VOICE 1: Six o’clock in the evening. Fumes rise from the London gutters as if the Fires of Hell had been unleashed. Crowds of men-like worms crawl through Heathrow alleys, clashing… cursing their fate!
A boy attacks his shadow with a wooden saber under a lamplight unaware of thy Kingdom Come. Damn it! At my back I feel…
Stephen opens the window and starry whispers: breathe
MIGUEL: No thanks.
(aside) Indulgence. Atonement…
BUCK: You should definitely have some champagne, chap. I’m telling ya, these parties can be awfully lousy when you’re sober. All the noise, the smoke, the senseless chitchat and… Anyway! Lets not lose our focus, right? I must introduce you to some girls; that’s what we are here for after all… Ladies: Beautiful, classy ladies. Yes! that’s my job: Buck lady-finder.
All right! Let’s see who’s here… Ha! See that girl smiling over there?
MIGUEL: The one with the funny shoes? Continue reading “The Cocktail Party (Six O’Clock)”
Is it true then,
That we breathe ourselves out and out
Seeking warmth and May?
What is left for us, then?
What is left of us?…
A timid breath?
A flickering breeze?
Or just an immeasurably vast and ghastly silence.
We fade like Gorecky’s song, I guess.
Continue reading “Calvary (Five O’Clock)”
VOICE 1: Eight O’clock. (One to the final stroke.) Fumes rise from the sorceress’ cauldron as ravished Medea passionately stirs wasted love with desires unlawful and unfulfilled. A myriad witches hover around the room talking indistinctly. Muses are nowhere to be found.
VOICE 2: A cup of simple wine (preferably Spanish).
A bucket of blood vainly spilt,
seasoned with original unsullied pain
from days of old
MEDEA: A whole bucket? Really…?
LADY MACBETH: Cannot complain there, you’ve got plenty of that…
MEDEA: Indeed my dear. Indeed. I don’t complain about my lot as others love to do… But was there magic in your days? Hmmm… Cannot seem to remember…
Must be getting old!
LADY MACBETH (aside): Is this what life is made of?
MEDEA (gets her glasses from a table): Lets see… What else do we need? Yes, here!
Tears of a unicorn…
Some hippogriff hair…
Seriously! Who writes these recipes? How in God’s name am I supposed to get hippogriff hair?
Continue reading “The Copper Cauldron (Eight O’Clock)”
I’ve been carefully reading The Rule of Metaphor of Paul Ricoeur during the last weeks. It is a fascinating book, though at times a little repetitive. Yet, I don’t want to write about it here… but about a very striking discussion on the self-referentiality of poetry that really surprised me. Ricoeur discusses Jakobson’s poetic function together with some ideas of Genette, like the following paragraph:
the sole function of every figure is to hint, in its particular way, at the poetic quality of discourse that contains it (…). In the emblem that the classical ‘sail of the ship’ has become for us, we can read at once both ‘This is a ship’ and ‘Look: poetry!’ (172). Continue reading “The Embankment”