Category Archives: Dream Ensemble

Claudius

This poem, based on the 81st Psalm, is inspired by the cinematic version of Sir Patrick Stewart’s opening scene in a Palm d’Or-winning performance as Claudius, in Gregory Doran’s 2008 production of Hamlet.

David Tennant stars as Hamlet, which is what drew me in. Rumor has it that if he hadn’t missed a few performances for spinal surgery due to an on-stage injury, Tennant would’ve picked up a Lawrence Olivier Award for this performance. Between these two hard-working actors, you could fill a trophy room to the point of clutter with television, film and theater awards…

The poem is in the voice of Claudius, of course. His opening lines set up Hamlet’s later quip about coronation fireworks being “more honored in the breach than the observance.”

Tonight we shall sing and give thanks,
to salute the strength of our realm.
Lift your spirits and move with the drum,
the tambour and pipe call the tune.
Bring forth the trumpets – the moon is new,
and our fortunes can only grow.
For it is the custom in Denmark,
to toast royal alliances well.
The manners are sensible here,
and this is no novel fashion,
none can remember another.
“A son need not mourn forever,
nor shroud himself in strange despair.
Your grief calls out – I would set you free.
I speak with a king’s magnanimity.
I admit, there is a test in this.
My court is your audience, prince.
I would have you soften your grief.
For how can a king command mourning,
when the queen’s new consort reigns?
I am the head of your royal house,
who names you the throne’s only heir.
Show me your needs and I’ll meet them.
Now you say not one word to us,
and ask no blessing, discontent.
I would give my wife’s son good leave
to take his own counsel, dear prince.
If our people are well moved
to settle on me a king’s cares,
with what alacrity I’d strike
to show our rivals our full strength!
Our enemies would be dismayed,
and back to hell their ghosts would slink.
Acknowledge, prince, my regency,
stay here, drink up the honeyed wine.”

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The Missing

The Missing showcases a side of Ron Howard I never expected to see, and brings a wealth of stunning performance moments from an all-star cast in an epic adventure about family, race, and survivorship. Starring Cate Blanchett, Tommy Lee Jones, Evan Rachel Wood, Eric Schweig, Val Kilmer, Aaron Eckhart, and Jenna Boyd, the story follows the long journey home of a homesteading family in New Mexico after a renegade Apache brujo and his men attack in search of girls to sell in Mexico. Along the way, the white women of this family learn the hard way that their ignorance of Apache values and Apache claims to the land where they live cannot continue to go unchallenged.

My favorite scene in this movie is still the very first one, but I won’t give that away if you haven’t seen it yet. This poem, based on the 79th Psalm, is in Lilly’s voice (Evan Rachel Wood), ruminating in captivity about her odds of being rescued by white soldiers.

What has become of my mother? Strangers
have fouled our ranch with monstrosities,
nothing is sacred to these traffickers.
Our homestead reeks of violation.
the men of our household are carrion,
unburied and impossible to mourn;
their witch cooked Brake alive to feed wild crows.
The land we called our own soaked up their blood
through leaves and snow, as naturally as rain,
and no one left behind to dig their graves.
Before we were the butt of townsfolks’ jokes,
but what we’ve been reduced to – I’ve no words.
How can this have happened to me? How long
will my life be dragged through the mud, how long?
Why don’t these catastrophes strike people
more deserving of contempt, know-nothings,
people with no curiosity,
those who would’ve amounted to less?
Are there not enough fools and laggards
to surfeit their dens of iniquity?
Am I to suffer for my father’s crime?
surely the army will come for us,
for without their help, we are done for.
Someone is bound to attempt to save us,
for we have been stolen from Christian homes,
and no one dare blame us for going along,
so long as we fight in our hearts for grace.
These outlaws and drunks mock our hopes and prayers.
But when cavalry troops come, they’ll turn tail,
eager to outrun avenging lawmen.
When the officers see us bound and gagged,
they’ll be quick to cut our ropes and help us.
They’ll show these shameless bottom-feeders scorn,
and drive home their regard with bayonets.
We here are all that remains of our homesteads.
what we pray for is the barest minimum.
In our mothers’ names we cry for revenge.

