IT WAS TENSE

IT WAS TENSE

 

1.

The past, present and future walked into the bar; it was tense.

An old joke, play on words? Yes, no; consider this.

Bar, no bar; it is within us.

Every breath we take, thought or feeling we have

is infused with elements of the three;

every response, action and strategy contains elements

of our past, present and future.

If there are mistakes to be made, are we doomed to repeat them?

2.

Does the idea work? I believe so, gave it a metaphor years ago.

It is contained in two poems written 30 years apart.

The initial poem was a metaphor was of battle lost, 

a strategic retreat and rebuilding and re-grouping.

It evolved into a battle cry of defiance and determination

to succeed, regardless of the pain, the cost.

It was lost for many years, and returned by chance.

30 years later, I read it at my wife’s funeral.

The second poem was written in part as a sequel

to the first, and predominantly as a vehicle to express

s determination to reach beyond the grief and pain I experienced.

Two poems, two wives; I do not wish a third sequel.

3.

So, let’s rev it up, give it some throttle; set the scene.

Imagine, for our purpose, an empty stage at The Globe Theatre.

You are all seated, awaiting the show to open.

A fanfare of trumpets.

(THE SHOW BEGINS)

ENTER: THE POET      How many times has it felt like this, battle lost, no defences:

Broken dreams, broken hearts; visions of shattered souls;

minds and bodies shattered, sobbing, struggling with grief;

carefully constructed conceits ripped apart, stripped bare.

ENTER: THE THINKER   Mind splintered, fragmented; questions roar: seek answers. 

“There must be answers”, Consciousness to understand,

will to live, is not theirs to command. Then it stops,

             the mind goes numb; the body refuses to move.

ENTER: THE SOLDIER   Why so numb? What is this cruel, punitive, cosmically deep silence!

Reason with it, said the Thinker. fight it, I said;

confront it, characterise it, said the Poet? No agreement. 

The argument is not new. Always been there; an uneasy truce.

Order, precision, that’s what we needed; that’s what we need.

Not this equivocation, this diplomatic dance.

There could be no discussion. They had one ain:

our elimination; total destruction.

THE POET         If meaning has gone? What had it all been about?

Why fight so hard,? This was worse than the death of dreams,

worse than the scream of shattered illusions, love unrequited;

worse than the demise of heart-felt schemes, strategies ingeniously crafted.

(ENTER: THE WILL)

THE SOLDIER, 

THE THINKER,       Who are you?

THE FIGHTER

THE WILL         I am the Will.

THE SOLDIER, 

THE THINKER,       The will?

THE FIGHTER

THE WILL         I am the motivation of you all;

until now I have followed, I was wrong.

I was created to coordinate: I am taking over.

THE SOLDIER      Why should I follow or obey you?

THE THINKER      On what basis do you presume to assert yourself.

THE POET         He is the quiet voice that lurks 

on the fringes of our mind:

whispers words of warning; 

admonishes us to take that next faltering step;

His is the strain of steel resolve 

hovering just above Reason; a mite short of Faith.

He dwells in that haunting piece of music 

that resonates in your ears,

THE WILL         Yes, even when you are shrouded in silence,

or overwhelmed by the roar of the world.

I can be found in your favourite book,

 that obscure piece of art;

in the humblest of surroundings, in those places 

where you find peace or tranquillity,

suspended in the void between fractured words 

in broken sentences, dangling phrases; 

in words unspoken. Silence has no name. 

It has no content. It cannot touch us, 

Together we are strong enough to face it.

re-organise, start again; salvage our strength, our pride.

One battle might be lost,

the war to survive has not.

It is not a time of jubilation, 

but of quiet thanks and determination.

THE WILL, POET, THINKER AND FIGHTER BOW,

MOVE BACK STAGE (WHERE THERE ARE STOOLS) AND SIT.

STAGE HAND COMES OUT WITH PLACARD SAYING, “ACT 2”

THE THINKER       Carpe Diem! Seize the day! Yeah, Right!

(COMES FORWARD)      Thirty years have passed, The process is still in motion!

It’s more of a drunken stumble than a walk.

I couldn’t feel, so I learned to talk.

THE POET          So many memories; some wander freely,

(COMES FORWARD)      others lurk; the worst are behind locked doors.

Is it is a naive, desperate, act of Will

             to say “No!”, to cling to hope?

THE FIGHTER       The rules are clear. Play the game, follow the rules

(COMES FORWARD)      (except those which you can bend); be careful what you say

there are some people it is wise or safe to offend.

Weigh the evidence, assess the outcomes, toss the dice.

