In Need of New Shoes

We have walked a ways together
But now the time has come for us to part company.
In your frailty, you can no longer bear the strain
Or protect me from the rain
And so you must retire to a
Home for the worn-out.

To discard of you feels like
To discard of a part of myself ,
Married as we have been
These past twelve months.
Who I am is written all over you,
You are trained in my ways
And, in your wisdom, know the pattern of my steps
Even before I take them,
Before I lift my foot to make them.

You have served me well old friends
And I will mourn for you.
As I look back on the paths we journeyed together
Sometimes in extremes of weather
Over rocky terrain
Through sun and through rain, yes,
As I remember,
I will mourn for you.

All the while trying to train your successors –
Naive and neutral
Willing to bend to any who will employ them.
Fresh-faced and eager
But lacking in life experience.
In time they will master each bend and flex
And learn to yield only to me.
We will become as one.

The blisters will heal,
And my memories will blur -
You will become but a chapter in my life.
But until then,
And who can say when
That might be?
Yes, until that day,
I can resolutely say
The socks on my feet will always be black.

Once Again

I haven't posted in a few days, it seems that the hours are disappearing this week.

In light of the current weather conditions, it seemed appropriate to post a poem I wrote during last year's white Christmas...

Crystalline purity falls from heaven
Refreshing the earth and
Wrapping it in a blanket of
Cleanliness.

For a time the ground lies in
Unspoiled stillness -
Recharging
While the street lamp stands as a sentinel
Keeping his vigil.

As the sun rises the sentinel's shift ends and
He retires, leaving his watch
Unguarded.

One by one the civilians surface.
Energised and excited,
They dance their patterns and work at
Leaving their mark.
Their shrill voices that shriek profanities,
Are muted by the graceful blanket
They so readily wreck.

As night falls
Once again
And darkness descends,
The sentinel takes his post -
Standing as a beacon
In the midst of the mire.
A tear rolls down his cheek
As he looks on the pitiful scene
That echoes of all that has been.

A droplet causes his gaze to lift -
The light touch of
Crystalline purity
Raining down in abundance to
Cover their tracks.

The scene pure and perfect
Once again
The sentinel clocks off,
Leaving the civilians to their day.


Lamentations 3:22-23
22 The faithful love of the Lord never ends! His mercies never cease.23 Great is his faithfulness; his mercies begin afresh each morning.

Finding My Voice

I can do this and I can do that

I suit my hair down, I suit wearing a hat

Just 'cause I can do it doesn't mean that I should

Who needs a hat when their coat has a hood?

Which is the right road, which path is for me?

What is my destiny, who am I meant to be?

I'm looking for my voice, have you heard it at all?

She's a little shy and quiet, pretty timid and small

One day she'll step out and emerge with a boom.

Best be prepared for her and make her some room.

For now she's a bairn, she's just a wee pup,

Dreaming and rehearsing for when she grows up.

But when she decides on the path she will take,

She'll work and she'll work till she catches her break.

She'll make herself seen and she'll make herself heard,

In pictures or plays, in music or word.

Just a silly wee poem inspired by a blog I came across recently. I was having lunch with some friends on Friday and Clare and I got onto talking about blogging and poetry and she mentioned that her cousin has a blog and is a poet and does various things. She suggested I look him up and I am sooooo glad that I did. Richard's blog has really inspired me to consider what I am about. He has such a distinctive voice and it's got me thinking, what is my voice? I guess for now I am playing around a bit and trying to work it out.

Check out the blog that inspired me:

Pen Paper Pause - Sketched Thought by Richard Watkins
http://penpaperpause.wordpress.com/

Snakes and Ladders

I was pregnant with destiny

Until I aborted my vision

In favour of fostering someone else's dream.

Now all my ladder climbing is wasted

For I have landed on a snake

And find myself back

At square one.

Back in the place

Where dreams are conceived.

Back in the home of good intentions

And infinite possibilities.

And so I begin my journey once again,

With the resolve that this time I will do it right.

This time I will take my vitamins

And carry this vision

To birth.

Losing Marbles

"I was sure I left my bag by the sofa when I came in. Have you seen my bag, son?"

"No, Gran, are you sure that's what you did with it?"

"Well I was but here I must be wrong 'cause there's no sign of it."

"Have you checked in the kitchen? Maybe you left it in the kitchen."

"Oh do you think so? Do you know you might be right."

She bustles out of the living room and into the kitchen. Her bag is on top of the kitchen table. She picks it up and returns to the living room.

"Ok, now... where's my glasses? I could've sworn I left them on the arm of the chair."

"Well, they're not on the arm of the chair are they, Gran?  Perhaps you left them on the sideboard in the hall on the way to the kitchen?"

"Perhaps I did, what would I do without you, eh?"

She shuffles into the hall and finds her glasses on the sideboard before returning to the living room.

"Now, let's see," she puts her glasses on and pulls her purse from her bag. "How much did you say I owed your mum?"

