sometimes I wonder (revisited)
Sometimes I wonderif she ever existed.
—found poem
Sometimes I wonder
if she ever existed.
Only a smile now
a gesture
copper hair flashing
she fades even in dreams
artist in the supermarket
She stands in the aisle like reverse Stendhal:frozen, her hand extended over the mound of apples.
Apples push into her like the fists of a lover
knocking at a locked door, urgent, juicy, plump.
It's always like this: fruit overwhelms, vegetables
scream longing; fresh trout imagines a sizzling grill,
beef lounges in a marinade, ready to sear.
She wants to paint, to cook, to knead warm
transit
Night. City street after rain.Early autumn leaves cling to the pavement
like wet hair on a waiting face.
Amber and blue incandescence
lies in pools for walking entrances,
performances and exits,
as the occasional soloist mimes
man walking alone on the street
concert
engine idle just beyond theancient boathouse
river calm and waiting silent
to the weed beds
and the spaces vast, beyond
ease the throttle slowly forward
hear the engine twist
inside the music
The part I sing in our quartethovers above or below the melody;
often it sounds like the French horn.
The Lead's note sounds familiar;
the Bass is the solid foundation;
the Tenor lilts above all, thrillingly;
my part, the Bari, fills it all in.
cocoon
Inside the silk threadsis what will come:
beautiful wings,
gleaming reds, yellows, blues,
curves and strength,
the freedom of flight
instead of plodding,
gnawing eating.
lotus eaters
This is the first in a series I started a while back. I should write a few more on this . . .everyone on the street was
somewhere else
listening to music
words from another time
another place
after
She used to purr when she leaped onto the bed;I prefer to think of her arrivals.
I could read her expressions through the fur:
glad to see me (and usually was):
relaxed eyelids, fur sleek off the face;
impatient with my stupidity:
Mauve and Gold
If a god were eating strawberriesWhen that sunset happened,
I know he'd stop in mid-bite
With red sweet juice dribbling
Down his chin onto his toga
And just stare and do a god-thing:
driving home
The sun set just before we turned west onto the roadthat curved into the pure black landscape silhouetted
against the absolutely clear tangerine and indigo sky.
As our headlights revealed and dismissed the familiar
meanderings of this riverside route and its clusters of cottages
On being mistaken for myself
Photos never lieexcept when they must,
with a minimum of mendacity,
tell welting whoppers
about how egregiously old
the old codger has become.
I have studied photos
taken years ago
that make me look
what was left
First they took away the all moneypoured it into the government trough
and they fed the war in Afganistan
but still that wasn't enough
so they crucified the artists
and they stood around and laughed
walking
In the rain and wind my umbrella protects me:
it stops anything except large metal objects
that compete on the street to dissect me.
And all goes well in the rain and the blast
and I duck around puddles and passing splashes
until I am challenged by a car turning fast.
Cold eyes at the wheel, waiting in the lane casually:
large wet black car, driver watches at my eyes;
but soon as cars pass, tires screech: casualty.
I leap clear, throw him a glance to match his stare:
I’m too old to dodge cars; he’s too psychotic to drive.
I shake, wondering what if I had just stood there.
death of fathers
So little said, implied, expressed;
such silence entombed in cameraderie:
a rock in the desert speaks more truth.
O father keep your silent soul alone
such maleness steeps the hunt
and blesses courage for the battle of
the day the week the year
The lesson that you taught me I shall teach:
to seal the wound, protect the heart,
and never, ever yield; yes I shall fight!
But that one time I thought
I saw your eye soften
whose weakness was that?
yours, whose eye it was?
or I who saw the eye?
did you teach me too well?
Of course I was mistaken
I have learned the lesson well
and shall resume my silence
and my guard.
Mulching
My mulching mower chops up
leaves the fragments of leaves
popped, pounded pushed
into the remains of the lawn.
It leaves shreds of leaves like
yellow irregular confetti ripped
out of the trees and ready
for an autumn of dissipation.
Each day the trees gift me an
abundance of crop to harvest
Each day I spin the leaves into
food for spring and summer.
A certain amount of looking
into the mouth of this gift horse
has taught me that there is a price:
I have to live here in the winter.
Review: that darn plot by David Belke
Vagabond Theatre of Cornwall
Producer: Katie Burke
Director: Neil CarriereCast
Mark Transom: Michael Togneri
Jo: Pat Haaksman
Geoff: Bill Roddy
Russell: Jean Leger
Ivy: Nancy Munro
Lloyd: Scott BeaudoinCrew:
Assistant Director: Pat Roddy
Stage Manager: Ashley McCool
Assistant Stage Managers: Lloyd and Betty Chaput,
Bob and Myrna Earle, Mike McAnany
Prompter: Micheline Lacasse
Costumes: Chantal Bourdeau
Properties: Marjorie McCoy
Set Design: Neil Carriere, Adrian Black
Set decoration: Adrian Black, Katie Burke
Sound/Lighting: Glenn Cooper
Poster Design: Adrian Black
Advertising/Publicity: Nancy Munro
Programme: Mark Enns, Nancy Munro
Tickets: Garth Wiggle
Box Office: Laurie Manzer
Cast Social: Elaine Kennedy
Production reviewed: October 28, 2006
Michael Togneri is so natural onstage in the part of a chatty non-Irish Canadian Playwright that the part seems to have been written for him. Of course, I could say that for everyone in this cast, and if I hadn’t seen all of them in other parts, I would think they were playing themselves. Such was part of the delight of viewing this production. I do have some reservations, but for the most part, it was a home run for Vagabond Theatre.
