The Friday Poem on ... Tuesday?
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Lessons in The Method, #2
The day you stop me on campus, Benjamin,
Bible in hand, asking if I believe and I respond,
pointing to the building I’m walking towards,
That’s my church. Theatre? you say, incredulous.
Yes, or a painting hanging on a wall. Or this poem,
Art a secular prayer, but yes, I say, keeping you
on track, Theatre. After all, not even the most
Method of Method actors ever falls into
the orchestra pit and isn’t that like you, Benjamin
at your father’s funeral last June, sweat bleeding
into the armpits of your crisp blue shirt, playing
your part, believing you might meet again until,
subsumed by grief, you turn and finally break
the fourth wall in yourself, facing the thousand-seated
auditorium of your subconscious and speaking,
not the illusion of truth, but truth itself without
a word, weeping to be held. And Benjamin,
just because this is a poem and I could give you wings,
I won’t. I’ll leave you here instead, feet planted
on the campus grounds, Plaza Vaquero to your right,
its fountain trickling in your ear, mouth agape,
something awakening, as in a secular prayer.
Find out more about Martin Jago and why we chose his poem to be our Friday Poem this week
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