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Harriet

The conversation about critical race theory has gotten so overtly racist and fascist these days that I have to suspect that in the years to come, lobbyists will be trying to prevent gradeschool and even college students from learning anything about Harriet Tubman and the underground railroad. When this movie came out, it broke a lot of glass ceilings in the film industry. And like the message of Martin Luther King, I think it frightened and angered a lot of people who weren’t prepared to grapple with the history of their own country and region.

When I was a kid, visiting Savannah, Georgia, I smiled to see so many statues of horsemen in the parks, merely because their horses were handsome and the bronze was nicely done. In hindsight, I am shocked at how oblivious I was at that age about the use of symbolism to prop up myths about Southern heritage that are totally out of touch with the reality of American history and the Civil War.

One of my favorite children’s authors, Richard Adams, wrote a book glamorizing the life of General Robert E. Lee’s horse Traveller, and I remember getting in trouble for bringing that book to school because it showed a confederate flag on the cover. I reacted defensively, because I saw it as a neutral horse story, and I saw the civil war as an uncontroversial backdrop to that horse story. I didn’t appreciate how distorted Richard Adams’s description of the civil war was at that age. He gave all the standard excuses for the insurrection – none of them were valid, but I bought the story hook, line and sinker. I didn’t believe that slavery was the root cause of the war.

Now that I know more about American history, I can see why people are fighting to suppress the truth. It may have been true all along, but to a lot of Americans, the fact that the Civil War was about slavery is news – and unwelcome news. It challenges what they learned in school. It challenges a lot of their assumptions about themselves and their heritage. And it raises a lot of questions about why that information was suppressed for so long after the war was won.

This poem, based on the 78th Psalm, is about the parable of the Exodus as a story told both among slaves and among freedmen and women, before and after the Civil War, to give context and inspiration to slaves and the children and descendents of slaves. For those who don’t know the movie Harriet or the story of the underground railroad, Harriet Tubman used the name and the legend of Moses when she traveled to the south to free slaves by stealth and by force, both before and during the Civil War.

