Yesterday in the Branch 2 try outs for National Theatre Connections 2015 – I was so moved and impressed by the standard of ” poetic inspiration ” delivered in the space.
To be asked to write a poem is a very difficult thing to do, unless language flows more naturally from well versed pens .
But 3 groups of REmOTE PACE rose magestically to their budding task.
Each one determined to see beyond the perceived creative blocks, that may or may not have fallen on adolescent shoulders ; and from a different artistic perspective, carried out their Herculean feat with “tree-top” splendour.
There were a few poems that did, more naturally , land on listening ears with real emotional veritas – in any ensemble performance – the eye will always want to single out the few. And these few were poems written with a talent that needs no explanation, other than the writer is just :
” born that way” …
And we know all about this, because another great poet told us
Some are born great
Some achieve greatness
And some have greatness thrust upon them
Perhaps this well-worn Shakespeare ” extract” has more ” resonance now.
For which were you, yesterday ?
The born great …
The now , with harder work , greater….
Or the, through adversity and the almost impossible – at possibly a moment of greatness?
The writing of a poem , is to many , as difficult as running a marathon through the desert.
But to a few , as natural, as opening their mouth to speak.
We all express ourselves creatively in different ways – some act , some dance , some sing , some draw, some play and some write
Education – fulfills us…
Sport – enlivens us …
But the The Arts complete us .
So far this process has opened my eyes to the potential of so many in PACE , things I would not have known on first judged sight.
I have in the space of a sunday hour or two , got to see behind the many masks you wear , to hide your more sensitive feelings
I have marvelled at the wealth of ideas and expression you still have to give
And have been overwhelmed at times , by the feelings of elation at the prospect of the talent to come
This play has already lifted us all ” higher ” – it has removed us from our usual ground and made us look up.
If a play can do this in its first tentative outing, what wonders are still in store for us all , when we begin to really climb.
Even if some leaves fall, they still will be a part of this NTC tree – for fallen leaves soon become the nourishment for the roots that lie beneath.
The life of a tree goes on in cyclical fashion.
From root to crown – a tree grows strong through self preservation. Every stage of its development has a part to play.
Branch 2 will now need to let some go – too many for this next branch to hold ; and if these ” leaves ” don’t blow away , of their own accord , they will soon return to better drama roots , to grow stronger, taller , yet higher – another day
This remote drama-tree isn’t going anywhere – it has been planted in Spires 1 now , for everyone to climb on.
Before you go …something was sent to me today , from someone who couldn’t ” be present ” in our poetic moment
I felt it right to post it here , because I know that those that read the blog will always listen with better ears and hear that much time, effort and art has gone in to each and every line.
The poet has cleverly blended a love of this play with a love of acting – it has a dramatic monologue feel to it , so right for this one , who missed a workshop , but is still so desperate to play.
I imagine it would have been delivered with passion and sensitivity. Just as the poem and poet intends .
I can’t think of a better way to end this blog than with a look at the play through the perspective of yet another set of great eyes .
And as I said to you
Breathe… And grow…
Antler Rae McGaw.
Round the corner she pivots,
A rather heart broken look on her face,
Her face still strikes fury and rage,
Her nostrils flare,
The way they do during a debate with mum,
She stops… And stares into remote,
Stares into the sky line of Kelvin Grove park,
She stands silent, still,
Like a deer in head lights,
Oh Antler… Antler Rae McGaw.
Oil Munich Anderson.
His phone gently slides into his phone pocket with grace,
He blends in with the couples, in with the children, in with mothers and neds like blue and red blend,
Oil is purple,
He isn’t quite primary but he’s damn right secondary,
The rain dribbles off his leather jacket ruining it ever so dearly,
Today, especially. He notices the thrush birds communicating,
Today they look happy he mimicked to himself,
He speaks to himself often,
Wether he notices it or not is beyond my thoughts,
I noticed him do it at the dinner table the other night,
When me, antler and him were munching our great roast dinner,
He mimicked. It was cute,
Oh Oil… Oil Munich Anderson.
He stands with a stampede of idiots,
Him being one of those idiots,
He gathers up his mucus,
Releases his mucus,
It touches the ground,
Making a little minuscule of Kelvin Grove park a little more ruined than what it was previously,
Oh Blister… Blister Cameron.
Skin Moira Angela Milligan.
