19 August 2013

Day Three (Part One) [The White Tempest Rose]

[A more descriptive account of today's Tempest performance will be posted at some point later today. This poem was all I could muster at 3AM.]

The White Tempest Rose

By: Lucas Scheelk

The white rose

The white rose thrown to them at the curtain call of a dream planned in advance

The white rose passed on from tradition, of hours standing, of hours being spat on, and pissed on, and witnessing minor characters almost die before you

The white rose that to this beholder, smelled of fresh picked raspberries found on Lake George

The white rose that to this beholder was the stim they could cling to, the smell they could cling to, the memory they could cling to, to not overwhelm the present reality to cling to, as they told the unexpected Ariel that he was their favorite portrayal

The white rose

The white rose that absorbs the tears they want to cry as the actors bowed

The white rose that absorbs the tears they want to cry as the crowds dispersed but the Thames has beaten the rose to it

The white rose of stammered hellos and gestures of admiration towards Prospero on the patio and hoping the impression carves into their heart an iota of the numerous statues of thought that have been made in their name

The white rose of their voice was worth the four thousand miles, five months, and five pounds

The white rose that felt to them the same amount of power as Prospero’s staff

The white rose of disbelief while waiting for the N89 at Blackfriar’s Bridge

The white rose of a private party they did not deserve but was not kicked out of

The white rose

The white rose of the number of petals counting as wishes for the wellness of the first Ariel

The white…. Tempest…. rose

No comments:

Post a Comment