Long Onstage Poems
Long Onstage Poems. Below are the most popular long Onstage by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Onstage poems by poem length and keyword.
Using the need to convey and communicate.
She spoke to those she reherst as they needed
to communicate. the director had been
ordered find words to convey and give meaning to
the terminology used speak so that all were
able to understand. He allowed them to use words
that were directed at the editers, the prompt persons
and even the lighting directors.
Bastard prompt, languages like sonnet, to edit, caster
to direct, stop, to end. likeablity to question.
she was concerned about being both a member of the cast and the orchestra.
the person she was dating had been isolated and alone (without dating0
For sometime he too often acted by adding word to his script, making his cohort
learn to adlib.The lady felt shredded by her obligations. onstage she knew
her male friend had a script that would allow him to adlib around engagement and marrage. she stumbled over the matter in private, she didn't allow her secret
her romance to a woman who she had been involved with as lovers, not as partners in a friendship. When both persons auditioned for the part; members of the cast spoke behind the backs of the cast members involed with in the rumor. 9 a line in the play- was Sweep the fallen needles under the christmas tree; my fiance forgot to take it down." The actress rebuttal would be: "" she is busy doing other things, manybe whoring around!" the actress is then surpassed to enter the room holding a tray to give the members of the party refreshments," she is the maid, her words were to speak only to the women as directed by her boss, in the scence before. In a twist of events she said( bla,..... Instead of Bla,....) and forced them to adlid around her words. a song was to appear and the mean mugging faces grunted with disapproval. but as the music started, they smiled, only to have there world shattered as she began sing different words to the music that for months they had rehersted.
these are these people: this kind of song, this sorted foolishness. a cander of cantress bullying! Her role as musicain might have been more appealing?
(N.A.A.F.I. = universal store, found on
every British military base)
On some bleak airfield on some Cambridge fen
(that awful winter - 'forty-seven, I think)
my mother, novice servicewoman then,
crossed parade-ground like a skating rink
to see the Christmas concert on the camp.
Inside, the quonset hut was black as ink
till airmen lit a feeble spirit lamp.
The snow was driving against one outer wall:
she calls to mind a smell of tents and damp
and stinging fingers, fresh from thrown snowballs,
and gouts of steam, blown out in cloudy spurts
as people laughed. Then lights dimmed in the hall.
She now recalls a curious stab of hurt
to see the Italian janitor of the base
revealed onstage in P.O.W. shirt
when curtains opened. What had been a place
of uproar, now - faced by this threadbare clown -
had undergone some dreadful loss of face.
In dubbin make-up, N.A.A.F.I. dressing-gown,
as solemn as a high priest at the altar,
this patched-up Pagliacci, ear-flaps down,
sang ludicrously well. The keyboard faltered,
and stopped. The singer, weeping now, kept on,
quite heedless, as his clown's nose dripped tear-water.
There's something sacred in the humblest song
(with wretchedness wrought into lasting good
through alchemy of art) and, all along,
the watchers, to their horror, understood.
He sang so gorgeously of going home
because he knew full well he never would.
Have you ever been in a musical show?
I have done some, so this is how I know.
They first hooked me when I was in high school,
but stage fright made me feel the fool.
So, I began on the backstage crew,
Oh the things we had to do.
Painting sets and handling props,
sometimes I wished I was a farmer harvesting crops.
Dressing all in black the day of the show
moving sets in the dark so no one would know.
We did some things that only a crew can do
I'll try to list a few here for you.
For example, during the "King and I",
There is a tearful scene with a Buddha to cry.
Since our Buddha was a person who spoke to Tuptim,
We did all in our power to get a laugh out of him.
Two of us moved his pedestal onstage,
his scene was to be all the rage.
We had to hide below his pedestal for his soliloquy,
So we tried to crack him up for all to see.
I worked behind the scenes again, for "My Fair Lady",
Some of the things we did there were also shady.
Professor Higgins takes a big drink in one scene
so we decided to pull one of our pranks on him.
The bottle he poured from was usually filled with ginger ale,
when we switched it to the real stuff he turned pale.
He could barely speak the next few lines
and was off key in his song the next time.
The classic we pulled was in "The Unsinkable Molly Brown",
our prank was the talk of the town.
If you don't know the story let me enlighten you
because then you may get a laugh or two.
