Gershwin on my mind...
Jul. 30th, 2004 09:45 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ceebeegeeI hear the rustle of the leaves
And the chirping crickets
Where the oriole is calling
and the bobolink is falling
for his mate
I hear the sighing of the breeze in the nearby thickets
Where the whippoorwill is wooing
and the katydid is cooing
to his Kate
And I can hear the cowbell chorus that's now being played
Hummingbirds humming for us
Deep in the glade
There's music in the air and my thoughts are winging
Where the spring is ever springing
That meadow serenade
What a lovely song that is. It's my favorite Gershwin song, albeit their least typical. Those big city Jewish guys, born and steeped in the Lower East Side, writing a lyrical paean to the country? But they were known for their lyricism--even through the clever rhymes and musical sophistication, a yearning ("Don't be a naughty baby/Come to mama, come to mama, do...") shines through. I love how the richness of country life is portrayed in this song--all the different birds and insects and animals listed, as well as the trees. As a child, I loved a series of books by Elizabeth Enright (who won the Newbery Award for Thimble Summer) about a family, the Melendys, that lives somewhere in the East '30s but then moves to Connecticut to the country. She knew what she was talking about--the book is full of descriptions of fairs, of picnics, the kids building a dam in the nearby creek so they can have a swimming hole...it sounds deadly dull but the kids had tons of personality. I loved these books.
And the katydid is cooing
to his Kate...
Man, lyrics don't get any better than that.*
That's something I miss about life in New York City--the richness of country life. The sound of the cicadas, the smell of the boxwood, produce stands selling fresh tomatoes and jars of honey by the road, jumping off bales of hay at Cox Farms in October, kissing a guy in June late at night and hearing the nightingale, even the faint smell of skunk late at night as you drive home, your car windows open to catch the sweet air. I miss Virginia (and to a lesser extent, New Hampshire) sometimes.
*And it makes me think of the opening line of The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson:
"No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality--even larks and katydids are supposed, by some, to dream..." Of course that's a whole different discussion--that book is terrifying, a perfect depiction of horror.
And the chirping crickets
Where the oriole is calling
and the bobolink is falling
for his mate
I hear the sighing of the breeze in the nearby thickets
Where the whippoorwill is wooing
and the katydid is cooing
to his Kate
And I can hear the cowbell chorus that's now being played
Hummingbirds humming for us
Deep in the glade
There's music in the air and my thoughts are winging
Where the spring is ever springing
That meadow serenade
What a lovely song that is. It's my favorite Gershwin song, albeit their least typical. Those big city Jewish guys, born and steeped in the Lower East Side, writing a lyrical paean to the country? But they were known for their lyricism--even through the clever rhymes and musical sophistication, a yearning ("Don't be a naughty baby/Come to mama, come to mama, do...") shines through. I love how the richness of country life is portrayed in this song--all the different birds and insects and animals listed, as well as the trees. As a child, I loved a series of books by Elizabeth Enright (who won the Newbery Award for Thimble Summer) about a family, the Melendys, that lives somewhere in the East '30s but then moves to Connecticut to the country. She knew what she was talking about--the book is full of descriptions of fairs, of picnics, the kids building a dam in the nearby creek so they can have a swimming hole...it sounds deadly dull but the kids had tons of personality. I loved these books.
And the katydid is cooing
to his Kate...
Man, lyrics don't get any better than that.*
That's something I miss about life in New York City--the richness of country life. The sound of the cicadas, the smell of the boxwood, produce stands selling fresh tomatoes and jars of honey by the road, jumping off bales of hay at Cox Farms in October, kissing a guy in June late at night and hearing the nightingale, even the faint smell of skunk late at night as you drive home, your car windows open to catch the sweet air. I miss Virginia (and to a lesser extent, New Hampshire) sometimes.
*And it makes me think of the opening line of The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson:
"No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality--even larks and katydids are supposed, by some, to dream..." Of course that's a whole different discussion--that book is terrifying, a perfect depiction of horror.
