Reading a Script in Revere
©August 10th, 2017
By Vijaya Sundaram
Marshlands stretch towards the horizon,
Quiet under a darkening sky.
Gold-red-green-white lights blink
In faraway, receding Boston,
While behind me, the sea lies still
Beneath an orange moon, which rises lyrical
And lush, a pale grapefruit swollen with air,
While eight of us, earnest, intent,
Read through the lines of a play
That unfolds, surreal and nightmarish,
Full of mute early twentieth century terror
Disguised as domestic foreboding in 2015.
Meanwhile a resurgent reality washes
And swirls around our feet,
As the forces of destruction marshal their forces
Far away, but not far enough away, from us.
Still, we keep reading, and the evening coalesces.
We keep reading, because to not do so
In the face of what is coming,
To not think, or speak up, or act
In the face of that which approaches,
Will undo us all. And in reading,
We resist an approaching paralysis.
The sea moves slowly along the shore,
The marshlands send forth their mosquitoes
The director’s Papillon comes up,
Offering blank canine sweetness
For a few tail-wagging moments.
Crackers and cheese, and lemonade and wine
Chips and dips, and chocolate cake, and
After-script-reading conversation,
Remind me that in belonging to civilization,
We have to be able to excise that which wounds us all.
A paintbrush is more than a paintbrush.
A pen is more than a pen.
A picture is more than a picture.
Words are more than their meaning,
Yes – but if we do not see the true face
Of that suave Visitor from other times,
Whose honeyed voice awakens us
To false and incomplete notions of purity,
Who lulls our suspicions with talk of
A thousand years of a golden age,
Who talks of music and art and literature
But with a sub-textual menace,
We are doomed.
_______________________________________________________________________