "Cancer Ward", (and of the same name), and is currently working on his fourth opera, based on the Classical Tragedy by Sophocles, "Oedipus the King," with a libretto in Ancient Greek. His interest in languages has shaped much of his artistic temperment, and he is self taught in Russian and Sanskrit, and has hopes to begin his next opera, Shakespeare's, "Romeo and Juliet," in Hindi.
Song Info
Genre
Classical • Opera
Charts
Peak #90
Peak in subgenre #4
Author
Marina Tsvetaeva/Masaru Yonemitsu
Rights
adhikapokoya 2010
Uploaded
October 06, 2010
Track Files
MP3
MP3 2.0 MB • 128 kbps • 2:13
Story behind the song
A rough translation of the poem to English follows:
Lyrics
Some ancestor of mine was a violinist, A rider and thief in this case. Is it because of my roaming character And hair that smells of the wind? Was it not he, dark, stealing a wagon of apricots from my hand, Passionate culprit of my fate, Curly-haired and hawk-nosed? Marveling at the plowman's plow, And split between his lips - a rose. Poor fellow that he was - but a dashing And a gentle lover! Lover of the pipe, the moon and beads And all the young neighbors ... I also think that he was a coward, Was my yellow-eyed ancestor. That soul to the devil sold for a penny, He did not go at midnight to the graveyard. I also think that the knife He wore on his leg, And several times cornered he jumped - flexible as a cat ... And somehow I knew It was not to play the violin! That is all it was to him, as last year's snow in summer! My ancestor was a violinist, and, thus, I became a poet. June 23, 1915
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