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Flowers of the Rhododendron

by Flowers of the Rhododendron

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1.
Here lies historic tragedy, now scribbled on the walls in fresh graffiti, and Billy Possum Teddy Bears, and presidents who didn’t care For the ancient wisdom of revelation to be found in the kitchenary stations, a cosmogonic recipe for an epiphany. His home address was Caraques, but Salvadore would be blown which ever way, his luxury his loving dare, a sycophant who didn’t care For the heroes or the villains so long as Nero was ever willing to build a pretty station, at Perpignan with scenery for an epiphany. The walls were washed in black and white, the village never had a chance to fight or flight, so Pablo had to stop and stare, for Guernica made him care For the angels, for the nations they will mangle all of creation and all the pretty stations, and skies of blue and greenery, and all epiphany. “You had your revelation on a border town in France, You scuttled like a rat to live in luxury and dance, Music you do not deserve nor magic nor romance, Your only care your own epiphany” But Salvadore argued “won’t you please just let me be, to paint some pretty pictures in Chateau Absurdity, the armies of the dead they march against all poetry, You and I need my epiphany.” I’m passing by and sketching verse, about around the center of the universe with constellations everywhere, on better days all I care for levitations at the seams of leviathans and how they dream, while waiting at the station, a poet prone to thievery, stealing from histories written weekly, the struggle to be easy, the vista with a warm gun so breezy, oh happiness is…(epiphany).
2.
I see you there, you lonesome bear, your eyes so sad and full of rage. Do you remember endless Decembers before the summer built your cage? Mama no, don’t make me cry Skip the page where the magic dies for fireflies left in the jar don’t hear the end of lullabies.
3.
On better days I dream there were more quaggas than machines, and the yellow footed caribous were hopping in the fray, when the Queen of Sheeba’s own gazelles were splitting at the seams and the tigers in Tasmania were the devils of their day. When falconry a flash of evolutionary alchemy, where dinosaur and man were friends, a maverick and a goose. When the past at last turns out to be much more than mediocrity, I parachute to yesterday’s dream to be seduced. When the world was still large enough to be found, the avalanche and the rain were still musical sounds, cartographers ground up to wonder and estimate In the mist there was magic, a tragic last testament. When the world was still small enough to be proud the cellar doors and the castle still on hallowed ground, wooden skies all around, constellations they carry truth and they lie for the legend of yesterday’s parachutes. Oh how I’d wish to be in some celtic village by the sea, where the farm was the table and the druids sing the blues. ‘Till Caesar wasted melodies and laid their stories fast asleep, life was tedious and brief and constellations true. So Jesse don’t you fret about the present and his lies, the celtic checkers breath and their music’s in the blues So Jesse keep on dreaming for those future wooden skies yesterday will wait for you with all her parachutes.
4.
In the saddest printemps Our Lady laments “How many days pass unto history?” Speak now of back then, memory’s the only defense Against mystery, Our Lady rest in peace. Louis du Roy gave her a crown of thorns But cripples in stories gave her fame. Create to burn Troy we are angels with horns Still the gargoyles fear no flame. We’ll be cherubs again when our devils repent Even the stone hearts will mend when we sound Bourdon Emanuel, Marie, Gabriel, flow our tears For whom the bell tolls for 900 years. Now we cry we pretend to buy what is spent But muses inspired give out no receipts. Repair and repent, still Our Lady Laments For again we will sing “Our Lady rest in peace.” “Sing a song of six pence,” Our Lady laments How many days past when the grass was green. Speak now of back then mystery’s the only defense Against lost memories, Our Lady rest in peace.
5.
We know not what’s over there Maybe it’s not for us to care There’s only shade and light, We best enjoy the dice. Stumble on the summers ice Clumsy words that you stutter twice How many roles must we have to play? What a gift it is, to be, We should enjoy, or not to be, On the Grand Old Carousel the comedy we wage. For all the world’s a stage, And me and you go on and play On and on until the curtain is drawn The costumes, how they change But how its always so strange The way the house lights never do ever turn on. Capey dear and Fletcher too always did improvise their every line. And how they take mistakes with levity and gave away their heavy dimes. Always death it plays its lonesome lullaby always in some wretched time. But never fear the often blue melodies televised between eight and nine. Then one day they left the stage, We was left with our charades The curtain call was deafening Beyond the wall do angels sing? And there upon the stage, they left a key to our cage And on and on how the sunshine it shown. The black and white, and then the blue And how the green burned so bright, And on and on blew the heavenly trombones. We play on. And on and on. Pause for applause from song to song How many opening nights are there every day? Its automatic. Its such a breeze, These acrobatics up on trapeze How many goddam trills are there anyway? “And here from over there, oh how I laugh when you swear For I remember when I too was blind.” There are lines, so hard to tell. Rehearsal times at the wishing well. “Do I love thee still? Let me count the ways 1, 2, 3. Suddenly she drops some melody lovelier than we could find. For Capey dear, she always did sing to me so to see that I was blind. Then one day, we saw the stage, We the puppets on parade. Free at last, we cut the strings, To that anthem she used to sing! And there upon the stage, living far past our age. We played the Game of the Grand Old Carousel. We played on, under the spell, And how we played so goddam well, We don’t care the audience has gone back to hell. On and on, without pause Until we bring back the dawn Till finally we take a bow, to no applause.

about

Flowers of the Rhododendron is the product of a sibling collaboration between musician Paul Holmes Morton and artist Sarah McRae Morton, a process of cross pollination between oil paintings and song composition, sharing a woven patchwork of history, folktales, literature, and free association constructed on classical forms and colored with a modern palette. Themes include epiphanies while waiting at the train station, idle worshiping the past, celebrating human creation, lamenting its careless destruction, and an appreciation of life through a brush with death, performed on instruments ranging from Renaissance-Baroque to modern.

Special thank you to mix/master engineer Chris Botta as well as musicians Fiona Gillespie, Doug Balliet, Dylan Greene, Dave Nelson, Jeremy Thal, Adam Young, Genevieve Gillespie King, and Tracy Cowart, for each input of virtuosity and creativity that carried these labors of love so much further than any single imagination could. Dedicated to the flowers of the rhododendron Mary and Sarah.

credits

released June 21, 2020

Chris Botta - sound engineer, session, mix & master; Fiona Gillespie - vocals; Doug Balliet - bass; Dylan Greene - percussion; Dave Nelson - trombones; Jeremy Thal - trumpet, horn; Adam Young - gamba; Genevieve Gillespie King - vocals, fiddle; Tracy Cowart - vocals; Paul Holmes Morton - all music with exception of The Girl Who Tamed the Arctic (after Catalan folk song Mareta no'm faces plorar), lyrics, baroque guitar, theorbo, acoustic guitar, banjo, vocals, harmonica

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Flowers of the Rhododendron New York, New York

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