Home.

Oh, to be in the theatre

That famous dusty smell,

The echo of the empty stage

Which dreams and wonders tell

The tinny sound of ivory keys

Sitting in the corner

The spacious house with history

Ten thousand past performers

A set goes up in one week's time

With actors tripping 'round

It goes back down in even less

Then starts another round

Directors say, That's fine, we'll call."

Producers bite the budget.

Technicians walk in with a burger

While choreographers dodge it

The lighting crews show up on time

(A minute 'til the curtain)

The stage crew quickly don all black

The financiers, uncertain

The house crew wants to see the show

So they usher quickly

Refreshment servers look and see

A sea of faces vaguely

The posters change around the town

As actors brag, "I'm in that!"

Then sweat about a hundred pounds

As lights hit costume hats

They live on scones and soda-pops

And ready-made sandwiches

The dancers are forever stretching

And calling teachers, "witches"

The singers have an air about them

That demands attention.

And when you hear a group laugh loud

You've found the comic's station.

The empty dressing room is heavy

With a musty smell

Of make-up and of time gone by,

A thousand "weeks of hell"

The volunteers and union folk

Like to hang from rafters

Tying lights to tiny trestles

With the view of raptors

A rat is seen in a corner,

It's been there just as long

As anyone can remember

Some write it in a song

The green room couch is old and worn

The 'fridge is working half-time

The ticket crews all know the actors

To let them in on time

The building echoes in it's mass

As a show begins

But then comes what will make all worth it

In the very end

People come from all around

Standing long in line

They get a program, read the ads

From financiers this time

The empty chairs are filled within

An hour of unlocked doors

The talk is of the weather and

Of shows they'd seen before.

The fully lit house is bustling

With sounds of joy and laughter

And actors feel that nervous pang

Praying for the here-after

The house lights flash, and comes a voice

Saying, "Do not flash cameras"

The empty pit then comes alive

Warming the orchestra

A silence falls across the house,

The actors' heartbeats skip

The curtain rises majestically

The tech crews grit their lips

The show goes on, with hitch or no

A separate yet collaborative work

The dance of sound and lights and crews

As sets change in the dark

The ever worried, coffee filled

Stage manager gives cues

And when the curtain falls again

All listen for the news

A clap, a roar, a standing row,

A silence dead as night?

A shriek for "encore!", or tomato?

Will the show take flight?

Afterwards, while actors mingle

Among remaining crowds

And all the techs reset the cues

And directors furl their brows

The house then empties once again

With echoes, all that's left

Until another show begins

In the silenced deft

At this time, as before

A solitary figure

Says, "Thank you," to the empty stage

And silent furniture.

It's impossible to explain

The pull of this, the theatre

But my soul is part of it's

Never-ending grandeur

It speaks to me, and calls my name

And I will always know

That this is truly home for me

Forever, on with the show!
 

 

 

--David Young; Ode to the Theater 

The last few weeks of of school have been like a tornado for me.  With my classes, drama, and getting ready for band competitions, I've hardly had more than five minutes to sit and think to myself. Yet in the few minutes that I have had, it's been in drama when the students are still trickling in and slowly settling down from the day.

The theater is, in its own way, a home for the theatracks. It allows them to settle back into their own being; they unwind and start working on their tricks, shaking off the worries of school, forgetting the fact that they have to go home and start worrying about it again.

Thats why I chose to use this poem, because it reminded me that the theater is still my home. That, like the other members, I get to go to the theater after school and become myself again. I sometimes forget how easily a place where you spend so much of your time can become a haven. It creeps up on you slowly, and you don't really realize it until you go back after being away and you have the sense of home.

After this blog I came up with a question for the readers. You don't have to answer but maybe you could just keep it in mind; Is there a place, or even a person, that feels like home to you?

Works Cited

Young, David. Ode to the Theatre. Every Poet.  N.p. 04 Oct, 2007. Web. 24 Oct, 2014.