Friday, December 26, 2008

Pinter has died

on Christmas Eve.
 
He was a giant in the theatre; for me there was only Beckett who was better at pure theatre. But Pinter had more to offer.
 
We saw his 'No Man's Land' just a few weeks ago in London: stunning. Literally; that's what happened with his stuff, got you in the stomach.
 
As soon as his death was announced I looked back in my notebooks and remembered that I had written the following poem in his style:
 
You can come in,
  you can come,
    come in.
 
But just; you would be better,
  leave the rest; I said,
    leave the rest there;
      behind you; not
        here.
 
There's so much of it, so much
  did you have to have that,
    so much of that.
 
That is the trouble, it will be
  the trouble, now and to come
    what a stink it will
       make.
 
Well, I'm sorry for you to be it;
  the cause and the glory,
    for ever, as long as ever
      is never.
 
In the sense of this being never ending;
  whether you come in or stayed
    outside you, and all that
      in pertuity.
 
But I had to make you understand
  the impact, the impression, the being
     of being. It is important.
             So see it. It.
 
And if you do, as I'm sure you will,
  then it will be better than
       left outside, like
          baggage.
 
I'll punch you in the gut, with this
  only ever with this, ink stick
     the power of the gob spit,
         fucks more.
 
Bless you dear friend, so fragile, scream
  child, among the sores and blisters
      come through, blessed and
          stronger.
 
This is for you, and only ever after.
  He's gone now, but no never;
      always, ever, with you
         every breathing, living
              moment.
 
Of you, and me, a team, that sings
  above the screams, scream not
       it has gone, you are at peace,
             that is the pace.
 
Sorted, baggage and all. Was that it, then?
  Yes, that was it. Leaving it
       all behind. But at the door.
             If needed.
 
 
He will be missed.