Robert Frost Already Said This. . .
in unrhymed iambic pentameter,
which teachers and poets know as blank verse,
or at least in some strong, disciplined way,
a structure solid, yet transient. Like leaves,
first green in newness, hold on to their trees,
then scant weeks later, ramble off with breezes,
a gold and orange and crumbling danse macabre.
“What did Frost say?” that “Nothing gold can stay.”
Be it leaf or youth or Eden even.
His words as stark as freezing rain. And hard
as the gravel kicked to the side of the lane
by the wooden wheels of the horse-drawn hearse.
A man is gold, a towhead as a boy.
No different, I think, when blonde turns gray.
Of a boy’s sudden death, Frost once did write,
“No more to build on there. And they, since they
Were not the one dead, turned to their affairs.”
For me that is the most demanding thing,
we here alive turning to our affairs,
putting aside those that are gone to stay,
like heaps of leaves the wind to clear away.
So, live through winter and await the spring?
The April buds, the dewy flowers of May?
Time, the alchemist, will conjure more gold. . .
Ah well, Frost said this better anyway.
by Greg Ellstrom
(With Debt to Robert Frost and his poems, “Out, Out” and “Nothing Gold Can Stay.” Also, for those who know, to Ponyboy and Johnny for bringing fame to a little verse.)
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We went to Syracuse Stage yesterday afternoon to see Steve Martin's "The Underpants." "The Underpants" about a young housefrau whose underpants fall off while she's standing on a stool in her kitchen window watching the king go by in parade. It is very funny, directed at an effective, rapid pace, stuffed full of double entendres, and with terrific performances. It reminds me a little of "The Sneeze" by Chekhov but more out of control. It's probably 20 or 25 minutes too long, but see it if you can. I'm sure you will enjoy it.
The reason for this post isn't to write a review, though. We were 15 minutes early, and as we sat in the house I watched the audience enter. Wednesday afternoon is heavy with senior citizens, although the kids from Chittenango who have attended the Stage for 30+ years were in the balcony. There were 2 or 3 interesting people down on the main floor. Kind of avant garde folk with interesting hats and flowing scarves. And I thought, seeing that I am a bit of a theatre person myself, that maybe I should start being weird. I'm sure many of you are saying, "you're already there, Greg," but I mean coolly eccentric, outre, artsy, and those kinds of adjectives. One of the artistic types there yesterday had a flowing mane of hair. That's not happening with me. When my hair gets too long it starts growing toward the left. If I wore a ponytail, it would stick out the left side of my head. Another guy was bald. That's not happening either. One guy never took his tweed driving cap off his head. Maybe, I can start wearing a beret. . .all the time. And I could get an earring for my left ear. (That's the hetero ear isn't it?) I could wear a torn t-shirt from some early 70's band, torn jeans, Chuck Taylors or cowboy boots, and a suede sport coat maybe with fringe. . .but you know I look bad in hats, and Linda wouldn't let me go to the theatre with ripped pants. I guess the weird, outre me just isn't going to happen. (Did you notice that I used the British spelling of "theatre," though. That's the way I always spell it. Pretty outre, eh?)--Greg Ellstrom
