Stagecraft


Early this morning I let Dog outside, and the world had disappeared. Mist swirled like the dawn of time. Then the sun shimmered through, smiling at the deception. I lie out on the green sun-lounger, reading a book on symbolist drama. The washing line is in full use. Six buzzards ride thermals far above, wing feathers outstretched. As they spin away, a fleet of clouds arrives, neatly spaced. If Dog would stop dropping stones on me, I would be asleep. I wonder what I would dream of. There is a quote in the book that I re-read;
‘What we have to do is to bring poetry into the world in which the audience lives and to which it returns when it leaves the theatre; not to transport the audience into some imaginary world totally unlike its own, an unreal world in which poetry is tolerated.’ [TS Eliot, from Poetry and Drama, 1951]
I recognise the intention, although its possible that I live in an unreal world and my tolerance of poetry is actually unnatural. 

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Light On Our Feet With Good News

Breaking The Heat And Keeping Focus