By Les Bush Poet
“The Bitch has to go!”
You angrily proclaim.
“The Bitch MUST go,
only one of us must remain.”
“The Bitch (as you so phrase) stays!”,
I angrily say.
“That Bitch, my Mistress
has long helped me out of my malaise.”
During those long dark days,
when 20, I turned, She was there
to spur me on, to better,
There, during those long lonely walks
in an uncaring city, on feet of clay
laden with self doubt and despair,
She was there to show me the way.
On the bridge over the river Avon,
as I peered hopelessly at the shallow
water below me; ‘stop your cravin’’
She sternly said. “Mellow, man, mellow!”
On dark lonely nights
when give up I might,
She whispered in my ear,
“come hither, come here!”
She lead me to the lights,
burning bright: row upon row,
mounted high above: just waiting,
waiting to light up and glow.
The stage on which I strode,
lifted my head high, raised my voice:
I am here, I am who you want me to be.
Here, under this proscenium arch, I am free.
The make up, the costumes,
learning all those lines; let us resume,
“stand here, speak, move now, turn,
feel the passion, let it burn
from deep inside, I want it REAL!
I want to hear you, reach out and touch you
from afar, feel you beside me, inside me,
confide in me, reside for a special moment beside me.”
Oh, how I loved her, she loved me;
spurned, encourages and caressed me
in my moments of panic: “say it again, breath,
your words are weapons, tinkling bells to bind me
to your creation, your time in the lights:
work with me, don’t fight me,
I am your friend, your only friend
here in the half light, this delicate mystery.”
I was young, I was old;
I was whatever I was told
to be: English, Kiwi or somewhere
on an island, a boatman
I was enthralled, besotted,
bound and enthralled to her touch.
“You aren’t here to play,
I want it all, I want it now. Is that too much?
Feel it deep inside,
learn to take me astride
to a world of wonder;
be it soft, be it thunder.
Feel it deep inside;
make me feel it too.
Standing up, lying down –
shake that which I stand on, the ground.
I am here to be pleased,
not merely appeased;
I paid my money, I want
what I want: here, now, with passion.
Open your mouth, loosen your tongue,
breath, art-ic-u-late! Let me feel your words
reverberate through my being. Faster, slower,
do it again. I didn’t come here for solitary pleasure.
I want to feel your performance,
from the top of my head to the tips of my toes;
do not break the thread that binds:
do not loosen me from the throes
of your passion, that only you can provide:
again, again: take me on a cosmic carpet ride.
For this brief moment in eternity, take my life
and enhance it in shades of a new reality. I will decide
whether you were successful, and worthy of doing it again
night after night (for a specified time);
whether you have the reason or rhyme
to be worthy of my patronage.”
Night after night, in that magic space,
delight after delight, none could replace;
begone, the tyranny of the mundane,
that was another time, another place.
We parted; ‘tis sad but true, after eleven years,
and one failed marriage; She was there first,
She was there last, holding my hand;
holding me fast: a refuge, a draught to satiate my thirst.
We parted, nonetheless; maybe She wanted new blood.
Have you guessed Her name, what be her Fame?
You might call Her, Theatre; I embraced her as Life.
She is too untamed, wild and free: exuberant and exultant; nobody’s wife.
It has been many years, we have been apart;
but still I can her voice: “again, again; feel the pain,
express the joy – make it real; this not just a part,
it is life (in the Theatre); no pain, baby, no gain”
Have I been unfaithful to Her? Possibly,
I have met, been entranced by, one her sisters. I call her Poetry;
She calls me to type poems at 2 am in the morning,
and abandons me without warning.
The Bitch must go!
The Bitch, I fear for you,
is here to stay
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