Call, and Respond

Saturday, December 9th, 2017 at 7PM

This winter, BVS Women’s Choir calls.

How will you respond?

Our repertoire for this concert is challenging. The first half examines war, and the toll it takes on us all, through works by Eva Ugalde and Kevin Memley, and the premiere of a new piece by Erik Unsworth. It concludes with Joan Szymko's “Call." The second half offers ways to respond to this call: by rising up, or with understanding and peace. It includes works by Abbie Betinis and BVS conductor Jessica Corbin. 

We hope you'll answer our call.

First Unitarian Congregational Society of Brooklyn
119 Pierrepont Street
Brooklyn, NY

$15 tickets, $10 for students/seniors

Ticket Type



Come Up from the Fields Father


Come up from the fields father, here’s a letter from our Pete, 

And come to the front door mother, here’s a letter from thy dear son. 


Lo, ’tis autumn, 

Lo, where the trees, deeper green, yellower and redder, 

Cool and sweeten Ohio’s villages with leaves fluttering in the moderate wind, 

Where apples ripe in the orchards hang and grapes on the trellis’d vines,   

(Smell you the smell of the grapes on the vines? 

Smell you the buckwheat where the bees were lately buzzing?) 


Above all, lo, the sky so calm, so transparent after the rain, and with wondrous clouds,   

Below too, all calm, all vital and beautiful, and the farm prospers well. 


Down in the fields all prospers well, 

But now from the fields come father, come at the daughter’s call, 

And come to the entry mother, to the front door come right away. 


Fast as she can she hurries, something ominous, her steps trembling, 

She does not tarry to smooth her hair nor adjust her cap. 


Open the envelope quickly,   

O this is not our son’s writing, yet his name is sign’d, 

O a strange hand writes for our dear son, O stricken mother’s soul! 

All swims before her eyes, flashes with black, she catches the main words only, 

Sentences broken, gunshot wound in the breast, cavalry skirmish, taken to hospital, 

At present low, but will soon be better. 


Ah now the single figure to me, 

Amid all teeming and wealthy Ohio with all its cities and farms, 

Sickly white in the face and dull in the head, very faint, 

By the jamb of a door leans. 


Grieve not so, dear mother, (the just-grown daughter speaks through her sobs, 

The little sisters huddle around speechless and dismay’d,) 

See, dearest mother, the letter says Pete will soon be better. 

Alas poor boy, he will never be better, (nor may-be needs to be better, that brave and simple soul,) 

While they stand at home at the door he is dead already, 

The only son is dead. 


But the mother needs to be better, 

She with thin form presently drest in black, 

By day her meals untouch’d, then at night fitfully sleeping, often waking, 

In the midnight waking, weeping, longing with one deep longing,   

O that she might withdraw unnoticed, silent from life escape and withdraw, 

To follow, to seek, to be with her dear dead son.

The Bloody Sire 


It is not bad.  Let them play. 

Let the guns bark and the bombing-plane 

Speak his prodigious blasphemies. 

It is not bad, it is high time, 

Stark violence is still the sire of all the world’s values. 


What but the wolf’s tooth whittled so fine 

The fleet limbs of the antelope? 

What but fear winged the birds, and hunger 

Jewelled with such eyes the great goshawk’s head? 

Violence has been the sire of all the world’s values. 


Who would remember Helen’s face 

Lacking the terrible halo of spears? 

Who formed Christ but Herod and Caesar, 

The cruel and bloody victories of Caesar? 

Violence, the bloody sire of all the world’s values. 


Never weep, let them play, 

Old violence is not too old to beget new values.



These grand and fatal movements toward death: the grandeur
of the mass
Makes pity a fool, the tearing pity
For the atoms of the mass, the persons, the victims, makes it
seem monstrous
To admire the tragic beauty they build. 
It is beautiful as a river flowing or a slowly gathering
Glacier on a high mountain rock-face, 
Bound to plow down a forest, or as frost in November, 
The gold and flaming death-dance for leaves, 
Or a girl in the night of her spent maidenhood, bleeding and
I would burn my right hand in a slow fire
To change the future ... I should do foolishly. The beauty
of modern
Man is not in the persons but in the
Disastrous rhythm, the heavy and mobile masses, the dance of the
Dream-led masses down the dark mountain.