Andrew Violette

The Death of the Hired Man


Innova 608



He smashes the mold.


There are no conversational phrases.

The singers intone.


The piano is a percussive force;

a fierce combatant

against big voiced singers

who emerge not from a huge stage

but from a space as intimate as a boxing ring

where each side struggles to prevail.


“Life’s toughness needs to be reflected in song.”

                    --Andrew Violette.


Sherry Zannoth (soprano) and Brad Cresswell (tenor).






The Death of the Hired Man

Robert Frost


Mary sat musing on the lamp-flame at the table

Waiting for Warren. When she heard his step,

She ran on tip-toe down the darkened passage

To meet him in the doorway with the news

And put him on his guard. 'Silas is back.'

She pushed him outward with her through the door

And shut it after her. "Be kind,' she said.

She took the market things from Warren's arms

And set them on the porch, then drew him down

To sit beside her on the wooden steps.

'When was I ever anything but kind to him?

But I'll not have the fellow back,' he said.

'I told him so last haying, didn't I?

"If he left then," I said, "that ended it."

What good is he? Who else will harbour him

At his age for the little he can do?

What help he is there's no depending on.

Off he goes always when I need him most.

'He thinks he ought to earn a little pay,

Enough at least to buy tobacco with,

won't have to beg and be beholden."

"All right," I say "I can't afford to pay

Any fixed wages, though I wish I could."

"Someone else can."

"Then someone else will have to.

I shouldn't mind his bettering himself

If that was what it was. You can be certain,

When he begins like that, there's someone at him

Trying to coax him off with pocket-money, --

In haying time, when any help is scarce.

In winter he comes back to us. I'm done.'

'Shh not so loud: he'll hear you,' Mary said.

'I want him to: he'll have to soon or late.'

'He's worn out. He's asleep beside the stove.

When I came up from Rowe's I found him here,

Huddled against the barn-door fast asleep,

A miserable sight, and frightening, too-

You needn't smile -- I didn't recognize him-

I wasn't looking for him- and he's changed.

Wait till you see.'

'Where did you say he'd been?

'He didn't say. I dragged him to the house,

And gave him tea and tried to make him smoke.

I tried to make him talk about his travels.

Nothing would do: he just kept nodding off.'

'What did he say? Did he say anything?'

'But little.'

'Anything? Mary, confess

He said he'd come to ditch the meadow for me.'


'But did he? I just want to know.'

'Of course he did. What would you have him say?

Surely you wouldn't grudge the poor old man

Some humble way to save his self-respect.

He added, if you really care to know,

He meant to dear the upper pasture, too.

That sounds like something you have heard before?

Warren, I wish you could have heard the way

He jumbled everything. I stopped to look

Two or three times -- he made me feel so queer--

To see if he was talking in his sleep.

He ran on Harold Wilson -- you remember -

The boy you had in haying four years since.

He's finished school, and teaching in his college.

Silas declares you'll have to get him back.

He says they two will make a team for work:

Between them they will lay this farm as smooth!

The way he mixed that in with other things.

He thinks young Wilson a likely lad, though daft

On education -- you know how they fought

All through July under the blazing sun,

Silas up on the cart to build the load,

Harold along beside to pitch it on.'

'Yes, I took care to keep well out of earshot.'

'Well, those days trouble Silas like a dream.

You wouldn't think they would. How some things linger!

Harold's young college boy's assurance piqued him.

After so many years he still keeps finding

Good arguments he sees he might have used.

I sympathize. I know just how it feels

To think of the right thing to say too late.

Harold's associated in his mind with Latin.

He asked me what I thought of Harold's saying

He studied Latin like the violin

Because he liked it -- that an argument!

He said he couldn't make the boy believe

He could find water with a hazel prong--

Which showed how much good school had ever done

him. He wanted to go over that. 'But most of all

He thinks if he could have another chance

To teach him how to build a load of hay --'

'I know, that's Silas' one accomplishment.

He bundles every forkful in its place,

And tags and numbers it for future reference,

So he can find and easily dislodge it

In the unloading. Silas does that well.

He takes it out in bunches like big birds' nests.

You never see him standing on the hay

He's trying to lift, straining to lift himself.'

'He thinks if he could teach him that, he'd be

Some good perhaps to someone in the world.

He hates to see a boy the fool of books.

Poor Silas, so concerned for other folk,

And nothing to look backward to with pride,

And nothing to look forward to with hope,

So now and never any different.'

Part of a moon was filling down the west,

Dragging the whole sky with it to the hills.

Its light poured softly in her lap. She saw

And spread her apron to it. She put out her hand

Among the harp-like morning-glory strings,

Taut with the dew from garden bed to eaves,

As if she played unheard the tenderness

That wrought on him beside her in the night.

'Warren,' she said, 'he has come home to die:

You needn't be afraid he'll leave you this time.'

'Home,' he mocked gently.

'Yes, what else but home?

It all depends on what you mean by home.

