I Sit and Look Out

David Grimes's music and Walt Whitman's poem comprise a seamless tapestry of sound.

For one, there's Whitman's little-known shorty. The title, "I Sit and Look Out," sounds as though it could frame an I-look-out-the-window poem describing pleasant observations. Because Whitman's work is largely affirmative -- "I celebrate myself and sing myself" -- I was prepared for a nature poem, something like "When I Heard the Learn'd Astronomer" or "A Noiseless Patient Spider," neither of which, come to think of it, views its material through rose-colored glasses.

As a matter of fact, "I Sit and Look Out" is unremittingly dark, almost apocalyptic. From "young men at anguish with themselves" to "the ranklings of jealousy and unrequited love," Whitman catalogues
"the sorrows of the world" in fewer than 20 lanky lines.

The wonder of this piece is that Grimes's music is thoroughly up to the task. Rather than playing second fiddle to Whitman, it is truly sublime accompaniment, a type of transfigured movie music. No whistle-worthy melodies Tchaikovskyfy Grimes's score, which consists of adventurous (though not stridently dissonant), minimal, fully orchestrated chord changes and motifs, with a piano obligato toward the end.

Grimes recites the text of Whitman's visionary poem sonorously but never melodramatically, with his own music in the background, for one minute and thirty-five seconds. The second half of his piece is devoted to Grimes's music while he repeats two lines from the poem. I guess this section could be cut. But Grimes's music is way too gorgeous, and the last ten seconds of the piece record the sounds of children's voices, perhaps from a playground, and provide a sunray of hope, a final time-out from despair, from the poem's speaker who sees, hears, and is silent. Grimes's finale makes a quietly joyful noise.

Don't wait until next April (National Poetry Month) to sample this beaut', perfect for "Weekend America" or any horrific Monday morning after the usual suicide bombings.