Epilogue – Final Part

For our Christmas blog, we publish the fifth and final audience member that completes Epilogue, Joan Stansbury’s poem inspired by Macbeth. We wish you all a fabulous Christmas and much love for a prosperous New Year.

[In October – November 2011 Baz Productions put on Macbeth in the crypt of St Andrew Holborn with a cast of just five multi-tasking actors.]

 

EPILOGUE

 

After a performance of the Baz Macbeth five members of the audience gather up their props and reflect on the evening’s experience.

THE CRITIC

(Fiddling with the pen in his top pocket)

.

I drank a glass of wine: my first mistake.

Was terrified I might not stay awake.

I know Macbeth by heart: a run of the mill

Production woozes like a sleeping pill.

.

Needn’t have worried. They made their audience work.

As soon as I thought about an actor’s take

on a taxing role, he or she would dissolve

before my eyes and speak in another voice.

Who’s …? Is it still …? Yes of course.

Same character, same intensity of thought:

the same, but from a different angle of view.

Concentrate. Admire each effortless pass

of the role from head to head. You can’t nod off

for a single moment: you dare not miss a trick.

No – not trick exactly, but a turn.

This taking turns can at the start bemuse,

but then invigorates, keeps me alert.

.

They turn us turn about for different scenes.

No flats, just painting in sound and pools of light,

a shift in mood among the shape-shifting

characters. We drift from vault to vault.

Macbeth – or is it his wife –  smiles and offers

me a chair. Now we’re at the flicks:

a flat soft-focus black and white England

projected on the wall. Back to Scotland

three dimensional in full warcry.

.

Exhausted but wide awake I need a drink

as sedative to take me down from a high.

How to review? That I’ll have to think

through and round. No notes: I didn’t try.

Too busy listening, connecting, disconnecting.

In the round. A bit Brechtian? This red

faultlined patchwork of brick inset with Roman

and medieval stones and disconcerting

concrete lintels I feel quite at home in

in the same somewhat confused confusing way

that I feel at home in this new-old old-new play

that burns and bubbles in my busy head.

.

When I get home will I recognize my wife?

And if, I wonder, if indeed I do,

which wife from which strand of our shared life

will it be, or will she be someone new?

.

Odds bodikins, how am I going to write a review?

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