Of course he's nothing to us, any more

then was the hound that came a stranger to us

Out of the woods, worn out upon the trail.'

'Home is the place where, when you have to go there,

They have to take you in.'

'I should have called it

Something you somehow haven't to deserve.'

Warren leaned out and took a step or two,

Picked up a little stick, and brought it back

And broke it in his hand and tossed it by.

'Silas has better claim on' us, you think,

Than on his brother? Thirteen little miles

As the road winds would bring him to his door.

Silas has walked that far no doubt to-day.

Why didn't he go there? His brother's rich,

A somebody- director in the bank.'

'He never told us that.'

'We know it though.'

'I think his brother ought to help, of course.

I'll see to that if there is need. He ought of right

To take him in, and might be willing to-

He may be better than appearances.

But have some pity on Silas. Do you think

If he'd had any pride in claiming kin

Or anything he looked for from his brother,

He'd keep so still about him all this time?'

'I wonder what's between them.'

'I can tell you.

Silas is what he is -- we wouldn't mind him--

But just the kind that kinsfolk can't abide.

He never did a thing so very bad.

He don't know why he isn't quite as good

As anyone. He won't be made ashamed

To please his brother, worthless though he is.'

'I can't think Si ever hurt anyone.'

'No, but he hurt my heart the way he lay

And rolled his old head on that sharp-edged chair-back.

He wouldn't let me put him on the lounge.

You must go in and see what you can do.

I made the bed up for him there to-night.

You'll be surprised at him -- how much he's broken.

His working days are done; I'm sure of it.'

'I'd not be in a hurry to say that.'

'I haven't been. Go, look, see for yourself.

But, Warren, please remember how it is:

He' come to help you ditch the meadow.

He has a plan, You mustn't laugh at him.

He may not speak of it, and then he may.

I'll sit and see if that small sailing cloud

Will hit or miss the moon.'

It hit the moon. Then there were three there, making a dim row,

The moon, the little silver cloud, and she.

Warren returned-- too soon, it seemed to her,

Slipped to her side, caught up her hand and waited.

'Warren?' she questioned.

'Dead,' was all he answered.




The Love Duet

Walt Whitman montage


ebb stung by the flow

and flow stung by the ebb

loveflesh swelling and deliciously aching

limitless limped jets of hot love

and enormous  quivering jelly of love

white blow and delicious juice

bridegroom night of love

working surely and softly into the prostrate dawn

undulating in the willing and yielding day

lost in the cleave of the clasping and sweet flesh'd day

(he) I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world

(she) ah!

urge and urge and urge

always the procreant urge of the world

the armies of those I love engirth me

speeding through space

speeding through heaven and the stars

not words not music or rhyme

only the lull the hum of your valved voice

unscrew the locks from the doors

unscrew the doors themselves from their jambs

(she) the orbic flex of his mouth is pouring and filling me full

(he) she convulses me like the climax of my love grip

it thumbs me to gulps

(he) the womb the teats breastmilk

the naked meat of the body

(she) bussing my body with soft and balsamic busses

(he)  the circling rivers the breathing in and out

the thin red jellies within you and within me the bones

they shall be stript that you may see them

a body at auction

the love of the body balks account

disorderly fleshy and sensual

one of the roughs

a kosmos

I moisten the roots of all that has grown

open your scarfed chops till I blow grit within you

her head was bare her coarse straight locks

descended upon her voluptuous limbs 

and reached to her feet

(she) thruster holding me tight it is for my mouth forever

(he) outward and forever outward

I pour the stuff to start sons and daughters

daughters and sons

I fly the flight of the fluid and swallowing soul

my course runs below the sounds of plummets

the earth is good and the stars are good

(he) who need be afraid of the merge?

(she) the souls moving along

(he) houses and rooms

(she) are full

of perfumes

(she) all goes onward

(he) and upward

(she) and nothing collapses

(he) dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths

(she) I feel its soft


I draw you close to me

I press with slow rude muscle

through you

(she) I drain the pent up rivers of myself

the fruits of gushing showers loving

(he) crops

(she) I draw you close to me

(he) you settled your head athwart my hips

and gently turned over upon me

and parted my shirt from my bosom bone

and plunged your tongue to my barestript heart

(she) clear and sweet is my soul

you my rich blood

your milky stream pale strippings of my life

(she) I understand the large hearts of heroes

(he) seas of bright juice suffuse heaven

(she) there is great heat in the fire

with the twirl of my tongue

I encompass worlds and volumes of worlds

(he) steeped amid honeyed morphine

I but use you a moment

(she) then I resign you stallion

(he) ah! morphine

(she) steeped amid honeyed morphine

(he) press close bare bosomed night

(she) press close magnetic and nourishing night

(he) night of southwind

(she) night of the few large stars

still nodding night

mad naked summer night

press close magnetic and nourishing night

earth of slumbering and liquid trees

smile for your lover comes

your lover comes