Molly is aboard the Titanic's first trip
and the scene has to deal with the sinking of the ship.
We had a lifeboat with people on stage with waves across the floor,
she gets their attention by firing several shots in the air.
During the final dress rehearsal before show night
we knew this scene would be just right.
The Titanic sinking in the background, the waves, the lifeboat,
Molly pulls her pistol, raises it to the sky, and began to shoot.
The auditorium goes silent as the people raise their eyes to her to engage,
When a rubber duck came flying from the wings and landed on stage.
You never saw a director as mad as that
if she had a gun she would have blown off your hat.
"Who did that? Who did that?" was all she could say,
as the stage crew just laughed as we went on our way.
I finally got the nerve to perform in some shows later on,
But for now...this is just an introduction.
(Dedication: Congratulations to
Joseph Schooling, Singapore's first
Gold Medallist, Rio Olympics 2016)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Joy in meek voice as triumph speaks loud,
Opt a fine win in swift sure speed;
Set winning poise humble not proud,
Etch hard work seen with gold disc deed;
Prime purpose moves with passion pure,
Heart and mind show how focus gains.
Sense effort groove with gut feel sure,
Calm and clear flow in action plain;
Heed the deep feel as time reveals,
Oblige the truth as success sums;
Olympic will as goal meets thrill,
Live ample proof in great outcome;
In this grand glow of winning page,
Niche medal show of gold onstage,
Glimpse profound flow that comes of age.
Leon Enriquez
13 August 2016
Singapore
A diesel generator
drowns out the rusted Marshall stack
Six years we owned
the Billboard charts;
the DJ who crowned us
every summer
for five straight years—
this week, a county fair;
tonight, the Music Pier.
The drummer tapes two split fingers
closes his hand once
hard—
then rests the sticks
by Mick’s ashes
in a Folgers Black Silk can behind the kit
Tommy’s gold sequins
snag on his dialysis catheter
as he sits
Johnnie the P-bassist drags a stool onstage
to ease his neuropathy
We are crushed elderberries
hawking CDs from a card table,
bleeding a dark, tart stain
onto ninety aluminum chairs
No teenagers weep;
a man wipes funnel-cake grease
from his chin
As I tune the cherry-red '57 Stratocaster
down a minor third,
hoarse from pushing air
through a throat scraped thick
with scar tissue
We were a dense, golden field
beneath the studio lights
on Midnight Special
Now plucked dandelion crowns
scatter over Ferris wheel blacktop,
leaving white ghost-tufts
snagged in the Music Pier’s
boardwalk planks
Where just three bald stems
plug into the seaside damp—
and the seeds drift past the shoreline,
washed up,
vanishing into the deep
we used to call home
Lovely. Marvelous. Wonderful. Great. Terrific. Superb. Well done. Bravo. Wow.
Yes I am practicing in the mirror for the Olympics’ positive affirmation delivery competition.
Tremendous, I say. My eyes are glittering happily.
Stupendous, I say. My nose wrinkles in a funny way.
Ever-shineful, I say. I laugh.
Mindfully, willfully, happily, skillfully done, I congratulate myself.
You have my love, my hopes and my dreams, I tell myself. Yes, I can use this.
Always in admiration, my friend. Always in awe I think as I drive to the competition.
I enter the arena, confident. My number is called. I walk onstage in front of thousands of people.
I am excited, thrilled, glad to be our country’s representative.
Then they bring out a person who has a dour, sour, mean look.
Her arms are folded and she is glaring at me. She reminds me of the meanest teacher I ever had, a person I have never forgiven.
My work is to get this unknown person to high five me.
This is impossible, I say, so I bow out. I am the third to do so.
Body language and facial cues are everything.
We read you and feel you before you ever say a word.
I can feel it in the tip of my toe, I have the rhythm in my body, and I’ve got to go, the fire is burning in my feet and without you I cannot compete.
You have been with me for so long, and I am inviting you to come and help me compose the Olympic song, the rhythm is floating in my head, and I want you to spread out the sheets on top of the bed and examine the miracle in every verse.
The rhythm is fine, and love is divine, and everything that is written on the line comes from my gut, and I will not stop until I get what is rightfully mine. We have gone over these a hundred and twenty times, and you must brush up the second line before the rehearsals begin.
