copyright © 2002 Dave Ulrich
"Beware The Poet, For Fickle Be He"
By, Dave Ulrich
SCENE 1
A WOMAN is sitting at a table sipping a coffee. A
MAN enters, hesitates observing the WOMAN. He
approaches, opts not to use the chair, but rather
crouches down to speak up to her intimately.
He has absolutely no accent.
MAN
I'm terribly sorry, and come here to you with great humility
and frustration. You see, my English is astonishingly poor.
The shortcomings of my comprehension of this language -- that
I am now ploughing awkwardly forward in -- are almost
immobilizing. However, the extreme grandeur of your physical
beauty and the tremendous depth I somehow recognize in your
eyes, force this advance of mine, despite my embarrassing and
near-crippling inability to communicate adequately in your
native tongue. If only I could do your many and fantastical
attributes justice by describing them for hours on end in
your beautiful language whose mastery continues to elude me!
Still, I long to note the sensual curve of your upper lip,
the sleek angle of your soft cheek, or the inviting porcelain
smoothness of your neck, so that perhaps you would look past
my laughable and impenetrable accent, and perchance recognize
the tenderness of my desire and appreciation. Curse this
feeble brain for taunting me with merely a few words to
manipulate in this complex language of yours! Couple that
with my sloppy construction and lack of knowledge required to
string my miniscule vocabulary together in a way that would
make sense... and I could well be the most frustrated man on
Earth! Frustrated -- because I am now bowing before a most
heavenly creature and have not the verbal acumen to share my
recognition of your majesty, nor the skill to explain that no
obstacle would invoke fear, if the exchange were entrance
into your world and your heart.
He places his hand over her heart on 'heart.'
A beat as she looks at him incredulously.
WOMAN
This is one of the most extraordinary experiences of blissful
happenstance I have yet encountered. I suffer pleasing and
sudden shock hearing your words, so much so that I swoon.
She takes his hand from her heart and entwines
her fingers in his.
WOMAN
For I, too, have a terrible comprehension of this English
language, and I am never understood. However, I grasp every
strange syllable you utter. I have oft believed that no one
spoke or would ever speak as poorly as I. Therefore, I beg it
be true that just as you speak in this same stumbling and
clumsy manner, it is no accident that I hear my own voice in
yours. And that you will in turn make sense of my grammatical
and lyrical madness as I have yours. The poetry of your soul
is somehow clear to me despite your words that would most
certainly prove ridiculous nonsense to all other mortals on
this magnificent celestial orb that we dance upon. Yet
somehow... somehow, I can pluck your words from the air
before me as though they were answers to questions that have
haunted me for infinite hours. Please, tell me, lest I return
to my melancholy solitude, that you in turn, understand me.
MAN
(without thinking)
Good lord... my words ring in your ear with resounding echoes
of meaning?
A pause. He quickly takes his hand from hers and
stands.
MAN
Of course, with all of my tortured and thirsty heart's desire
I wish I could make sense of your "grammatical and lyrical
madness." However, my weak mind cannot wrap around your
labyrinth of words, though I, too... "swoon." So! -- farewell
to thee, glorious perfection.
He leaves quickly.
She starts to drink her coffee again. Stops. Then
shouts off to him.
WOMAN
You...
(struggling to find the words)
... suck -- ass!
The MAN pauses.
Lights out.
THE END
"Beware The Poet, For Fickle Be He"
IS COPYRIGHTED MATERIAL AND MAY NOT BE
DOWNLOADED, TRANSMITTED, PRINTED OR PERFORMED
WITHOUT THE EXPRESS PERMISSION OF THE AUTHOR
Directed by J.J. Hickey
Woman - Michelle Garb
Man - Chris Clarke
Performed by Samantha Sprole and Paul.
Library]
