My Graduate Recital

Matt Hollier - Solo Guitar

Friday, February 11. 7:30 P.M. Choral Room 153, Angelle Hall. UL Campus.

Featuring works by Lennon, Sierra, Mackey, Legnani, Hollier, and Ligeti.

My last major concert in Louisiana for the foreseeable future.

Various Permutations of the Right Hyperprime Poem of the Sun

1:

sometimes I feel like nothing’s left
descants and multitudinous meaningful images pop
an easy exercise for sure
near a haze of tissue in air
the red sun rose

2:

the rum moon sank
away from the clarity of snot on the ground
assuming a difficult slobbery
syncopated and a few meaningless ideas form
I never feel like anything’s right

The Desert Age

The Deserted Village

Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain,

Where health and plenty cheered the laboring swain,

Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid,

And parting summer’s lingering blooms delayed.

Dear, lovely bowers of innocence and ease,

Seats of my youth, when every sport could please,

How often have I loitered o’er they green,

Where humble happiness endeared each scene!

How often have I paused on every charm—

The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm,

The never-failing brook, the busy mill,

The decent church that topped the neighboring hill,

The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade,

For talking age and whispering lovers made!

How often have I blessed the coming day,

When toil remitting lent its aid to play,

And all the village train, from labor free,

Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree!

While many a pastime circled in the shade!

The young, contending, as the old surveyed;

And many a gambol frolicked o’er the ground,

And sleights of art and feats of strength went round.

Sweet, smiling village, loveliest of the lawn;

Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn;

Amid thy glassy brook reflects the day,

But, choked with sedges, works its weedy way;

Along thy glades, a solitary guest,

The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest.

Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey,

Where wealth accumulates, and men decay;

Princes and lords may flourish or may fade;

A breath can make them, as a breath has made;

But a bold peasantry, their country’s pride,

When once destroyed, can never be supplied.

Sweet Auburn! parent of the blissful hour,

Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant’s power.

Here, as I take my solitary rounds

Amid thy tangling walks and ruined grounds

And, many a year elapsed, return to view

Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew,

Remembrance walks with all her busy train,

Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain.

In all my wanderings round this world of care,

In all my grief’s—and God has given my share—

I still had hopes, my latest hours crown,

Amid these humble bowers to lay me down;

To husband out life’s taper at close,

And keep the flame from wasting by repose:

I still had hopes, my long vexations past,

Here to return,—and die at home last.

O blest retirement! friend to life’s decline,

Retreat from care, that never must be mine.

How blest is he who crowns, in shades like these,

A youth of labor with an age of ease:

Who quits a world where strong temptations try,

And, since ‘tis hard to combat, learns to fly!

So on he moves to meet his latter end,

Angels around befriending virtue’s friend;

Sinks to the grave with unperceived decay,

While resignation gently slopes the way;

And, all his prospects brightening to the last,

His heaven commences ere the world be past.

I am working for people who are primarily intelligent, rather than serious.
—P. Feval