Come near to your teachers, children, listen.
Open up your minds to history.
What I have to tell you has been passed down,
generation after generation,
and those who learn this story come to know
what our parents, and theirs, and theirs, went through.
We would not have you live in ignorance,
or raise your children without having known,
what wonders our own people worked for God.
They fought so you and I could be born free!
We, too, are descended of Moses;
his teaching was passed down to slaves,
and our ancestors raised up their children,
in secret they taught the commandments,
so that, in their hearts, they would uphold real laws,
for the sake of you children, their yet unborn,
that you might teach your sons and daughters
to place their trust in justice, truth and love,
and not forsake the miracle of freedom,
abiding by the righteous laws of God.
That they not join the lost generations,
rudderless and headstrong motherless boys,
as listless and as feckless as the damned,
and stripped of all religion – naked bones.
Such courage as they had in petty crimes
availed them little in the bitter south,
for they had no higher laws to live by,
and never thought to fight against Jim Crow.
And they forgot the war their parents fought,
and never looked on Moses as their own.
Before their ancestors were taken slaves,
another Moses led the way to freedom.
To part the sea that held his people back,
God held the waters fast – the waves stood still.
Beyond the land of Egypt, by a wisp
of cloud by day, a flame by night, He guided them.
This Moses showed them where to find cool springs,
when they believed themselves undone by thirst.
He shattered a great stone deep in the waste,
and water gushed free, clear as mountain streams.
And even then, his people challenged him,
unable to believe in a just God.
They mocked his gratitude for miracles,
demanding whether next, it would rain bread?
Among themselves, they bantered about God.
They joked, “Can He lay a feast in this desert?
If indeed we should thank him for this drink,
and He alone gave us this gushing spring,
why does He not serve bread at our table?
Where is the meat He has roasted for us?”
And God heard them well, and He answered them,
His people felt the heat of His wrath,
and their children, and theirs, paid a price.
For without belief and trust in providence,
they placed no value on their own salvation.
As easily as clouds scoot through the sky,
God brought to earth the bounty of the blessed,
a grain as fine as coriander seed,
for bread as white as hoarfrost, just for them.
This was a feast fit for Pharaohs and kings,
and it covered the desert surrounding their camp.
He drove the flocks of wild birds forth on storms,
the wind whipped from the east and from the south,
and pheasants and wild geese collapsed, exhausted,
and feathered feasts spread everywhere among them,
all the camp was littered with fresh meat,
and Moses and his people dwelt in plenty.
That day, they stuffed themselves without scruples,
for God had gratified their appetites.
They hiccupped, bellies strained against their belts,
when, even as they chewed the last morsels,
the force of God’s reproof struck in their midst,
and strong men in their prime were robbed of breath,
the flower of their youth snuffed out as one.
Yet even then, they heckled bitterly
against the thought of miracles and fate.
Thus in exile, without lands or laws, they went
their ways, remorselessly cynical, lost.
At times, at the point of the sword, they prayed
for help and looked to this God of old.
In these moments, they remembered their roots
and the works of Moses and Abraham.
These things tripped easily from their tongues
and they they spoke not true – although they prayed,
They made other pacts on the side, spread their bets,
and paid short shrift to the covenant.
Even so, the Lord had mercy for them,
curbed His anger toward them easily,
And sought no retribution in the end.
for He did not forget man’s frailty,
a creature born to die unrecompensed.
For men who have been slaves know only hate,
and cast into the wilderness, they doubt.
Of God they knew but little, trusted less,
and seizing freedom, cast aside all yokes.
What did your forebears know of miracles,
of holy intervention in men’s crimes,
of wonders done in Egypt, or on Sinai,
of water churning with slaveholders’ blood,
and poisoning the Pharaoh’s great estates?
Their Moses stole through riverbanks by night,
the cries of frogs and crickets masked her calls.
She led her people north, and left their crops
to feed the birds and wither in the fields.
If God had struck their cotton down with hail,
and sickened their moss oaks with mistletoe,
had robbed them of their livestock with a plague,
and bled their wealth, he could not have done more.
She roused freed slaves to fight the southern states,
to burn with the indignities they’d borne,
and raised and army to confront the whites.
Was Egypt’s Moses more war-like than theirs,
who called the wrath of God down on his foes,
and watched the seven plagues denude their wealth?
The Civil War, too, claimed the slavers’ sons,
a generation died on those bleak fields.
and Harriet, their Moses, led the way,
shepherding her flock to Canada.
She listened to God’s signs and quelled their doubts,
and led them where no enemy would find them.
And she delivered them up to freedom,
far from the slave-holding southern states.
And when they went south again in arms,
they fought for the right to their own land,
and won the right to see their kin again.
Yet the whites would not be reconciled,
and the terms of the peace they rebuked.
They went back to their old ways at once,
like a rifle that always misfires.
Their fiery crosses offended God,
these men who idolized whiteness and hate.
And the God of Moses reacted swiftly,
cutting off the Jim Crow whites from grace.
God withdrew from their homes and their hearts,
the spirit no longer shared their travails.
He turned His back while demagogues and crooks
assumed the reins of power in the south.
Even those He had freed felt him absence,
for his wroth no longer made distinctions.
The youth of their cities burned out, took drugs,
children had children, unmarried, alone.
The statesmen who fought for justice were slain,
and their legacies died with them, unmourned.
Now you must stir yourselves from this stupor,
like magicians freed from an evil spell.
You must fight the corrupt, pandering shills,
bring the ignorant poor out of their thrall.
The old ways will not serve you in your task,
the hesitancy of the middle path won’t work.
You must take new vows, invent new values,
true to the past, but not bound by its errors.
You must retake the commanding heights for love,
before the earth and all that’s in it burns.
Be able to lead those who only follow,
a shepherd to the lost, not the lucky few.
For if you cannot lead manind, the rest
will go to ruin from their ignorance,
and the elect will go without in turn.
Do not silence your conscience in this task,
but do it well, with statecraft and with nerve.

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Fathers and Daughters

I know coming on the heels of a fan poem for The Phantom of the Opera, the first line of this fan poem for Fathers and Daughters comes off as a little distracted, but it’s such a good line, I had to steal it. The performances of Kylie Rogers, Amanda Seyfried and Russell Crowe are unforgettable in this film – the story of a girl who needs her father back, to feel brave enough to let herself love again. This poem, based on the 77th Psalm, is especially close to my heart, and is dedicated to those who have lost loved ones too soon, too suddenly, too young.

