Captured by cold, England, or so we are told,
Ices over. That at least is the forecast, too often wrong,
Over us. It has been predicted for March.
Apparently, we have about a week to win
Sunlight’s favour, before we are to be held down
Within households like the Lockdown of old’s
Transformations, which if you remember, barred
Open windows and granted every door its own crust.
Doubtless, this is the corrupted world biting back;
Mother Nature’s mood freshly vengeful,
Or the Alien God’s practised playing with the snow-globe
Of the Earth it has spurned. So there could yet be much
To fear; imprisoned pensioners, cracking pipes,
A rise in bills, short resources. Grass as glass,
While each garden starts forgetting the things
Seasons learn. To me, it is a matter of the world leaning in.
And it is such a delicate balance. Last night, I watched
A DVD with that title: Edward Albee’s classic play.
And in its finest iteration I think, with Kates’ Reid
And Hepburn, Betsy Blair, Joseph Cotten,
And the exquisite Lee Remick, dead for so long,
Gifting day. This film of the play is probably the finest
Example of acting – outside of Ronnie Barker’s Fletcher –
Particularly from these players, but mostly for me,
From its star, who is not Katherine Hepburn at all,
But the discreetly majestic Paul Scofield; that man
For all seasons who wore reason and truth like waxed
Scars. His immaculately lined face said it all. His presence
And poise were pure angel. With Scofield around
All was dealt with, was questioned and solved
And worked through. The play is about the fine line
Behind which we’re all falling. It is about family hatred
And friendship’s distance which no amount of time
Can make true. The characters of Tobias and Agnes
Receive a series of dark visitations, first from Claire,
Her sister and who is stirring her pain in each drink.
And then their daughter, Remick’s Julia, leaving her
Fourth marriage behind her. Hepburn’s gimlet eye
Seems to stab her, as melancholy moves this woman-child
To the brink. Henry and Edna arrive, existentially scared
By the silence which has been patterning their behaviour,
And clogging like gas their intent. Which is to feed off
Their friends, as parasitical perhaps as their daughter.
‘We became afraid’ Henry tells them with a bloodless face
And expression that is as chilling as the cold front to come
And heart-wrent. The strangeness of others is seen
As past and pose lose all power; the delicate balance
Between them, which Tobias maintains thin as flakes,
Predicted to fall any day, as if an uncaring sky wept
Whipped wisdom. For hale cuts and ice slices and snow
Can numb as pipes quake. When we are affronted,
What stays that we can fall back on? When we are alone,
To whose comfort can we finally turn at this stage?
By which I mean today as well as this Play
And your vintage. And indeed, which wine will be worthy
To win you over and possibly stain your own page?
Tobias drinks Anisette. A sticky liquer found in Tescos.
But in Albee’s alfresco of fright and alarm, its Paul’s prize.
His near animal brow takes all in. His was a face like no other.
His voice was the ocean through which the Mayor of Atlantis
Sings still. His voice was whalesong and wind, cloud and deep
Echo chamber. God was made in his image: beautiful and benigh.
Each look thrills. We all should have his magic. We don’t.
He made acting Art. Scofield guides me. And in the fears to come
Around weather, or the advancing years I know this.
That a play of this stamp, from which the delivery of truth is near
Cosmic, is in its own way Atlantis, rising not from the deep,
But God’s kiss. Or whatever God is. Astral Grey. Santa. Woman.
Last night, that DVD was my bible. And Scofield my Christ.
Seek your bliss. And let it warm you, my friends.
For a second ice-age is coming. If not in March then the future
When the world we have wrought is Tippexed.
Which we don’t even use anymore; a substance
That former Monkee Mike Nesmith’s mother invented.
Suddenly, paper was water, as white as the snow coming next.
So from Monkee Mother to Ape, bypassing us, straight to dolphin,
To bacteria, cockroach, to each mushroom and cell which survives;
The rumbles to come should remind of our fragile hold on all places.
We need more Scofield like faces to warm, assess and assize.
Then we’d thrive.
David Erdos 23/2/23
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