Choir at Dusk


The essentials: milk, tea, biscuits

Picked up some refills on the way home. The PG Tips boxes are bent at the edges, so they were all half price. I stocked up, happily. We’ve been out of black tea for a few days. I came home to see that Andrew had also bought some new milk, so now we have double. It’s good that I only bought a small one until we can go to the bigger shop where the milk is organic.

Rehearsal yesterday bolstered me for St. Giles rehearsal today. It did take a few minutes for my body to adjust again, though: from the belting strength of musical theatre, back to the unified vowels and smooth sound of choral singing. I can tell that this period will be a huge period of adjustment. I was thinking of that last night: I have to be able to be in character, working, and then to jump out and be a critical actress, again working. It’s two different types of work, but I have to be fluent in the transition between them. Get your head in the game, I wanted to tell myself. You can do this.


Choir (Dusk)
Kevin Young

Such sailing—
a wind carrying

us where.
The day steers east

toward the rising

and at night we drift
against the day.

Make it plain—

Mornings I miss
my life the most—

All night I’m back
among the living—

what may be
my dead

since I’ve left—
stolen west—

Mornings I miss
my life—

my beloved’s hands,
our children near-grown.

Or, grown
no more.

Morning’s a thin bed—

if, can call this cold
cell, straw floor, a bed.

Here, men dissect
the night sky like the dead

& map our heads
with the dark & stars.

My stomach like
they say of leaves—

Some nights I want
to walk home cross
wide water

Others only to join
the shifting choir

of the closest river.


Poetry fills sails I didn’t even know I was using. It washes clean.

Goodnight, T.


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