The birds are singing in the tree and a stranger at the door is waiting for Thee. She has a guitar and a music keyboard, a violin, a flute and a clarinet she bought in her youth.
She has subtle smile on her face as she comes through the benevolent gate. I have seen this face on TV before and she is the last person I expect to come to this unpopular place.
The handyman drags the bag with the equipment through the gate and search for a place to set up a stage, and her legs began to shake.
She has caught on to the rhythm and she began to hum the tune and clap; she writes it down on the musical sheet and when she was done, she plays it on the music keyboard, it was so good, that it makes me walk about the floor. The Olympic rhythm is burning in my brain, the Olympic rhythm is driving me insane.
Get everyone one on the big stage and organize the chorus for the opening day. You need more instruments in the clouds to send the vibration through the town. The crowd is getting bigger so record it several times before you sing.
The Olympic rhythm has entered the space, and everyone is getting ready for the big race, the tortes and the hare are in town and the snakes, and the lizards are resting at home Synchronize the sound and work on the timing before you go dancing.
I don’t want you to sing, I just want you to give me the Olympic rhythm; I don’t want you to sing, I want the musical instrument to create the rhythm that is locked up in my head, get the people onstage and let the show begin.
Can you hear that sound? It is the olympic rhythm vibrating all over the town.
Disrupted rough sea ripples shuffle
audience anticipation
Shift in seats, hammered hearts
Pummel, fluffy microphone muffle
confines communication
To thespian garish starring parts
Leading lady stands on X central
scintillating stiff corset
Holds ocean of faces transfixed
Hushed haze of amazed attention
long leg stride endorses
Cancan colourful ruffled kicks
Glitter adds amps to eyes squinted
focus on filmed direction
Glow in spotlight, skin peach orange
Sets character afloat, limelight lifted
dusk dim purple perfection
Transmits her story beyond onstage
Pivot pelvis razzle reactive samba
fast feet choreograph flawless
Flashy features outshine backdrops
For her love, Leading man clamours
resounding auditorium applause
Ensures her ego never lacks props
13th June
Theatrical Resume
On some bleak airfield on some Cambridge fen
(that awful winter – 'forty-seven, I think)
my mother, novice servicewoman then,
crossed parade-ground like a skating rink
to see the Christmas concert on the camp.
Inside, the nissen hut was black as ink
till airmen lit a feeble spirit lamp.
The snow was driving against one outer wall:
she calls to mind a smell of tents and damp
and stinging fingers, fresh from snowballs,
and gouts of steam, blown out in cloudy spurts
as people laughed. Then lights dimmed in the hall.
She now recalls a curious stab of hurt
to see the Italian janitor of the base
revealed onstage in P.O.W. shirt
when curtains opened. What had been a place
of uproar, now – faced by this threadbare clown –
had undergone some dreadful loss of face.
In dubbin make-up, N.A.A.F.I. dressing-gown,
as solemn as a high priest at the altar,
this patched-up Pagliacci, ear-flaps down,
sang ludicrously well. The keyboard faltered,
and stopped. The singer, weeping now, kept on,
quite heedless, as his clown's nose dripped tear-water.
There's something sacred in the humblest song
(with wretchedness wrought into lasting good
through alchemy of art) and, all along,
the watchers, to their horror, understood.
He sang so gorgeously of going home
because he knew full well he never would.
Q: What would Roy Rogers have been called if he had been a singing farmer?
A: King of the Plowboys.
Q: In the Beowulf saga, who was a male child of the hag Grendel?
A: A real sonofawitch.
Q: What's the slogan for an ad campaign for a certain fabric in Copenhagen?
A: "Something is cotton in the state of Denmark".
Q: What is fear of joining a fitness club?
A: Gymtimidation.
Q: When she worked onstage in a comedy, what could actress Elaine do for an audience?
A: Keep it in Stritches.
Q: What might you call the LGBT version of the glass slipper story?
A: "Transgenderella".
Q: Also for theatre and film buffs--What would you call public transportation in a ghost town?
A: A streetcar named Bizarre.
Q: Why did the man tell the 911 operator to please send help quickly when his spouse appeared to be choking?
A: It was a matter of wife or death.
Q: What is someone who hitchhikes across the country studying different dialects?
A: A roads scholar.
Q: How did the Glasgow "Evening Times" reporter headline the story of the party boat that sank after hitting an iceberg?
A: Scots on the rocks!
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