steve roden
soudns , 2005

soudns began with a 1930 book of french poetry i purchased a flea market while in high school. it was just one of those things that eventually ended up in my studio with no place in my life. at certain points i would pick it up, read some things, become distracted, throw it back in a pile, etc. at some point i mistakenly thought the title “some ultra modern french poets” could become the word sounds by erasing many of the letters in sequence, so i blacked them out with ink only to realize that i had not spelled sounds but soudns... i then moved through the 46 page text blocking out everything except the phrases and words that related to sounds and sound events. the idea was that the list of terms could suggest sound making activities while the black fields, spaces, and tendrils could suggest pauses... allowing the text to become a score, and the book to finally have a place.






here is the entire text:

the silence of the night
the silence is so pure
i hear the ritual sound of your lips
the sound of your voice
we repeated: "in anatolie
in anatolie"
the sound of the mexican guitar
in the great silence
the glou glou of little streams
the far bellowing of herds of bulls
the song of the nightengale
the crystalline hiss of toads
the squawks of nocturnal vultures
the cry of the mocking bird
a forest
of metal girders rattle night and day to the
cadence of hammers
puffing of machines
ten o'clock in the evening has just sounded
where
whistles a glacial wind.....where come to
burst in foam the long waves
one knocks up against the dim mass
of the vessel
the call of a siren
the call of the earth
the silent sirens
their shrill song
silent
the cadence is austere
to you this call
make heard a word in a factory
i invite my friends by megaphone
fingers pluck
at the strings.....feet beat ceaselessly
the measure
the tune bursts forth
every
one cries out
tom tom of the feeding bottle
the fountain sings the same song
a singing reed
little cigarette
that crackles
a little clock
that goes tac tac
i tell myself softly
cries of tenderness
the cry of the vapor
songs of ardor
a violin playing on a flower

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