THE WILL          Hope is essential; small and battered it may be -

(COMES FORWARD)      to embrace, without question or pause, 

The ragged remnants of all that is loving.

to engage in the challenge and unpredictability of life.

THE FIGHTER      How much have I learned, experience earned?

How many battles lost, won; situations from which I have run

Soldier, thinker, poet figures dead?

They persist, argue and dispute; form temporary alliances.

The will, the will to persevere; to overcome, to win;

that never rests. Damn the odds, the intrusion of death;

episodes of partial success, dismal failure;

fall down, get up, dust myself off.

THE POET         So I write, more so now than before;

extol the virtues of hope; ask

“Why proclaim an imperative on hope:

and the reasonable expectation

 

of the inevitability of the return of hope?”

To not do so would be to cravenly surrender

             to - and drown in - the ocean of despair 

that calls me syrup-sweet and siren-like to oblivion!”

Drowning I was when I wrote that, two years ago.

“That is our contradiction, our challenge, our quest,

acknowledge the certainty of Death; to defiantly proclaim. 

“Not Yet!”. To weather the Foe’s mocking, pregnant pause.”

I am older, the thought of death as an inevitability 

asserts itself more consistently and strongly.

It’s not abstract, I have seen another die.

I have seen the face of death.

It is not pretty, noble or to be praised.

It is savage, unforgiving; fighting for every breath.

How many times, as I held her hand, did I think’

“let go, be free of the pain.” There was, could be no miracle.

In the days, weeks, months that followed, the question plagued me; 

with emotion numbed. I asked, “To have reason to to believe 

that hope is achievable and hope that the application of reason 

is a pathway to experiencing the re-birth of hope.”

The answer is yes. It’s not quick, it’s not easy; 

it is not done alone. Whether they be strangers, friend

or family; each in their own way - for better or worse -

have a part to play. I too am playing a game.

The children of my imagination long to be free.

I hold them tight; dress them in different role,

see how many times and forms I can make them perform.

Like a life-buoy, long beyond its effective use (but still looking good)

So, what have I learned; what lessons do I apply?

Take one day at a time, respect my body’s willingness to follow

the dictates of thoughts and expectations of success?

Every beginning is an end, every end a beginning.

THE FIGHTER      Triumphant statements are all very good

(necessary, I would suggest). In the end, it’s the small steps,

the fumble, the fall; the determination to go on; write another poem,

read another book. Enrich another’s life knowingly or not.

Celebrate our shared humanity! Sing our fractured song of praise.

Shout a lonely “Hallelujah!” Say, what the hell!

Take my body, my vitality: all that I am; I will be immortal, 

treasured and sustained in the loving thoughts and memories of others.

THE THINKER

Call me quixotic, call me dumb. We, the living: unpredictable,

 inconsistent, perverse (even) as we may be in our faltering 

yet stubborn adherence to an absurd faith in the power of Love and Life.

We assimilate and accommodate information and experiences. 

We grow individually and collectively. A collective consciousness 

is our power. as one passes the torch of hope 

to another. Say defiantly, I can and will make a difference.

It matters not if is big or small.

 THE WILL, THINKER, FIGHTER AND POET RETURN TO THEIR SEATS.

STAGE HAND COMES ON STAGE, CARRYING A PLACARD, “SCENE 3”

THE WILL

In the end, it’s simple, the least

will ascend, to lead and admonish

- to focus, and say “I am the Will”, rest

and reassemble, gain your strength, refresh!

THE THINKER

Battle over, the War is not: always be another, live

and learn; don’t count the cost. Gain from experience, give

and share with others; individually, we are lost;

a child without a mother; collectively we are strong.

THE FIGHTER

Battle cry? Oh, no; it’s more of a grateful sigh;

hear bird singing, beautiful, before launching into a sky

so radiant blue, kissed by golden sun; feel the grass

beneath your feet, the wind. There is hope, progress.

THE POET

Hold high a battered bridal bouquet, 

proclaim a heartfelt “Hallelujah”!

You might not know the words to say,

I will try and sing them to you”

ALL BOW, LEAVE THE STAGE, AND AWAIT APPLAUSE.

4.

So there, my friends you have it. My story is told.

It is bitter/sweet. A story of my life, of what keeps me sane;

when in the face of darkness, I have ways to my hope regain.

The battle is relentless, ebbs and flows like a tide.

The past, present and future walked into the bar; it was tense.

An old joke, play on words? Yes, no; consider this.

Bar, no bar; it is within us:

every breath we take, thought or feeling we have