My father promised me – just let me stand here, please.
My father sang to me – just let me answer, please.
In the panics of childhood, I reached for him.
My eyes stiffen with salt by night, it won’t stop.
I don’t want to be told that’s ok.
I dwell on his absence, strain against the loss.
I have nothing to say for myself, no pride.
You forced me to feel with my whole heart again.
I recoiled from the pain, I had no words.
I could lose myself in his memory,
the world we made maps onto the world entire.
This is the song I pull to myself in the cold.
Let it speak to my heart, for I ask myself,
will the love that was real never touch me again,
can no one bear to hold me through the night?
Is the warmth of my childhood erased from life,
are the promises kept by the dead unmade?
Can my father still leave me, in memory, too,
would he blame me for running from hope and fear?
In my heart I believe I have let him down,
and he hid his face from my gaze in shame.
I try to bring him back before my mind’s eye,
when I hear his works held up as an example.
I recite the smallest things he said to me,
and read aloud from his last masterpiece.
He taught me how to see and feel and do.
Where else can his daughter turn for faith and truth?
My father’s joys, to me, were miracles.
The wider world acclaimed him, too, in time.
He came back, when he seemed lost to me forever,
he never changed to me, never gave up.
The way my body needs the touch of water,
the way the senses tremble at the thought,
my whole heart thrilled when we both sang this song.
The way the sky withholds and then pours down.
The way round thunderclaps reverberate.
That was how his laughter filled my soul up.
The clattering ignition launching satellites –
that was how he typed his book about us.
His readers shared our triumphs, laughed and wept.
He wrote the way a navigator writes,
and sought uncharted places in the heart,
where things so near we miss them can be found.
My father led me here – somehow he knew,
this song was sent to bring me back to you.

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Kingdom of Heaven

Ridley Scott’s Kingdom of Heaven has been warmly received by critics as an epic that trades in positive masculinity and features a powerhouse performance from Eva Green as the princess Sibylla and an all-star cast of knights in shining armor. As with Gladiator, the soundtrack steals many a scene, this time scored by Harry Gregson-Williams.

The story asks the question whether personal integrity is an adequate stand against corrupt leadership in the realm of statecraft – whether upholding the rights of criminals is fair to those under their power. Although the film suggests that Balian is content to live with his choices to the end, the price paid by others whom the film allows us to care about is awfully high.

This poem, based on the 73rd Psalm, is in Balian’s voice addressed to Sybilla, after he has announced his decision not to usurp power from her cynical and foolhardy husband, Guy de Lusignan (played by Marton Csokas). Later, he will retrace his steps and confront Guy ineffectually about a tactical blunder – but his cinematically convenient decision to confront the king bluntly in front of his knights naturally dooms his advice to failure, as Guy must defend his own authority by dismissing Balian’s unsolicited advice wholesale. Balian (Orlando Bloom) comes off as a bit of a blunderer himself, in that regard. But at least his self-respect is intact…

Only the good is cherished by a true knight,
for what more is Christendom to the pilgrim?
Truly, for my part, I might have strayed,
for in this labyrinth, love gave me pause.
Do you doubt that I envy your husband,
when I see you secure in his palm?
Glibly the man fears nothing of the grave,
feeling only his fullness in power.
The cross has no place in his religion,
for the man abhors all self-denial.
Arrogance defines his every gesture,
disdainful of his duties under law.
Grease from his table smears his bloodshot eyes,
as he plies the mob by idolizing war.
Of binding oaths he speaks with arch derision,
and no one doubts that he will be a tyrant.
When he swears by the name of our Lord,
his rabble-rousing sweeps through crowds like wildfire.
Not because they credit him with faith, no –
and yet they drink his poison eagerly.
They suppose Christ does not see them sin,
and question how one God could know all hearts.
Do you think I am blind to their success?
Men who stint no evil gain in power.
For what reward do you think I keep my vows,
and by my labors do such penitence?
The Templars spit on me, and will do worse,
and all my doings here may be for nought.
Do you doubt I contemplated killing him?
The thought of my wife, and your son, held me back.
The act of apprehending how things stand
has been a wrenching sorrow in my heart.
Until, in contemplation on the mount,
I came to sense what heaven can withhold.
Truly, these warriors rule over an anthill,
a simple act can cast all to the winds.
Do you not marvel at how sudden death
can be, on the heels of great good fortune?
Ephemeral as incense, their illusions
dissipate like mist above the sea at daybreak.
When I resented keenly all I’d lost,
and fear of hypocrites transfixed my soul,
I stumbled like a brute led on God’s way,
comprehending none of what I saw.
Yet even then, love’s light burned from within,
the spirit of Jerusalem sustained me.
Your brother took me in his confidence,
and in defending you, I won acclaim.
Why else do you believe I take up arms,
who else do you imagine I desire?
Exact from me all that the world demands,
and still a knight and Christian, I endure.
I see what ends corrupted men are for,
how low they grovel, obdurate and damned.
For me, nearness to scripture is enough,
I pitch my tent where God wills and move on,
consoled by the fair sweat upon my brow.

