Staged Sunrise

6:30am. After morning yoga practice at 4:30am, this is my view walking home and gazing east from my balcony. This is a first draft; presented to you unedited, barely re-read…as a stream of my thoughts…and my first post from India!

Staged Sunrise

This morning’s hazy scrim

raises slower than usual.

Stage hand’s missed his cue again,

but the director decides she likes it anyway.

                Add it to the show!

Cue soft purple light stage left and right,

and turn on the smoky, trash-burnt smell of the fog machine.

Cue crowing roosters…howling chants:

prayers echoing hollow from between homes,

as center stage fades to a rosy glow.

What corner of the sky

my audience’s eye sees

is only a small part of the story.

Past coconut trees,

I understand,

Unfold more stages,

foggy scrims,

directors and lights.

Actors still sleeping, already singing,

audiences seated, stories unfurling.

Cue soft yellow lights.

Cue sunrise: a fire orange spotlight through the banyan trees’ boughs.

Cue today.


On November 9, the day after I wrote this stage-and-sunrise-inspired poem in India, an accidental explosion killed one technician and injured over a dozen more cast and crew members in the Parisian production 1789, in which my partner Michael was an original cast member. I lived in Paris last year while he performed in and created original body-percussion numbers for the show. So from India, with a heavy heart, I dedicate this poem to the family of the victim, to the injured, to the cast, crew, creative team and fans.


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