Official Site Poem
Here is, just for a bit of fun, a poem I wrote that was inspired by the experience of being a run-of-the-mill freelance musician and all the quirky little insights that go along with it. Writing poetry is fantastic outlet for one's creativity, by the way; I'd recommend it to anyone on the spot. It makes being a musician seem practical.
To everyone in the pit of Pippin. ~ W.S.
The stage is empty now,
the storyline complete.
Since he had nothing left to say,
the composer decided to wrap things up
by recycling a couple of favorite tunes
in a deft instrumental arrangement,
in much the same way
as one might piece together
an antique automobile
from spare parts in the junkyard
or an impromptu fruit salad
from whatever happened to sit
in the basket that day.
The stage is empty now;
the ushers are gone.
Stray crew members
climb down from the rafters,
while the cast rambles
through the dressing rooms,
wiping off their make-up
and spilling into the sea of compliments
and inconclusive conversations
that washes over the crowd
loitering by the doors.
Since the composer
had nothing left to say,
the orchestra now accompanies
the spectacle of the audience
getting up from their seats,
buttoning their overcoats,
bending down to look
for lost gloves;
of people dispersing
into the parking lot,
of husbands starting their cars,
of wives pulling out
checkbooks from purses
in order to compensate babysitters
for an enjoyable evening out.
The headlights creep
along the pavement
like lowly imitations
of the twinkling stars,
while the bass line in the score
supports a satisfying patchwork
of harmonies and beats.
Somewhere, a mother
watches a train
pull out of the station,
her only child on board,
off to boarding school perhaps.
It grows smaller and smaller,
until it is a dim speck
in the distance,
steeped in the late afternoon yellow
of the horizon,
and then it disappears.
She knows that he is gone,
and yet she is unable to leave,
so she stands there on the platform,
fiddling with her lipstick,
opening and closing the case,
while waves of passengers
push their way past her,
milling around their suitcases
and schedules.
They arrive and depart
and arrive again.
Meanwhile, the music made in the pit
mingles with the leftover programs,
comments on the completed storyline,
lurks and scurries like some weird animal
sniffing at the splinters and the sawdust.
The torn black fabric sags more than ever,
and the pit itself resembles
a disorganized choir loft,
which also happens to be
a fountain of sound,
albeit for a spectacle
of an entirely different sort.
That stage, too, is empty now,
and although the composer
had nothing left to say,
a wooden beam of ballast
keeps the pit aloft,
and the orchestra continues along.
The notes bounce off
of metal pipes
and sink into the carpet.
The plot is over now.
The house lights go up,
and we are no longer
shrouded in darkness.