The Magic Flute
To begin with we stare into the huge nothingness
exposed by boards, flies, wings, wires.
Not even a feather floating in a shaft of light.
Grey figures appear and sit cross-legged
as if at a loose end. How to hold onto belief
that colour and voice will bloom in this place?
Sound shimmers in the darkness, a figure
in princely red strolls beneath silken clouds. Soon
he's falling in love with the portrait of a princess
and we are in love with the music, the enchantment
it threads. But what are those shadow sets
of shapes shifting restlessly on the backdrop?
We make out heads, shoulders, arms and it dawns:
we're watching our rustling selves. A spotlight
travelling the stalls chooses a girl in white.
Cloaked in our longing, she edges her way
to the aisle, crosses a bridge over the orchestra pit.
The moment hands crown her with ringlets
all of us shed the ordinary's tight skin,
follow the path into fairytale's wood, join
in the difficult search for truth. The flute's tune
protects flesh and breath from any harm
when we undergo trials of fire and water.
Our throats melt as song unites the lovers for ever.
But the heroine takes off her flaxen wig,
the hero folds away his velvet jacket.
Hand in hand they cross the bridge, turn back
into us trailing inadequate selves, clutching
at seedpearls as we weep for wrinkles,
wreckages, the stage empty again.
exposed by boards, flies, wings, wires.
Not even a feather floating in a shaft of light.
Grey figures appear and sit cross-legged
as if at a loose end. How to hold onto belief
that colour and voice will bloom in this place?
Sound shimmers in the darkness, a figure
in princely red strolls beneath silken clouds. Soon
he's falling in love with the portrait of a princess
and we are in love with the music, the enchantment
it threads. But what are those shadow sets
of shapes shifting restlessly on the backdrop?
We make out heads, shoulders, arms and it dawns:
we're watching our rustling selves. A spotlight
travelling the stalls chooses a girl in white.
Cloaked in our longing, she edges her way
to the aisle, crosses a bridge over the orchestra pit.
The moment hands crown her with ringlets
all of us shed the ordinary's tight skin,
follow the path into fairytale's wood, join
in the difficult search for truth. The flute's tune
protects flesh and breath from any harm
when we undergo trials of fire and water.
Our throats melt as song unites the lovers for ever.
But the heroine takes off her flaxen wig,
the hero folds away his velvet jacket.
Hand in hand they cross the bridge, turn back
into us trailing inadequate selves, clutching
at seedpearls as we weep for wrinkles,
wreckages, the stage empty again.
Myra Schneider has co-edited an anthology, Making Worlds, which is reviewed in this issue of Magma. Her next collection, Multiplying the Moon, is due from Enitharmon in 2004.
Page(s) 51
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