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
laughing
What was it?
some mistake, a silly word
some context out of joint
—wild animal in my shorts—
it starts the laugh
the tumbling down
the slippery slope
into the gasp for breath
a pause, respite
tears down the cheeks
slumping backward
against the corner of the doorway
giggling like an antidote to tears
both of us typecast
idiots out of control
and this is where
familiarity
slides us into
a comfortable ease
we smile and relax
and try to remember
but not too hard
leaning on each other
what started this
o yes—
blue tuesday
rain slides down the window in rough sheets
the garden drips and broods unseen alone
as if the birds were gone they sing unheard
the very walls hang portraits of gray stone
slow water dripping softly in the sink
gives rhythm to our thoughts and muttered words
a cat observes a spider weaving nothing
and writing this seems just a bit absurd
fingers frozen in idyllic pose
anticipate a past when things got done
no sword I clutch no ploughshare shapes my palm
my disposition strikes all anthems dumb
Instead I sit and listen to the rain
and drink the drops that dull all endings’ pain
pilling
Gird your loins, lads:
it’s time to pill the cat.
The October afternoon cooled and darkened
horses stirred restlessly in the paddock
worried about a storm moving over the bleak hills
Charlie, take three of the lads
and come in from the north
and may God bless you all;
I’ll bring the four MacKenzies
in from the top of the rise,
and we’ll surround her
before the moon rises.
Cautiously we rode, hoping . . .
Review: Falstaff by John Wood and Roger Forbes
I really liked the set. Sharp’s design used the NAC Studio space to its ultimate possibility: she drew back the omnipresent black drape surround to make the entry way become an upper storey for the Boarshead Tavern. The stained glass treatment gave light and energy to the ambiance, and the heavy furniture not only looked good, but sounded substantial, and was a flexible prop that gave Sir john the ability to take us convincingly aboard ship, or into battle.
I liked the lighting. Munro gave us focus on elements without being intrusive; this is essential especially in a one-hander. Lighting became an essential element in developing mood and place, focusing on the essential element much as a camera will in film.
I like Handegord’s sound plot, a sort of foley that gave us people outside the tavern, a ship running aground, the charges at Agincourt, street scenes, all exactly right.
The properties are all very authentic looking, and Forbes’ handling of them gives them a verisimilitude that works.
I like the show, which all comes together in Roger Forbes’ quiet tour de force, which manages, without going over the top, to give us lavish renditions of all our favourite Falstaff bits, while at the same time giving us a new twist on some of them; for example, the epic “battle” that Falstaff re-enacts for Hal and the rest at the tavern, is done in three versions, thus quite plausibly milking the beloved bit for all it is worth. Forbes has a comfortable raconteur’s take on Falstaff–it plays very well.
I am glad this piece is given the full treatment: two acts and an intermission–it is worth it. Obviously, Wood and Forbes have a great fondness for Shakespeare’s beloved old character. The care given to the selection and continuity of the text, the setting and the other already mentioned aspect of the production are evidence of that. Falstaff is no Lear orHamlet, but he is a very entertaining being, well represented here.
The NAC English Theatre/ The Old Castle Group in association with Richard Jordan Productions Present
Falstaff by John Wood and Roger Frobes
Directed by John Wood
adapted from Falstaff, an award-winning novel by Robert Nye
Starring Roger Forbes as Falstaff
Set and Costume design by Eo Sharp
Lighting design by John (Jock) Munro
Sound Design by Keith HandegordStage Manager: Laurie Champagne
Apprentice Stage Manager: Wendy Lee
Assistant Designer: Véronique La PierrièrePerformance seen: 2 pm October 27, 2007 — 2 hours, 10 minutes (including one intermission) NAC Studio
Vagabond Theatre’s Halloween Show
This was a lot of fun. I am not reviewing it because I was one of the assistant directors. Let’s just say it was fun.
The show, presented at Ste. Croix Elementary School Gymatorium October 26, 27 at 8 pm, featured work by local writers Carol Weekes and Scott Beaudoin, with story telling and readings by cast members. Adam Youmelle was MC. Katie Burke was Director, assisted by Bill Roddy and me. Dan Youmelle was Technical Director. The photos are in my Picasa Album at Halloween Show Photos
Here is the slide show of the album.
clicking on the play button starts the sound. You may adjust the volume by the sound control to the left. You may access a complete list of podcasts here. I shall add to this list as I add podcasts. I have recently improved my recording equipment; as a result the sound quality will improve. If you have any requests, please comment below the podcast list.
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