Lyra was the first work I wrote for Metamorphosen as their new composer-in-residence, and it also represents a return to composing for me after more than four years of difficult silence. As usual, I set about determining the title of the work first, keeping in mind that I wanted it to be mostly a lyrical, singing sort of piece. The obvious abstract titles came to me ("Lyric Suite", "Lyric Poem"), but as I continued to think about it, the lyricism I wanted to explore in this work became less about a particular style of music. It occurred to me that in the other arts, we also refer to the clear and direct expression of personal emotions or observations as "lyricism".

And so I went to the dictionary. We all know that the root of the word "lyric" lies in the name of an ancient Greek musical instrument, the lyre, used to accompany the reading or singing of poetry. But this search led me then to the actual ancient word for the lyre: lyra. And this in turn reminded me of another wonderful fact.

Lyra is also the name of a northern constellation, containing a first magnitude star called Alpha Lyrae, more commonly known as Vega. To the ancient Greeks, this constellation represented the lyre of Orpheus. In Greek mythology, Orpheus was a musician of exceeding talent, unrivaled among mortals. By playing his lyre he managed to charm Hades into letting him return to the upperworld with his beloved Eurydice (this ultimately backfired on Orpheus, but then, it wouldn't be a Greek myth otherwise, I suppose).

All of this is to say that "Lyra" won. It is a simple, beautiful word that seemed to embody everything I wanted this work to express: a singing musical style, a clear expression of personal feelings, and a return to the "upperworld" after being away from my work for so long.

By the way, in English "Lyra" can apparently be pronounced either LIE-rah, with a long "i" sound, or LEAR-ah, like the Italian currency. I prefer the latter.