Clifton College WebsiteHouse Play Festival 2010 - PoemWritten and performed at the ‘Oscar Ceremony’ by Director of Drama, Mr Robert Morris, the following is a reflection of the eleven plays, which make up the superb Drama Festival 2010.
Restless, listless dress rehearsals,
Director’s scream at actors, crew,
Teacher/ student role reversals,
Telling people what to do...
Strip show, peep show, Sheffield passion,
Full on Monty, tackle out,
Digging out the hole we live in,
That’s what hope is all about.
Houses congregate in winter
Huddles with their scripts in train,
Keeping warm the ember, splinter
Of writer’s musings, viewpoints, pain.
Dark and tightly fitted dresses,
Form a metaphor, a noose,
Lorca’s Spain its heat it presses
Down upon us, tense, obtuse.
Lines are coming, yes lines’re improving,
Directors mill about and worry,
Schmoozing, smoothing, always moving,
Programmes, posters, hurry, hurry!
The Women slide like shadows over,
Moonlit, serenaded floors,
Brace yourself and dive for cover,
Someone wants to take what’s yours.
Subtlety soon yields to daggers
Drawn like claws, by femme fatales,
Two-faced, flesh-free, finger-waggers,
Low class spats for high class gals.
Tarantino makes an entrance,
Coloured gangsters, Clever shtick,
Libretto for accepted violence,
Casual chat and blood spilt, thick
Outside the theatre, the doors are bursting,
Stern faces watch the mob, the crowd,
Bursting with excitement, thirsting
For entertainment, brazen, loud.
What we get are missent parcels,
Blushing gents retreat repressed,
The quintessential English pastime,
and words like bum and boob and breast
After this comes Beckett’s nightmare,
Where breast is blamed for suckling life,
Takes a scalpel to existence and there,
Sucks out the juice of life ...
After that, what’s more to hope for?
Justice in the U.S jury,
1950’s antidote for,
Tonic for twelve men of fury ...
Battle for these wreathes of glory,
Gauntlets thrown by artful gangs,
Each burn to tell a different story,
Each a different heart string twangs.
The festival bonfire’s lit, no truly,
The chatroom fills with voices, words,
The audience cannot be unruly,
Before compelling computer nerds.
Blackadder’s repartee is spiffing,
The war is parodied, revealed,
Over the top and all is ended,
in history’s mess tin lies, congealed.
Girl’s with minds just off the bracket,
Addicts, psychos, weirdos, weak,
Life’s too crazy, just can’t hack it,
Parents suck, prognosis: bleak.
Then... all of a sudden, rising,
Smoky, film noir, jazzy, cute,
Patter almost unappetising,
That only salesmen can compute ...
This is what we wanted when we
Handed all our tickets in,
To see a life revealed, authentic,
To get a sense of where it’s been.
And now the blinds are being drawn
Another week of fun and show,
Some of us will turn and yawn
Turn off the lights and quickly go –
And for some of us, memories will burn,
Bringing our favourite moments back,
And with each dream we have, we learn,
That plays are dreams, we can’t bring back.
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