"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.