A tentative assurance that Spring is imminent arrives at last. The calendar indicates it and there is no snow here at the moment, but gray skies prevail and not a hint of green is to be seen anywhere. Which brings to mind a poem I love ....

Do you carry poems in your memory and recite them to yourself sometimes? When Spring arrives, even if only on the calendar, I pull up from memory Vachel Lindsay's "The Flower-Fed Buffaloes." It's not one of those joyful, "Spring is here!" poems. It's a hushed reflection on early Spring, prompting us ponder all that has been lost.

Buffaloes, for instance.

Strange to think that, "in the days of long ago," vast herds of buffalo made their way through southwestern Ohio. Right here where I live, in what is now the edge of downtown Cincinnati, uncountable thousands somehow discerned that, just here, the Ohio River was shallow enough for them to safely traverse each Spring, as the vast herds made their way to fresh pastures.

The river, the land, the Spring are all still here but corn, wheat and wheels have replaced the flowers, and the buffaloes that fed on the flower, and the people who fed on the buffaloes. A whole world that was here, just three lifetimes ago ... vanished. It's something to ponder on a grim March day.

I set the poem to music, back in "the days of long ago," in April of 1975, when I was 25 years old. The Blues-y tune is unaccompanied by piano or guitar; it's just a solitary voice, singing simply and powerfully, like the poet's voice in the poem:

THE FLOWER-FED BUFFALOES

The flower-fed buffaloes of the spring
In the days of long ago,
Ranged where the locomotives sing
And the prairie flowers like low.
The tossing, blooming, perfumed grass
Is swept away by wheat,
Wheels and wheels and wheels spin by
In the spring that still is sweet.
But the flower-fed buffaloes of the spring
Left us long ago,
They gore no more, they bellow no more,
They trundle around these hills no more--
With the Blackfeet lying low,
With the Pawnees lying low.

Can you spare 84 seconds to hear The Flower Fed Buffaloes sung marvelously well by baritone Noel Bouley? If so, click on the link above.

See a PDF of the score by clicking on the link above.

Charlie McCarron, a Minnesota-based composer who is, today, about the same age I was when I wrote The Flower-Fed Buffaloes, recently interviewed me as part of his project, "Composer Quest." He edited our phone conversation, interspersing pertinent clips of my music, into a forty-minute segment. If you'd like to hear me carrying on and laughing and delivering the real poop about my work and some of my pieces and how I get them recorded for you to hear on these mpFrees and elsewhere, copy and paste the link below into the address bar of your browser:

http://www.charliemccarron.com/2014/03/eggs-bacon-and-composer-wisdom-from-rick-sowash/

Rick Sowash
Cincinnati, OH
March 22, 2014

🎶 🎶 🎶 🎶 🎶

Do you carry poems in your memory and recite them to yourself sometimes?

When Spring arrives, one of the poems I pull up from memory is Vachel Lindsay's "The Flower-Fed Buffaloes."

Strange to think that, "in the days of long ago," vast herds of buffalo made their way through southwestern Ohio. Right here where I live, in what is now Cincinnati, a thousand generations of buffalo somehow discerned that, just here, the Ohio River was just shallow enough for them to safely cross each spring, moving to fresh pastures.

The river, the land, the spring are all still here but crops and roads, which Lindsay terms “wheat and wheels,” and all that comes with those things, have displaced the flowers and the buffaloes that fed on them and the people who fed on the buffaloes. A whole world that was here, just a dozen lifetimes ago … vanished. Or “lying low."

I set Lindsay's poem to music in "the spring of long ago,” back in April of 1975, when I was 25 years old. The Blues-y tune is unaccompanied by piano or guitar; it's just a solitary voice, singing simply and powerfully, like the poet's voice in the poem:

The Flower-Fed Buffaloes

The flower-fed buffaloes of the spring
In the days of long ago,
Ranged where the locomotives sing
And the prairie flowers like low.
The tossing, blooming, perfumed grass
Is swept away by wheat,
Wheels and wheels and wheels spin by
In the spring that still is sweet.
But the flower-fed buffaloes of the spring
Left us long ago,
They gore no more, they bellow no more,
They trundle around these hills no more--
With the Blackfeet lying low,
With the Pawnees lying low.

Can you spare 84 seconds to hear "The Flower Fed Buffaloes" sung marvelously well by baritone Noel Bouley? If so, click on the link above.

See a PDF of the score by clicking on the link above.