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Recovery

This movie scared the pants off me. I picked up on it because I was in a David Tennant vortex on YouTube (a highly recommended place to be if you need some extra goofiness in your day) and it pulled me right in.

The writing is honest, the performances from David Tennant and Sarah Parish are heartbreaking. As the filmmakers said of the production, what patients with traumatic brain injury asked them not to do was to tack on a Hollywood ending that pretends everything is going to be okay. Because brain damage doesn’t just go away.

Sometimes with a head injury, even the injured person can tell something is wrong afterwards. But most of the time, it’s more subtle than that. And that’s why I needed this film. Because it shows what your loved ones are going through when you, yourself, don’t even realize anything is wrong with you.

Because you don’t remember exactly what happened. The you that was the “before” you just isn’t there, not even in your own memories. Major props to the filmmakers for showing that compassion goes both ways between carers and the disabled.

But Recovery is more than a film about loss – it’s also a story about moving on. About learning not to treat your losses as some sort of ‘get out of jail free’ card. About recognizing that who you are now matters more than what you once were, because tomorrow isn’t waiting around for you to get back up again and pull your life together.

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Captain Corelli’s Mandolin

This film takes me back to the beginnings of this blog, when I didn’t have any Russell Crowe fan poetry to show for myself and was reduced to posting leftover poetry from other fandoms… Of course, eventually I decided to make this fansite officially more inclusive, sort of a smorgasbord of poetry for different fandoms with a special preference for Russell Crowe movies (and music).

My longest-running experiment in fan poetry was a series of 100 stanzas about the star-crossed lovers in Captain Corelli’s Mandolin, written as letters from Pelagia (Penelope Cruz) to Mandras (Christian Bale), about the gradually ebbing love she felt for him when he left her for the Albanian front and never wrote back. (This happens before Captain Corelli, played with distinction by Nicholas Cage, arrives on the scene to complete the triangle.) You can see bits and pieces of it here.

This poem picks up where that one left off, with Captain Corelli’s arrival, leading the Italian invasion of the island of Ithaca, all of whose young men have either died fighting or straggled back to their homes in secret to live in hiding under the Axis occupation. Inspired by the 68th Psalm, best known for its breathtaking imagery (“The wings of the dove are inlaid with silver / and her pinions with precious gold”) but actually a rather sprawling Psalm that shifts in tone and perspective many times, much like the film.

Let the victors be named, throw open your gates,
and may all our detractors scatter!
As smoke clears off when there is no flame,
as candlesticks yield to a lighted wick,
may the ragtag rebels and holdouts relent.
And let our heroes parade and exult
before the town, and take pride in their work.
Sing an aria – learn a libretto with us!
If our entrance is not paved with roses,
Verdi will triumph where Wagner fell flat.

Opera, the music of exiles abroad,
sustains us like players in strange concert halls.
Don Giovanni will lead the way home,
where Rossini will greet us, free men, with a shout.
Those who appeal to Das Rheingold, be damned!
For us, sing Bellini, and sing of love,
here in the heat, in half-conquered resorts.
We are ready for earthquakes, explosions,
storms – pour out your wrath, we tell the Greek gods,
Ithaca, too, is subdued by guitars.

