the show is over
not since Shakespeare
(another year
of plague)
have the stages
been so silent
my grief
haunts me
the ghost-light
left on stage
marking the absence
of the actor
the audience
the social work
of theatre
is suspended
the great inter-
mission we
survived
(millions
not so lucky)
we move
slowly
together
toward
the theatre’s
doors
to re-enter
maskless
& mindful
of all
we have lost
along the way
the audience get up
we rise
to the occasion
of the rising
of the curtain
the witness
ritual begins
again
to leave their seats
we sit
entranced
then stand
awakened
from the dream
of the drama
to our world
but (may be?)
better
than we were
time to collect their coats
the soft murmur
of post-show
conversation
we leave the
auditorium
together
to gather
ourselves
together
again
and go home
home as a
prison
we have been
sentenced to
all these months
and over
a year
comforts
of home
contorted
onto screens
linking us
to the
world (yes)
but not
to each other
the screen
cannot
penetrate
saturate
permeate
infiltrate
invade
imbue
transfuse
seep or crack
us open
like the theatre
(at its best)
can do
they turn around
to gaze
one last time
at the stage
where all
our dreams
and desires
come
to die
in ceremony
for our
greater
good
no more coats
nothing
to hold onto
nowhere to
return
the eternal
present
only
and the weight
of all that
is lost
has been lost
will be lost
waking from
a dream
weeping to dream
again
and no more home
we whirl
as dust motes
in the cosmos
every atom
inside us
will linger
for eternity
calling out
to each other
across the abyss
longing (ever-
longing)
for presence
&
a safe passage
home
Reflective Notes
A few months ago, I discovered the addictive app called Artsy that offers works of art for sale from all over the world. While scrolling through artworks included in the app, I came across the work of American post-conceptual artist Christopher Wool. Wool is well-known for his word art, consisting of either single words or passages screen-printed onto the canvas. His work The Show is Over (1990–1991) uses a quote from Russian writer and philosopher Vasili Rozanov’s (1918/1977) definition of nihilism. As a scholar who has published widely in the arts-based research method called Poetic Inquiry, this work inspired me to respond in poetic form.
I resonated with the quote in the context of the recent global coronavirus pandemic and the closing of theatres worldwide. For me, Rozanov’s words, as interpreted by Wool, were not so much about nihilism but rather were a wake-up call that reminded me of the power of theatre to positively disrupt and transform audiences. After what was called the “Great Intermission” when no live performing arts were occurring, it seemed to me that now that theatres are reopened, it might be time to reconsider what it means to be a theatregoer, a theatre maker or a theatre researcher/educator.
I am a theatre researcher and educator and also have been an avid theatregoer for much of my life. As such, the loss of theatre during that time marked me; I never expected to live through a time in my life when theatre was shut down, never mind its 18+ months duration. We also don’t know how long it will take to return to some kind of normal, if this is the new normal, or even if theatres may close again should the virus continue to mutate and plague the world.
These poems are written for my colleagues and students; they are intended as a gentle reminder to never take our precious art form for granted. They are also a reminder, inspired by Rozanov’s words and Wool’s artwork, that the theatre (occasionally, even rarely, but memorably) can shake us out of our comfortable everydayness. I long for a theatre that can restore a sense of wonder that may feel uncomfortable, even destabilizing, but in the end can crack us open to a wider and deeper awareness of who and what we are. I wish no less for any of you.
Connections to Research
I have been writing and publishing in the area of qualitative research known as Poetic Inquiry since 2004 (see Prendergast in References). I titled the methodology chapter in my dissertation “Falling into Poetry” as that’s how it felt to me, to seek a language that adequately expressed my need to express the inexpressible, the phantom-like experience of live performance. I am still trying to find the right words, as this piece explores.
In 2007, I co-hosted the first International Symposium on Poetic Inquiry at the University of British Columbia. This symposium has continued to take place every two years, and has led to a solid record of journals and books over the past 16 years (see Poetic Inquiry, 2023). Others have written fine research methods texts on this topic (Apol, 2020; Cloud & Faulkner, 2019; Cole et al., 2012; Faulkner, 2020; Galvin & Prendergast, 2016; Honein & McKeon, 2023; Owton, 2017; Prendergast et al., 2009; Sameshima et al., 2017; Schoone, 2020; Vincent, 2022), a number of which are collections from the symposia. Clearly, poetry has made its way into acceptance as a legitimate creative analytic practice. There are now research methods books that include poetic approaches (Butler-Kisber, 2010; Cole & Knowles, 2008; Leavy, 2017, 2020) and a number of journals that accept poetic works.
Debates in the field have arisen, with these mainly centring on quality and qualifications - two topics that have also emerged in other areas of arts-based research. Who can do this work? How can they qualify themselves? How can we ‘measure’ the quality of a poem? My mentor Carl Leggo (2004) would ask, “What is a poem good for?” (p. 1). My answer? Poems are what we reach for in the most joyful and most difficult times in our lives; births, deaths, marriages, birthdays, losses and loves. Poems can be the shortest distance between two people, according to the great American poet Lawrence Ferlinghetti (2012).
I keep trying to reach across that abyss, in the attempt to connect.