"Twenty pounds, Gran."

"Are you sure, son? I don't remember her paying for my shopping, are you sure I owe her twenty pounds?"

"Yes, Gran, I'm sure. You seem awfully forgetful today, what with your bag and your glasses. Trust me."

"I might just ring your mum and double check."

He takes the handset from her and replaces it on the cradle.

"No need, Gran, you phoned her to check once already today, you know how she worries about you. You don't want her to worry do you?"

"No, son, I guess you're right, ok twenty pounds then," she says as she pulls a twenty pound note from her purse and hands it to him.

Pipe Dreams

I stepped out of my full time job in August this year to come back to my love of the theatre. It is, perhaps, ironic that in doing so I am now doing even less drama and theatre-based work than I was before. But this theatrical desert has re-ignited a passion in my heart and confimed in me that I am, at my very core, an artist.

So, on this quest to get back to doing what I love, and working out how God plans for me to use this passion and gifting that he has given me, I enrolled on a couple of courses at an adult education college in London. One, an Introduction to Creative Writing, the other, an Introduction to Stanislavski. For those who are not familiar with Constantin Stanislavski, he was a Russian actor and theatre director who pioneered a "system" for actors that was concerned with creating realism on the stage.

The acting class stirred a lot of things within me and sparked a real vision in me for what I think I ought to be aiming towards.

Just over half way through the 12 week course I found myself in a position where I had to make a decision whether it was appropriate for me to carry on with the class or not. I was having some real issues with the content of the scenarios and screenplays that were being studied each week. The climax came when I was asked to improvise an objective that stood firmly against what I believe in. When I refused to take part I was confronted with the argument that acting is about making believe and does not reflect or affect our personal morality. While I believe this is most likely a true statement, for me it offers another question:

Why would I want to make believe about something that I fundamentally disagree with?

Uta Hagen says the following in her book, "Respect for Acting":

It is necessary to have a point of view about the world which surrounds you, the society in which you live; a point of view as to how your art can reflect your judgement.

To rebel or revolt against the status quo is in the very nature of an artist. A point of view can result from the desire to change the social scene, the family scene, the political life, the state of the ecology, the conditions of the theatre itself. Rebellion or revolt does not necessarily find its expression in violence. A gentle, lyrical stroke may be just as powerful a means of expression. To portray things the way they are, to hold up a mirror to the society, can also be a statement of rebellion. You must ask yourself, "How can I bring all of this to the statement I wish to make in the theatre?"

As a follower of Jesus I have a clearly defined point of view of the world in which we live and I have been commissioned to be "set apart" - to stand against the ways of this world. In Romans 12, Paul writes:

 "Don't become so well-adjusted to your culture that you fit into it without even thinking. Instead, fix your attention on God."

It is argued that in refusing to explore certain areas of dramatic content I am limiting myself as an actor and that in doing so, I reduce my chances of "making it in the industry". Good. I am sold out for God, therefore I will not sell out to the commercial theatre industry - working to get paid instead of working on conviction. Where is the art (or faith!) in that?

I agree with Hagen's argument that in our culture we have missed the point of theatre - theatre is meant to make a statement, to challenge and to question. Even the most political pieces of theatre in our culture exist to make money, if it can't bring in revenue then it doesn't happen. So we water down our political stand-point to ensure we can put bums on seats, just as so many churches water down the message of the gospel to put bums on seats - neither challenge us, neither sustain us.

So, what is my point? My point is I want to start a revolution. I want to be involved in creating theatre that has an uncompromising point of view. I want to be involved in creating theatre that will challenge, theatre that is about something other than box office revenue. I want to see Christian artists creating work that challenges our society. I want to see schools that provide the opportunity for theatre practitioners to train to the highest standard in an environment that respects their beliefs and their boundaries, that allows them to say "no, I won't do that" without being written off.

A pipe-dream some might say. Some don't know my God. The God of my dreams is bigger than the enemy of my dreams... so put that in your pipe and smoke it!

A Leopard Can't Change His Spots

I have been in a coma

For three years.

Twelve seasons have come

And gone

While my heart

Has hidden away.

But now, the self-induced sleep

That has sheilded me

From the gravity of my grief

Has come to its end.

My heart is re-emerging.

The past, blotted out,

By amnesia,

Is but a foggy haze -

I hold only an image

Of someone

Who used to be me

But whom I no longer

Resemble

Everything feels

Routinely alien.

I no longer fit the mould.

I have been the subject of

Metamorphosis.

I am a lion that thinks

Herself a leopard.

I try to shed my spots

But they cling to me -

Out damned spot!

Out I say!

Lady Macbeth is loopy,

Lady Macbeth is loopy,

Lady, look, there's nothing there!

For you were guilty, yes,

But another took your stains,

For you were guilty, yes,

But you've been pardoned from your shame.

So, that hazy, spotty leopard

Can't be catching up with you, you see -
For, now you are a lion, yes,
That's who you're supposed to be.