elephant waltz

Trumpet sounds across the jungle
with its own familiar rhythms
and the drums are beating harder
as they hype the coming values
and the men are looking sideways
at the women getting horny
at the thought of all the action
in the aisles of all the hallowed space
they’re hyping in the corridors
they placed along the rivers in the mall

Leave the caves and join the chorus
that is chanting in the belfry of the
place of worship gleaming with the
chromium of values on the altars
of the holocaust we offer to the pantheon
of circuses and values in the mall

O the giant cube is waiting as the
typhoon circles closer like a value-rated
purchase in the sanctum of sanctorums
and the call to prayer is answered by the
swooning of the masses as they circle
pandemonium declaring for the values in the mall

O the elephants are dying in the
forests of the jungle and we
cannot ever find them for they
leave this place forever taking
golden fleece and ivory and
spices from nativity to open spaces waiting
in the vaults of someone’s memory
and they will not forget it
’til they’re gone . . . .


Below is a link to an MP3 of my reading of this poem. Just to give you an idea of how many variations are possible, this is take 12.

Note that it is a 2 MB download and plays for a little more than two minutes. Not good if you are on dialup.

[podcast]http://riverwriter.ca/podcast/elephant_waltz.mp3[/podcast]

Posted in Poetry, Screeds | Tagged , , , | Leave a comment

level floors

In autumn we return to level floors:
no longer barefoot,  drinking air with skin,
we leave behind the slamming door
that keeps mosquitoes out, cats in.

Within these walls so warm and so secure
we wait out winter’s storms and neighbours’ trips;
here toilets flush and taps give water pure,
and out front we see cars instead of ships.

The simple construct that our cottage is
we tend to take for granted every summer
with floors that wander like a gravity quiz
we still return for reasons without number:

the sweet familiarity that it brings
can draw us back like screen doors pulled by springs.

Posted in Poetry, river poems, Sonnets | Leave a comment

Review: King Lear by William Shakespeare

The Stratford Festival of Canada presents King Lear by William Shakespeare

Artistic Director / RICHARD MONET

Director / BRIAN BEDFORD

Costume Designer / ANN CURTIS
Set Consultant / DESMOND HEELEY
Lighting Designer / MICHAEL J. WHITFIELD
Composer / DON HORSBURGH
Fight Director / JOHN STEAD
Sound Designer / JIM NEIL
Movement / SHONA MORRIS

The cast
Curan / SEAN ARBUCKLE
King Lear / BRIAN BEDFORD
Duke of Cornwall / WAYNE BEST
Cordelia’s Gentleman / KEITH DINICOL
Earl of Kent / PETER DONALDSON
Duke of Albany / GRAHAM HARLEY
Fool / BERNARD HOPKINS
Old Man / JOHN INNES
Edmund / DION JOHNSTONE
Oswald / RON KENNELL
King of France / TIM MacDONALD
Edgar / GARETH POTTER
Regan / WENDY ROBIE
Goneril / WENNA SHAW
Cordelia / SARA TOPHAM
Earl of Gloucester / SCOTT WENTWORTH

Also Appearing:
PAUL AMOS, JONATHAN ELLUL, MICHELLE GIROUX (Understudy), KIM HORSMAN, JACOB JAMES, SOPHIA KOLINAS, BRIAN McKAY, JAMIE McKNIGHT, PAUL NOLAN, JAMIE ROBINSON, ROGER SHANK, SEVERN THOMPSON (Understudy)

Stage Manager / MICHAEL HART
Assistant Stage Managers / RENATE HANSON, ZEPH WILLIAMS
Apprentice Stage Manager / CRYSTAL SKINNER
Production Assistant / KRISTOPHER WEBER
Production Stage Manager / MAGGIE PALMER

Production viewed: September 5, 2007 2 pm

I saw The Stratford Festival’s previous production of King Lear, with Christopher Plummer as Lear, and I must comment that the two productions had almost nothing in common except the script (more or less) and the stage. Plummer so far outsoared the rest of the cast that they were incidental; the current season’s Lear was remarkable for the scenes in which Lear was not on stage.

Brian Bedford should not have taken Lear on; he is not a Lear–at least not under his own direction; his long career is distinguished by a multitude of remarkably sensitive performances, which should not have been concluded by this (he retires this year). His view of Lear is more unidimensional than I would have believed possible. With few exceptions, Bedford ranted his lines to such an extent that his fellow actors had to change vocal attack when he was on stage. He played Lear with virtually no finesse: Lear was a loud, relentlessly insensitive, whining old guy. Had it not been for the fact that I intended to review the production, and the fact that I appreciated the non-Lear scenes, I would have left at the intermission.

There were many performances that redeemed the production, and those were given by most of the rest of the cast.

Peter Donaldson’s Kent was an interesting, sane vocal contrast to Bedford’s Lear; one could feel the stage relaxing when he was present. Gareth Potter’s Edgar was dynamic, inventive and emotionally evocative. Scott Wentworth’s Gloucester was what Bedford’s Lear was not: sensitive, sympathetic, moving. Dion Johnstone’s Edmund was suitably arrogant, wily, evil and affective. Lear’s daughters, played by Wenna Shaw as Goneril, Wendy Robie as Regan and Sara Topham as Cordelia, were suitably nuanced, mired as they were in the old man’s machinations, although Robie appeared to be a bit lost at first (appropriate as that may be for the character, she seemed ill at ease in this production, and rightly so, opposite Bedford’s over the top approach.) Finally, Bernard Hopkin’s Fool was intriguingly and inventively played as a witty outspoken bureaucrat, virtually Lear’s peer, impatient with the demented old king’s errors.

Costumes were a strange mixture of Elizabethan and mythological, as Lear and Cordelia were transformed during the battle from very stylish battledress (her) and very elegant pristine white brocade gown (him) to woefully bedraggled earthen, dragged-in-the-mud shifts (both), which one might cheerfully have identified backstage as the pathos rags.

The lighting and fog effects for the storm were strange overkill; combined with thunder and wind sound effects that overwhelmed voices so that very few of the lines during that scene were intelligible to human audience ear, one was left to think “okay, here’s what technology can do–but why?” Shakespeare’s stage effects were a snapped sheet for thunder and dried peas or such for rain, used to supplement some of the most wonderful stormy words ever put together for performance–why use all this technical stuff when the words don’t need it?

Speaking of words, there were some very poignant words left out: Lear’s ruminations about the homeless come to mind–when were they ever more apropos? And Poor Tom’s helpless rantings and–Lear is a magnificent simmered stew, a play of words meant to be savored, and enjoyed in the details of all its fatal errors and losses; not hasty takeout to be chopped, boiled and dismissed.

King Lear begins with a fatal error made by a senile old man at the end of a long and distinguished reign; like the play, so the production: a disappointing concoction, brewed in the error of making a wonderful and distinguished actor his own director.

Posted in Reviews, Stratford | Leave a comment