For my last blog post, I want to share three poems that I wrote during the dress rehearsals of the show—and I don’t mean, “during the general time period in which we had dress rehearsals,”—I mean DURING the dress rehearsals themselves. While many of you were busy going through scenes in act one, I was scribbling away in my little moleskine like a good hipster, because I couldn’t let the thoughts that I had while watching the play escape completely into the air without some sort of mechanism with which to capture them (and I asked Jeff before I did it). So I wrote some poems—although in a way, they’re more abstract journal entries than anything else, which is all that the poetry I write ever is. Also, they’re probably bad from a poetic viewpoint, but having been in the show, it is my hope that you all will be able to appreciate them nonetheless. Here goes nothing:
There’s a light in the corner
And it’s got warmth, but it’s bare,
The square above looms large,
it is the primary source,
dull and efficient
I connect the corners in my mind’s eye
tracing the rays along their journey
a geometric construction
from a point to a square,
from sharp yellow to pervasive white
But their relationship confounds me,
mythical and pure necessity
folklore, enspiriting, and canonical
at odds with economy, twisted prioritization.
A pyramidal slant,
barring in the weak tussle
between dynamism and ability.
I’ve been told to swallow my laugh.
it is simply too
yes, much too
je ne sais quoi
but, yes, too.
and so I must swallow it,
and I am not good at dampening things.
It is not a practice in which I often engage,
because it is not often that I find an altar on which
to place myself.
But this is my altar.
An altar on which I gladly place sacrifice,
I place my laughter
to be molded and forged into the proper shape.
I fade into I, I, I, I, I
and I, I, I, I, I, love my, my, my, my, myself.
Plenty of room,
lots of space,
time for reflection,
it’s a good place to live.
small enough for your own identity.
But where’s my room?
my room, a room of my own,
The quadrangle is only so wide,
and the boundaries
by steeples and spires,
and rush and Rush,
and a starving cat on a crazed rummage.
a fishbone among pizza boxes
Yet somehow, a fifty-foot canvas,
blue to brown to black to gray
manages to break beyond the towers and clocks,
time for reflection
amid fibers and paint
and tables that are varnished, even underneath
amidst 45 pegs draped with identity.
and stairs through earth and air.
With overwhelming gratitude,