The End of Dreams
I was invited by Peter James to contribute to an inter-disciplinary project he was considering; a curated musical work comprising diverse contributions from long-standing collborators who had become a close circle of friends. I said yes before even knowing what would be asked of me. This has been a deeply humbling and moving experience, not only because of being offered Peter's trust to deliver a text that met his vision for this album, and not only because he accepted my crazy idea of asking my insanely gifted friend, opera singer Sinéad to try improvisation - something she's never done before, but because this collaboration also brought me in intimate contact with the reality of how fragile our connection to life truly is. Peter's tenacious, brave and his daily heroic efforts, in the face of all his dire daily medical challenges, along with his commitment and dedication leaves me in awe. I have learned to re-appreciate my own connection to life and the gift that is reasonably decent health. Having made a new friend in such vulnerable and yet, resilient circumstances, gives me a deep appreciation of what it means be connected, to be seen and for our artistry, whatever that my be, to be seen, heard, read and appreciated. The End of Dreams holds particular, personal significance for Peter, for me, it is a renewal of my deidcation to craft and to collaborative spirit by which we share our gift of humanity. I also would be remiss not to mention the generosity of Jimi Dawn, for allowing me to borrow a line or few.
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Please take a moment to support this fascinating project. Buy the album and take the time to treat yourself to a coming together of a group of gifted musicians and vocalists.
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Thank you Amantine. x
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The End of Dreams
BALLED FOR SOPRANO AND SPOKEN WORD
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MUSIC Peter James
TEXT Amantine Brodeur
With thanks to Jimy Dawn for the abduction of a few lyrical lines
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IRISH TRANSLATION Sinéad Ní Mhurchú
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THE END OF DREAMS
(Spoken)
At the end of dreams, in the stillness of Nowhere, on a
love-torn hill, the soft escape of Swallows’ wings into un-
awakened song, held heartwise to the wind in the ‘othering of self’.
(Spoken response in Irish)
At the end of dreams, I’ll shed my wings for the deeper sea
Of coral songs and love gone blind.
I ndeireadh na mbrionglóidi
Scoithfidh mé mo sciatháin
I leith duibheagán na farraige
Ina gcastar amhrán an choréil san
Áit a mobíonn an grá dallta.
Knowing, in its remembering of giddy knots and restless webs,
whispers love’s incandescence in Bach, A-minor. And along
this wrist of shadows older stories of innocence fade, line by line
in darker dreams to our light, in-between:
Weep me still into sweeps of willow, into the unkept
seasons of the soul.
Cuir ag gol mé, go maolofar i
Scríoba saileoga mo chaoin, chuig
Séasúir míshlachtmhar m’anam.
Upstream, where emptiness follows, the end of dreams gathered by
a magic seam, are flowers, floating on a sea of ice.
At the end of dreaming, the sky unwinds our veiled kiss
of newborn dreamers.
I’ll sing songs of her vagrant summer, collecting shells across the void,
as a guide along your shoreline, home.
Casfaidh mé amhráin dá samhradh
Fánach ag bailiú sliogáin feadh an
Chladaigh, mar threoraí trasna an
Bhfolús.
Ancient whisperers among millennial Forests
in the salting of our absences - And songs of childhood fade
line by line. Our shadows losing touch with their
darkness, in dungeons where children get to roar:
Still, such feral weavers of our shelter, trees listen and make
us holy, to our deeper monasteries of stars
Sung refrain
At the end of dreams, I’ll shed my wings for the deeper sea;
Of coral songs and love gone blind. Weep me still into sweeps
of willow, into the unkempt seasons of the soul. I’ll sing
songs of her vagrant summer, collecting shells across the void,
as a guide along your shoreline, home.
I ndeireadh na mbrionglóidí
Scoithfidh mé mo sciatháin
I leith duibheagán na farraige
Ina gcastar amhrán an choréil san
I ndeireadh na mbrionglóidi
Scoithfidh mé mo sciatháin
I leith duibheagán na farraige
Ina gcastar amhrán an choréil san
Áit a mobíonn an grá dallta.
Cuir ag gol mé, go maolofar i
Scríoba saileoga mo chaoin, chuig
Séasúir míshlachtmhar m’anam.
Casfaidh mé amhráin dá samhradh
Fánach ag bailiú sliogáin feadh an
Chladaigh, mar threoraí trasna an
Bhfolús.
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Take a listen to a sample from title track . . .
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