A generous sunset, the bells at dusk,
this half-deserted village stirs to life.
The tango is known here, the mandolin,
who knew our poor soldiers could make ladies flush?
The officers beat out the time, make quips –
these women could make our whole army a match!
With long looks they reprove us, yet they smile,
saying our captain would flee from a skirt.
Those who lie with the Germans are warned, shunned.
The caress of my mistress shimmers like starlight,
her breast, like a songbird’s, thrills to the sun.

When at last we broke through the defenders’ ranks,
a chill obscured the zenith of the sun.
This island’s bluffs, like mountains of the gods,
overlook our ships disdainfully and slouch.
What titans are shaking their chains when they stir,
upending great temples of stone with brute haste?
The island remains and makes quarries of graves.

Our army outnumbers this country’s by far,
we came ashore like the breakers of storms.
Though only a captain, I lead these men,
and music is all that defines us here.
Your guerrillas recaptured the island,
you claimed your own hostages, took revenge,
the women who strayed, you hanged like dogs –
all for a certain idea of life.
I pray for our brave quartermaster. Enough.

Music to us was salvation, not hope.
Opera, immortal, helped us accept death.
True, in this war men are butchered like sheep,
or like wolves in sheep’s clothing, skulking and sly.
Our army sought power and patrimony,
to salvage a myth of our destiny.
Why? So our boots could sink knee-deep in blood,
while the dogs roll in offal from misfired bombs?

The villagers saw our parades in style,
my countrymen marching in fresh from the front.
Our singers were followed by brass and drums
filing through throngs of young girls and old men.
Our choruses gave thanks to Rossini first,
then Verdi, the greatest of opera gods.
For a few bars Bellini held sway as well,
Italy’s nobility know their own –
Padua, Naple and Rome sent royal guards.

Conduct our hearts, our wayward dreams – the strength
our music gave us in the breach, the love
this island showed us when our cause was lost.
To you, my muse, I owe not words but gifts.
The war that beat upon your shores is lost,
artillery will scour here no more,
for Germany makes reparations now.
The dogs of war are scattered and subdued.
The next time officers come from abroad
to shelter here, they’ll sue on bended knee.

Ithaca, sing of the loves you have known,
strum the guitar or draw notes with the bow.
Sing of the castaway heroes of yore.
Sound not one bell, let the voice alone ring.
Honor the courage your women have shown,
for strangers, for fellowship, some for pride,
their love as magnanimous as blue skies.
Fierce in the sanctity of their own homes.
Music embraces the woman alone.
Perfect as morning and fine as sea foam.

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A Winter’s Tale

Russell Crowe plays the delectably evil henchman Pearly Soames in Akiva Goldsman’s modern fairytale, A Winter’s Tale. His seething enthusiasm for dashing the dreams of the innocent might seem like an odd choice of theme for a poem based on the 65th Psalm, but somehow, it just seemed like the perfect fit. Here I’ve lapsed into end rhyme, but the effect, like the villain in the film, just makes me smile.

For fans of The Ordinary Fear of God and Indoor Garden Party, this is not a film you want to miss – lots of cameos from Russell’s bandmates to enjoy here. Pictured above is Alan Thomas Doyle.

If silence is due praise, I will be brief,
and pay the wages of my vows in blood.
Who listens to a dying virgin’s prayer,
will hear all flesh expire, one by one.
My deeds of mischief now exceed my pay.
For chaos is rewarded but one way.
Fortunate those the dark lord holds to heart,
who revel in opulent, macabre courts.
May we slake awful appetites at will –
unholy forces, ring the dinner bell!
Though death-defying acts escape some plans,
maneuvers of a deft angelic hand,
that bright dog of the east comes hurrying
across the bleak Atlantic just to see
what monumental evils, set in store,
our dark lord has thrown up to dim the stars –
as if to try to still the roaring seas,
or smother up all hell’s ignominies.
Even from the world’s ends, our prince is feared.
By twilight his dark powers are revered.
With blood as his manure, he gives back
unto the soil the wealth that life extracts.
All chaos bubbles up, a seething stream.
For chaos is the impetus, the seed,
the fertile flood, and the great leveling,
and soaked in gore, the earth is quickening.
Our exploits tonight crown a record year –
the grilles of Manhattan are dripping with fear.
Even these fresh upstate meadows do drip,
all innocent joys are squeezed out in fear’s grip.
The wolves are at play in the sheepfold tonight,
and the rivers run cold to behold such a sight.
Hell’s minions whoop for joy – this scent they prize.