The script is a witty comedic gem that should be part of the Canadian professional summer canon. It has funny reparté, superbly presented confrontations and lots of chances for actors to play subtle or over the top. The story concerns a writer who is faced with writing a complete play evernight. He chooses to write about what he knows, and sets the action in a theatre rehearsal hall, where the play to be presented is a poorly written play found in his effects after his death. As in any farce, we have complications within complications as layers of play-within-play take over. I particularly liked Belke’s ruminations — through the character of Transom — on the subject of writing; it all rang very true, and really drew me in to the subject of the play.
That Neil Carriere has not directed before hardly shows in this production: the timing and pace are spot-on, and characterization and plot interpretation all work. It did not hurt that he chose his cast beautifully, and I imagine that they were a delight to work with; however, a lesser director could have screwed this up terribly, because, as in any farce, timing is critical and tone and blocking are key. Neil got all of these right, with a few reservations that I mention below. I hope Vagabond gives Neil more calls; he is obviously at home in the director’s chair.
I liked costumes and hair in this production, particularly Togneri’s orangish shirt with the tail out, Munro’s bun with the pencils, and her skirt revealing a sexy swish of leg, Beaudoin’s tight hair that made him look so untheatrical at the outset, and Haaksman’s slacks outfit that somehow suggested director/lion tamer.
The pace and tone of the production was rapid, as required, hysterical when required, and generally nailed by the experienced cast. I was impressed by the casting. Michael Togneri comes on strong as the reprobate playwright who speaks directly to the audience throughout. Togneri has a physicality that just goes with this part, and his timing in the complex exchanges was superb.
Bill Roddy has a face that serves him well, saying much more than just the lines alone. Saturday’s audience knows enough the watch Roddy and enjoy the banquet he serves. Casting him as an experienced old theatre hand is not a leap at all, as Roddy’s acting chops go ‘way back.
Jean Leger has a comic sensibility, a deadpan delivery and a commanding voice that make his insistance on getting to his nude scene deliciously incongruous. His passionate foreplay with Munro was a comedic highlight.
Nancy Munro, as the sexy stickler for union rules, has a flashy role that she played with panache. I particularly liked the tension that she and Leger evoked, which she developed with such subtlety and intensity. We were able to sense it form body language between the two, and it was quite delightful when distaste turned into passion. Their exit to hotter climes brought on a sustained applause that was well-deserved.
Scott Beaudoin was the character with a secret. He was also the character most manipulated into sudden changes of direction by Togneri’s character. I thought he handled all those nuances with skill. There was one passage, in which Beaudoin was required to insert his comments into spaces in a dialogue going on across the stage. While he managed to fit them in, his pacing was static, as if he were trying to fit them in. I would have thought the director would have paced that passage so it would not be so contrived.
I was not too happy with the placement of the set, particularly in Aultsville Theatre, which has two distinct disadvantages for plays: the stage floor is at eye level for much of the small audience huddled near the front, and the phantom orchestra pit places a huge gulf between the audience and the front of the stage. The set should have been as close to the audience as possible, particularly since the actors very seldom used the crucial five or six feet downstage. When they did occasionally venture into that area in front of the accoustically inhibiting proscenium, their voices projected with much more immediacy. Putting Togneri up on the risers missed the natural position for him right in the house, where he might easily address the audience and the cast more casually from the auditorium floor. The whole placement of the play was forced; it needed more intimacy and more immediacy. If more plays are to attempt presentation there, either the thrust should always be used, or the audience should be seated on the stage with the play — certainly the stage is large enough to accomodate a couple of hundred spectators on risers. Perhaps if it is not possible to place the audience on risers onstage, it is time for Vagabond to look for a more intimate space.
Another of my perpetual complaints with Aultsville Theatre is the illumination which spills from the tech booth, leaving blackouts and other lighting effects impossible. While not as obtrusive as this situation has been in the past, when the crew has had full fluorescents shining into a so-called blackout, the result is still unacceptable. When will this inane issue be addressed? I cannot believe that Aultsville Theatre management continues to allow such a distraction in a house supervised by paid staff.
These issues aside, it is obvious that the audience enjoyed the production and the cast played off the enthusiastic response. It is just too bad Vagabond could not whip up more ticket sales for the other performances. Perhaps a move to putting the audience onstage would inspire larger houses?
Changing tools
Grey rain flails through trembling naked trees
all green has fled and orange and red as well
and I have stored the hoses rakes and seeds,
dragged sadly out the shovels for white hell.
October gave us two bright days as gifts
the rest we shall forget but not forgive
November spits around the coming drifts
And cackles chillingly in songs morbid
And I regret the storage of fond tools
the lawnmower and my busy pruning shears
and see in coming shovels tools for fools
And winter’s heavy burden heartsick fears
But though chill icicles wedge means apart
Still golden dreams of summer warm my heart.
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