Charles Leggett is a professional actor based in Seattle, WA, USA. Recent publications include FRIGG Magazine, Graze, Latchkey Tales, Form Quarterly, Firewords (United Kingdom), Southword Journal (Munster Literature Centre, Cork City, Ireland), and Punchnel’s. Others include The Lyric and Measure: A Review of Formal Poetry; his long poem “Premature Tombeau for John Ashbery” is an e-chapbook in the Barnwood Press “Great Find” series. FOR THE STREETCAR NAMED DESIRE The latter two weeks of the run, First hour or so of Act One, I set these on a page As I sat on the stage-- I hope they will give you some fun! --Intiman Playhouse, Seattle, WA, USA, July 2008 1. Stella laid all her cards on the table. If the metaphor’s old, here’s a fable: Of a love and Love’s War, Of a child that she bore And a bed frame, it seems, that was stable. It is easily said of the Hubbles That they live in a world full of troubles. But their kiss-and-make-ups Leave them grinning like pups, And the plaster reduced to a rubble. One senses, of Neighbor Claudine, There’s little that she hasn’t seen. If I speak out of turn, Comes her hellish slow burn-- Here’s hoping you know what I mean. Poor old Pablo, he really can’t win: Exaltation expressed, or chagrin, At the best or worst hand In the tongue of his land-- Made to say it por inglés again! That strapping young news-rag collector, He kissed Stella’s sister—plumb wrecked her! As for him, well, we yearn At his age, then we learn. He’s sadder, more wise, and erecter. The whore with the dark ruby lips, Just watch how she tosses her hips: A card shark at poker Just holding her Joker And languidly tossing in chips. If you think that policeman is buff Then you don’t know him quite well enough: Doesn’t work out with Mitch, He just knows how to stitch Downy diamonds to fill out his rough.* Can’t help but say, speaking of Mitch, Can’t help but say ain’t life a bitch. And it helps that it rhymes In the way spire chimes Help gravediggers digging their ditch. New Orleans folk mourning your dead: That flower-girl, parse what she’s said! If she knows you don’t know How the language should go She’ll sell you dead flowers instead! There are things lying deep in that “purse” That is carried onstage by the Nurse That might make one unsure Of a word such as “cure”-- It begins in the same way as curse! As symbol, the Doctor brings Death; Asks nothing from one but one’s breath. His cold work, one may feel (Though his scythe be cold steel), Is this night not reckoned a theft. And there once was a lady named Blanche. Figure her as a bough, not a branch; And as blossom, not flower; Not a copse, but a bower; Under drifts—must we say avalanche? One said, “I am the glamorous type,” And then, “I am the glamorous type.” After Stan said, “So what?” His stubbed cigarette butt Went for compost, while Silence came ripe. 2. The streetcar named Desire Has a hot seat, don’t you know. It sizzles when it’s moving slow But, as with wind through fire, Consumes at faster speeds; The streets a grayish, smoky blur, Its riders’ speech ill-blent in slur. Exhilaration bleeds Upwards through the spine-- Which tolerates the jolts and shifts In gravity—then gravely lifts The spirits through a fine, User-friendly atlas- Catalogue, a River Bourbon Easing past Elysium. Pomade-primped and hatless In gusts of city air The mild conductor calls them out With his dry indifferent shout And blithely turns to stare At all the obvious Tourists, visitors and bums (He sees right through the locals), hums Something rather tuneless (Though mindful of the downbeat)-- As of what intoxicates, As of where we meet our fates-- That someone in the hot seat Can’t but hear and squirm A little there, as if, in dream: That far-off, nigglingly extreme And half-forgotten worm Of conscience sometimes found To be—when under scrutiny, And with uncertain irony-- Dream’s subject, crawls around An ever-nearing corner. A cat’s meow. A paper moon. The crack of gunfire. The sultry moan Of Adiós from a mourner. A honeysuckle rose Singing Della Robbia blues, Brown spindly fingers drawn to muse Along the pliant rows Of orchard white and sable. Perhaps a gull’s accusing shriek Awakens you. A blinding streak Of light—a gnashing cable Showering sparks, or else The sun, merely, the moon, merely, Any naked bulb—you’ve nearly Missed your stop! The shells On beaches of the ocean That you’ve contrived to die upon Will whisper of it when you’ve gone, This rattletrap emotion: We’ll press them home and listen, Our faces taut in expectation Of certain sounds, as its oblation Down our cheekbones glistens. * The author, who played the policeman, had shoulder pads inserted into his uniform.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
Categories
All
|