Her too… Being an idiot,
She also stands beside the rustic slide,
With the idiots,
Being an idiot,
Her stubby finger slides the final Extra chewing gum outside its packet,
Now… The chewing gum can breathe,
Only for 3 seconds,
It enters Skin’s mouth,
I sort of feel… Sympathy for that Chewing gum,
Her hand releases the wrapper,
It floats onto the ground… Slowly, as if the park is trying to resist it from falling,
Bouncing and dodging the air,
Tap goes the wrapper,
Tapping itself onto the ground of Kelvin Grove,
Skin Milligan has officially contributed in the 45.1% of litter in Scotland,
Oh Skin… Skin Moira Angela Milligan.
Finn Francesca Goldberg.
Don’t know much of her,
Don’t know much of this strange, outcast, forsake young girl,
Beautiful never the less,
I can infer her feelings and personality,
Keeps her small thoughts locked in a padlock inside her wonderful mind,
Keeps them locked tight,
Ever so tight.
But I know, I know for sure she has plenty too say,
Red is insightful… Deep down… Buried within her guts,
She keeps her thoughts buried within her guts,
Wanting to break through but her gut holds her back.
I like Red,
She seems ever so devoted and loyal,
When or if she finds the day to show the Rainbow inside of her… I like her,
I like her a lot,
Oh Red… Francesca Goldberg.
Who is this mystery of a juvenile?
What is his story I thought,
Obsessing over a glove I thought,
On an average Spring day,
Surely it’s not that big of a deal I thought,
But it’s Desk I thought,
Seems like an ‘alright’ lad I thought,
Does he have parents?
What’s his Surname?
Too many questions to be too sure of Desk.
And now for me, Chrystal… Chrystal Moyà McGaw.
I’m rather vexed at my older sister,
She’s insane really,
Oh how Antler goes wild at times,
“We’re young. We’re wild. We’re free” she likes to quote from Lana Del Rey,
Oh how Antler confuses me,
Oh how Antler storms off in tantrums,
I guess it’s part of being a teenager.
I get rather confused often too,
It’s life… It’s confusing,
I do too form into a huge thunderstorm at times and annoy, confuse and frustrate people, but mainly due to hormones,
Don’t all girls.
I get confused why I care so much about my eyebrows,
I get confused about reputation,
I get confused about money,
I get confused about the need for alcohol at a young age,
Why it can turn into sex or drugs.
I get confused about my sisters belief in independence and morality,
I get confused as to why I followed my sister here,
Why I follow her everywhere,
Why I’m always here for her and I get no token in return,
All I get is told what to do and not what to do,
I get confused as to wither I should care about things or not,
Wither I should bother at all?
So I choose the easy option,
I just don’t bother nor care,
It’s terrible really.
Oh I… I, Chrystal Moyà McGaw.
I broke my arm on this very tree,
My right arm,
Start of the summer holidays,
On the peak of this tree,
I see a bundle of life,
The general atmosphere is fresh,
And all is young,
It’s outstanding to look at,
Fascinating to the eye,
The morning due settles down on the uncut, natural grass,
It just seems so… So fresh,
So fresh that I can’t bare to keep my shoes on,
My young feet cannot help but take my shoes off and feel.
Nestle my toes into the soil,
Rubbing it in between my toes,
The soil moisturising my tired feet so dearly.
Ahh… This is the life.
I was meant to catch that bus,
The 8:17 one to Paisley,
So I ran… With my shoes in my right hand,
On the peak of this bus,
Two anxious college students,
One hungry old aged pensioner,
3 girls from my school…
One middle aged man working for Primark,
4 people desperate to get to there destination on time,
And a fed up bus driver.
Isn’t it funny how quickly I develop my opinions on people,
Judging them so rapidly,
Not only opinion,
What they are thinking and feeling too,
But it’s my perspective ain’t it,
Perspective is such a powerful *thing*,
Perspective is my way of life.
When I walked onto this 38 McGills Bus,
I looked around,
In a matter of seconds.
I can’t sit there because it’s for the disabled,
I can’t sit there because that women is smoking,
I can’t sit next to that hot boy because he’ll think I like him,
I can’t sit in the middle of the bus purely because I hate the middle of the bus,
Definitely not sitting near those girls.
The girls from my school.
I have no other choice but to stand.
Stand with my iPad,
Lonely and unsociable.
All because of my perspective on people.
So for me,
Perspective is my motto,
For how judgemental it may be,
Bummer…but it is reality.
Sent from my iPad