JOUST
Cast: Antique,
an elder poet
Moderne,
a new poet
Avaunt, a young poet
Scene: A bare stage
LIGHTS UP. Antique is seen astride a rather regal hobby horse. He wears a noble costume, very bright and ornate. He is rocking back and forth. Moderne enters opposite. His garb is that of the twenties: a “chicken inspector’s” striped sport suit. He wears a straw boater and carries a cane. Antique sees him, jumps from his horse, and draws a foil.
ANTIQUE. Retain thy stance, thou oafish modern bard!
E’er I draw nigh, shall we, with rapier’d word,
Engage in mortal duel ‘til, in our ire,
One or the other of us must expire!
MODERNE stops, surprised. He begins to laugh, then speaks:
A word-tipped, sword-spitted
sunbeam spangles
polished steel,
ancient poet.
And glass, glinting, seeks
translucent abandonment.
Shape glass, mold steel
to new-age forms and needs.
So, with words; so, with words.
ANTIQUE brandishes his foil, lunges, but is easily evaded:
Suspend these impish prancings, parvenu!
Else my chivalric glory may not show!
Stand fast; I vow my vengeance shall be just ¾
Thy tongue dissevered with one splendid thrust.
During the rest of the scene, Antique is very theatrical.
MODERNE cocky:
Laughter tipples grayly,
dawn seeks a tomb.
Moldering miasmas
own epitaphs for sentinels;
stale breath rasps to a hoary,
lachrymose crescendo.
Fling a shroud banner
bravely to the nightwind!
The crystal globe is shattered,
aged sage.
ANTIQUE becoming more theatrical:
Thy mode is strange, loquacious Hercules ¾
M’lunge is parried with unseemly ease!
How durst thou enter combat with no plate
To shield thy breast, nor helmet on thy pate?
MODERNE, self-sure:
Velvet grape clusters
spill red wine
no longer staining Roman marble.
A steel skull turns the blade ¾
no turnkey frees thought
from gilded prisons.
Forged fetters groove,
creak-backed word-warrior.
ANTIQUE jumps back upon his hobby horse, waving his foil
overhead:
Enough! Enough! Up, gallant, snorting steed;
We seek a nobler foe, a finer breed
Than that whose representative we face
Upon this field of latter-day disgrace!
Antique begins to rock furiously. Moderne walks to front stage center and addresses the audience, his boater set at a jaunty angle. He punctuates his gestures with a fountain pen.
MODERNE. Burnished sorrel
fades in candlelight.
Tarnished armor
swaybacks
graying mares.
He turns, bows from the waist to the still rocking Antique, taps the brim of his boater with the head of his cane, and walks rakishly offstage, whistling.
MOMENTARY BLACKOUT
Rising
lights reveal Moderne now standing beside the hobby horse, stroking its head.
He still wears his sporty outfit, but instead of the cane, he now carries
Antique’s foil and wears his red cloak. Avaunt enters, is spied by Moderne, who
spins to face the newcomer. Avaunt is carrying books, typewriter, and is
dressed in Ivy League fashion.
MODERNE, turning to face the newcomer:
Eyes, forged
to twin and piercing
points of force,
cry you “Halt!”
star-wanderer.
Face your lingual tragedy if you can.
Moderne points his foil threateningly at Avaunt who appears sober but unconcerned.
AVAUNT (calmly logical):
There are tragedies to come
And not to come, Moderne.
What is on my tongue
Must run like water from an urn,
Translucently.
Where is the tragedy?
MODERNE (increasingly distraught):
My cunning, coiling, silver plunge
spun numbly,
slicing April rains....,
but atoms less than more!
AVAUNT (serious):
Trumpeters no longer blow
Their gaudy calls to arms.
Now the status quo
Discovers rebels, come to terms,
Behind the moat.
New rebels sound their note.
MODERNE, wildly plunging:
Spin, thrust, strike, jab,
cut, lunge (does so) ¾
but my once-young-lunged breath
billows up
to no avail,
joins the creaking wind.
The new is growing old
but still is strong!
AVAUNT. Balanced on the blade of time,
Each poet piles his cairn.
Some are made of lime,
While others are obsidian:
They all cannot
Remain untouched by rot.
MODERNE furious:
The word-whirler
shall plunder suns and tenements,
ordain no quarter through
the tumbling earth!
The mutineer’s red roar
shall not grow feeble,
futile, like the moss
assaulting hopelessly
your fort of stainless steel
and polished glass!
AVAUNT. You have taught us long and well.
Remember what you said:
“Shape glass, mold steel
To new-age forms and needs?”
Those words have worth.
Youth must, and will hold forth.
Avaunt turns, picks up his typewriter, and walks slowly
offstage. Moderne’s eyes follow him, a hurt and puzzled expression pervading
his face. When Avaunt has gone, Moderne turns, looks at the audience
quizzically, then slowly mounts the hobby horse. He rocks uncertainly for a
moment; then, casting an angry glance over his shoulder in the direction in
which Avaunt disappeared, he draws his foil, waves it over his head, and begins
rocking furiously.
CURTAIN
--
Alice Teeter
