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Carol Barnett

Carol Barnett writes audacious and engaging music. She is known for breaking the mold with meter changes, differing tonal centers, unusual instrument combinations, and her love of fast tempi. Despite these typical thumbprints, Barnett’s works are diverse, uncovering the needs of each piece and each text with her characteristic integrity. Carol’s varied catalog includes works...

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Carol Barnett (Beady Eyes)

The King of Yellow Butterflies

Name: The King of Yellow Butterflies
SKU: BE-007
Availability: InStock
Rating: 5.00 (1 reviews)

Carol Barnett

Voice parts flutter about each other in this poetic challenge.

Choral

mixed choir

a cappella

Difficulty: 3

Duration: less than 3 min.

BE-007

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SATB div. a cappella

Vachel Lindsay’s poem “The King of Yellow Butterflies” is subtitled “a poem game;” the musical setting is a kind of game as well, a game of skill, full of tongue-twisting, deft turns for the singers. Word painting is used in the setting of “shiver,” “whimper,” and “each pool is like a looking glass,” where the vocal lines make a mirror image. The work as a whole should leave a hovering, insubstantial impression, like a cloud of butterflies.

Composer’s Notes

The work was co-commissioned in 1993 as a special project of the Minnesota Music Educators Association and the American Choral Directors Association of Minnesota.

– Carol Barnett

Text

The King of Yellow Butterflies
(A Poem Game)

The King of Yellow Butterflies,
The King of Yellow Butterflies,
The King of Yellow Butterflies,
Now orders forth his men.
He says, “The time is almost here
When violets bloom again.”
Adown the road the fickle rout
Goes flashing proud and bold,
Adown the road the fickle rout
Goes flashing proud and bold,
Adown the road the fickle rout
Goes flashing proud and bold.
They shiver by the shallow pools,
They shiver by the shallow pools,
They shiver by the shallow pools,
And whimper of the cold.
They drink and drink. A frail pretense!
They love to pose and preen.
Each pool is but a looking glass,
Where their sweet wings are seen.
Each pool is but a looking glass,
Where their sweet wings are seen.
Each pool is but a looking glass,
Where their sweet wings are seen.
Gentlemen adventurers! Gypsies every whit!
They live on what they steal. Their wings
By briars are frayed a bit.
Their loves are light. They have no house.
And if it rains today,
They’ll climb into your cattle-shed,
They’ll climb into your cattle-shed,
They’ll climb into your cattle-shed,
And hide them in the hay,
And hide them in the hay,
And hide them in the hay,
And hide them in the hay.