Poetry

Epic and Autobiographical (A Versified Finale) An Autobiographical Narrative: 1980s 1

by Carl Halling
08/23/14
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A Perfectly Foolish Young Man I Wanted Part Two Book Five Epic and Autobiographical (A Versified Finale) An Autobiographical Narrative: 1980s 1

An Autobiographical Narrative: 1980s

The origins of An Actor Arrives

Lie in the barest elements

Of a story started but never finished

In early 1980,

While I was working at the Bristol Old Vic

Playing the minute part

Of Mustardseed the Fairy

In a much praised production

Of Shakespeare's celebrated

A Midsummer Night's Dream.

It was originally rescued in 2006

From a battered notebook in which I habitually scribbled

During spare moments offstage

While clad in my costume

And covered in blue body make-up

And silvery glitter. And while doing so,

Some of the glitter was transferred from the pages

With which the were stained

More than a quarter of a century previously

Onto my hands...an eerie experience indeed.

An Actor Arrives (at the Bristol Old Vic)

I remember the grey slithers of rain,

The jocular driver

As I boarded the bus

At Temple Meads,

And the friendly lady who told me

When we had arrived at the city centre.

I remember the little pub on King Street,

With its quiet maritime atmosphere.

I remember tramping

Along Park Street,

Whiteladies Road and Blackboy Hill,

My arms and hands aching from my bags,

To the little cottage where I had decided to stay

And relax between rehearsals,

Reading, writing, listening to music.

I remember my landlady, tall, timid and beautiful.

An Autobiographical Narrative: 1980s

Nineteen Eighty Tell Me

Has been reproduced more or less

As it was originally scrawled

In a red Silvine memo book

In the very summer of 1980,

Almost certainly as I was waiting

To go on as Mustardseed the Fairy

During the London run of a much-praised

Bristol Old Vic production

Of A Midsummer Night's Dream.

Nineteen Eighty Tell Me

Nineteen Eighty, tell me,

Where are you?

What are you trying to be?

This week, you're 1963

And there's even

Talk of a rebirth of '67

But that's next week.

Nineteen Eighty, tell me,

When will you be mine?

A little bit '59,

I'll not share you with a Beatnik,

Take a rest after the exertions,

Punk revolutions,

Before our old friend,

Sweet nostalgia,

Goes round the bend.