Several poems from Todd's first poetry collection, Yellowrocket, were set as an art song sequence by composer Matt Boehler. The project premiered at San Francisco Conservatory of Music and won the biennial choral composition competition and a National Association of Teachers of Singing 2017 Art Song Composition Award. Published by Schirmer Music. Have a listen.
Here are the poems of Foursquare Cathedral:
Ruin
`
was rumored
to be rooming
up the road
where
a neighbor’s barn’d
burned down.
Their heyday
a payday
away,
Pride,
Ruin’s bride-to-be,
paced our property
in the long
laced gowns
of afternoons,
while Ruin
rode shotgun
in Dad’s old Ford
and pulled the wheel
hard toward
cabarets.
Dad had
work, but
Ruin had ways.
My House Is Small and More Than
a hundred years old. Inside,
the oaken posts and beams
make the living room seem
like a glade. When friends
pronounce it comfortable,
it’s 1910 that comforts them,
and nothing I have done.
There must be a room
in the human heart
that’s older than the body.
And it’s good to be there
in that foursquare cathedral
where nothing has changed
since before we were made.
The Wallpaper
says hello.
The wallpaper
misses you something
awful.
The wallpaper
can’t stop wondering when
you were thinking of
coming home.
The clock’s
moved on.
The sink’s ten
million tears are dry.
Our floors have gotten
over you, or so they
claim
and claim.
The windows
clearly feel the same.
But call me.
Call me
soon, my love,
and tell me
what to say
next time
the fading and
tedious
wallpaper whispers
your
beautiful household
name.
What Yesterday Appeared a Scar
of brilliant green
in the icy lake, today
arcs blue across its face and far.
And where this morning
still is frozen,
coming hours will warm until
the water’s softer
nature’s finally chosen.
Half my life is gone
to others’ business,
which, well done or not, it
matters not but that it’s gone
and won’t be gotten back.
And half my love is wasted too.
Wasted not on you, where all my
deeps and deeps of love
are dammed and so belong,
but on loving you
wrong. My sorrow
is tomorrow’s only season,
and it comes on now
like this late thaw comes
upon the lake,
or like a soft song one sings to sing
the past to sleep,
only to keep it wide awake.
Another Hand
Here—here’s a day—
and here—here’s another,
says God feeling chancy,
says God feeling grand.
Hell—here—look—
a stack of days—a week,
says God nonchalant,
a penny candy in his cheek,
the glimmer in his eye
never giving him away.
Good old God,
he’s a player alright.
Across a blue cloth
as he antes them over
the gold coins shimmer
from his fat black purse.
Yellowrocket (2008) is still available in paperback. Order it wherever you buy your books.
My poems are often called "musical," but some composers find them too musical to set for voice. Matt found a sequence that works beautifully. Stay tuned for more projects in the works with collaborator Matt Boehler.