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Filed under A Winter's Tale, Corruption, Dream Ensemble, New York corruption, Poetry

The Missing

So the 64th Psalm turned out to be a dead ringer for Val Kilmer’s cameo in The Missing – pretty tickled to be able to write this poem. I really enjoyed Kilmer’s short appearance in this gem of a Ron Howard movie, opposite Cate Blanchett and Tommy Lee Jones.

I haven’t seen his newest release, but I’m eager to check out the material included on his long-awaited project about the connection between Mark Twain and Mary Baker Eddy. I honestly don’t know what the connection is, but I can’t wait to find out!

I once read a book written by the hypnotist who first introduced Miss Eddy to altered states of consciousness during her long, drawn-out ordeal with chronic back pain. Not too many copies of that one in circulation these days, but it’s housed at the Arts & Sciences library of Johns Hopkins University. It was fascinating, relating the story of a hypnotist who could raise a blister on your arm using only an imaginary heat source. Makes an interesting kind of backstory to the origins of Christian Science, a religion my father and his siblings were raised with – and those were definitely some troubled kids.

But back to The Missing, and the deadpan drollery of Val Kilmer’s lieutenant, when he encounters the search party looking for Maggie’s kidnapped daughter.

Look, ma’am, I’m just a lieutenant to this lot.
We, too, are hunted by Apache raiders.
These are enlisted men – turn aside your eyes,
I do not condone the clumsy thieving here,
and some would speak harshly of my command,
letting fly words of contempt for this disorder,
but such back-biting slanders innocent men,
and without a second thought, careers are up.
Men seek to climb the ranks by spreading mischief.
Already a few sulky men have laid traps.
They suppose me ignorant of common pranks.
“Search me!” such fools proclaim, “turn out my pockets!
What insurance I’ve laid by is hidden well,
and though you rake for it in my very breast,
not a jot will come to light – my cares are safe.”
Little enough do these men know of command.
As quickly as they speak up, they’ll be tossed out.
Their loose tongues will be their own undoing then,
and the rest will merely nod and mock at them.
The stolen valuables will all be paid for,
and by and by, they’ll learn to watch their missteps,
if only to grasp the likely consequence.
My duty and my means constrain my hand, ma’am,
I would offer you protection otherwise.

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Filed under Acting, Corruption, Directing, Dream Ensemble, Poetry

L.A. Confidential

Recent headlines have come out about a sequel to L. A. Confidential with Chadwick Boseman, Russell Crowe and Guy Pearce attached to it that Warner Brothers inexplicably turned down. That would’ve been a movie to remember, and a timely one, too. Nothing speaks to the Black Lives Matter movement like the script of this 1990s movie, where the longstanding hidden curriculum of police work is spelled out in black and white. Would’ve been another instant classic, but it’s just like a big studio to turn down a thought-provoking script in favor of King Kong vs. Godzilla and the like.

But at least we still have the original. And at long last, I’ve found a Psalm that captures the chemistry between Russell Crowe and Kim Bassinger in L. A. Confidential. This poem is based on the 63rd Psalm.

You would know, Lynn. I came to see you.
My throat went dry when I saw you smile,
and my skin tingles to stand near you
in this wasteful city of strangers.
Just so, in your dressed set, I saw you,
a vision – a nyad in satin.
For an act of kindness from you, I’d lay down my life.
Your name haunts my lips.
With soft curses I lay at your door
all the troubles L.A. thanks no one for.
The sight of you is an opulent feast,
and to meet your lips is a show of praise.
Yes, I am thinking of you in my work.
Through the pale night-watches I dwell on you.
For you would have tried to ease things for me,
in your tender resentments I sensed real love.
My restless body clings to yours,
for your sensuality feeds mine.
Men with hidden agendas stalk me now –
a worthless lot who will feed the worms.
The mock justice they dragged me into
will be their undoing – death on the street.
And Hollywood won’t bat an eye,
old L.A. will keep to its sultry ways,
and the lies they planned to tell will be forgotten.

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Filed under Corruption, Dream Ensemble, L.A. Confidential, Poetry